Lilah
T here’s a flurry of activity around the food bank as I walk up to the front doors. It’s a cool, cloudy day, but that hasn’t stopped volunteers from setting up several tables under pop-up tents where they’re sorting donations in large, color-coded bins. I see a van from a local news channel, along with a few people with some serious camera equipment, and I know that they’re here for one person.
Kincaid.
Just the thought of his name has butterflies flapping madly in my stomach.
Several people are wearing Toronto Thunder gear—hats, jerseys, jackets. I see a man with what has to be a brand new Thunder jersey sporting the number forty-four on the back, and letters spelling out “Campbell.”
I want one. The idea of wearing something with Kincaid’s name and number on it is so hot.
I step inside the food bank and Kincaid’s right there, muscles bunching and flexing beneath his Toronto Thunder t-shirt as he lifts a heavy box filled with donations. My entire body goes hot at the sight of him, smiling and talking as he works. My chest is a riot of flutters, my stomach a turbulent sea. And I ache. Everywhere. My breasts, between my legs, deep in my heart. I ache.
I wonder if it’s possible to want someone so much you can die from it. Because it really feels like this ache might consume me.
He sets down the heavy box on a shelf and sees me as he turns. I lift my hand in a tentative wave as the corner of his mouth kicks up in a sexy grin.
“, hey,” he says, wiping his hands on his jeans and striding over to me. “I’m glad you made it.”
He’s got a cut over his right eye from his fight last night, the skin around it faintly bruised. Somehow, it only makes him sexier. I want to trace my fingers over that cut and ask him if it hurts. I want to kiss it better.
“Hi,” I say, and I feel the familiar rush of blood to my cheeks. “Looks like it’s going well,” I say, gesturing to the crowd and the growing bins of donations around us.
He nods, looking pleased. “It is.”
“Kincaid,” says a man from behind him. “We’ve got some young fans wanting a picture with you.”
“Sure thing,” he says, winking at me before turning to follow the man to another area. That wink leaves me feeling breathless. Giddy, almost.
I can’t hold back the giggle that bursts out of me as I head to the volunteer check-in station and sign in. I slap my name tag on my sweater and get to work, helping other volunteers accept donations and sort them by type. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch glimpses of Kincaid posing for photos, signing Thunder memorabilia, making kids laugh. He’s charming and confident, easygoing and kind, and I can tell that every single fan is thrilled to meet him. He takes his time with them, chatting easily, goofing around with the younger fans, signing item after item.
After about half an hour he heads back toward my area, where I’ve been diligently sorting any items placed on my table.
“Whoa, you’ve been busy,” he says as he walks over. I can’t help but notice the way his jeans hug his thick thighs. “I’m impressed.”
I bite my lip and duck my head. “I like helping out. I’m glad you invited me.”
“How about I give you a hand?” he says, picking up a few cans and sorting them into the appropriate bin.
“Oh, um.” I glance over to where there are more Toronto Thunder fans gathered. “Don’t you have more pictures to take and things to sign?”
He grins at me. “In a bit. Right now, I’m where I want to be.”
We both reach for the same can of beans, our fingers brushing. Sparks dance up my arm at the contact, and from the way Kincaid goes still, I can’t help but wonder if he feels it, too. I glance up and I’m swallowed up by his intense, blue gaze. Everything around me drops away, my focus narrowed entirely to Kincaid.
“Does it hurt?” I ask quietly.
He arches his unmarred eyebrow at me in question.
I reach up with my free hand and brush the tips of my fingers near the cut above his eye. I almost have to stand on my tiptoes to reach.
“This,” I say. “From the fight.”
He closes his eyes at my touch, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. “No. It doesn’t hurt,” he answers, his voice low and husky.
My fingers linger near his cut, and then I drop my hand to my side, not wanting to make things awkward. “Sorry,” I whisper, my cheeks warming yet again.
Kincaid’s lips curve into a crooked smile. “You never have to apologize for touching me, .”
My face is now on fire, so I quickly turn my attention back to the donations bin, desperate for any distraction from the butterflies having a party in my stomach.
We work side by side in silence for a few minutes, his arm occasionally brushing mine and sending electricity dancing across my skin. My heart is pounding so hard and fast that I think it might burst out of my chest.
“So, did you have fun at the game last night?” Kincaid asks casually as he stacks cans in a bin.
I nod, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I did. It was fun getting to watch you play.”
He grins at me and I feel all melty inside. “Well, I was happy that you came. It meant a lot to me.”
“Really?” I ask, my voice a little breathless.
He turns to face me fully, his blue eyes bright and intense. “Really. I—“ He blows out a breath, and I can see him wrestling with himself. “I think about you, . Constantly.”
I can’t breathe. There’s no more oxygen in this entire building. Kincaid thinks about me? Constantly? My brain tries and fails to process that. I open my mouth, knowing I should say something, but no words come. I’m too stunned.
Kincaid reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers trailing lightly over my cheek. My skin tingles in response. “So damn beautiful,” he whispers.
My stomach is dipping and swirling like I’m on one of those rides that drops you from a stupidly high platform. This can’t be real. Kincaid thinks I’m beautiful? He thinks about me constantly?
I gaze up at him, drinking in the way his blond hair curls over his ears, the stubble coating his jaw, his full lips, his impressively broad shoulders.
He looks like he wants to say more, but then someone calls his name.
“Duty calls,” he says, regret flashing in his eyes as he moves a half-step back. “How long can you stay?”
I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the time. “Another hour or so, and then I need to meet some people to work on a group project.”
He nods and takes my phone out of my hands, and I watch as his fingers move across the screen.
“You have my number now. Text me when you’re done?”
“Text you?”
He smiles that lopsided smile at me. “Yeah. So I can pick you up and feed you dinner.”
I am made of nothing but light and air as I smile up at him. “Okay. I’ll text you when I’m done.”
“Good girl,” he says, and then swoops forward and presses a soft kiss to my cheek. My entire body vibrates with the gentle warmth of his lips on my cheek, my clit throbbing at his words.
And then he’s gone, heading back in the direction of the line of fans waiting for pictures and autographs.
And me? I’m just trying to remember how to breathe.