17. Too much?
TOO MUCH?
CHELSEA
Iovercompensate when I’m nervous.
It’s why I used to over-study for tests. It’s why I still over-plan for everything.
Judging by the spread taking shape in front of me—bacon, eggs, hash browns, and white chocolate raspberry scones in the oven—I’m really freaking nervous.
Crap. Way too much breakfast for two people. Even if one of those people is a ripped pro-hockey player.
I woke up on my couch, sprawled across his beautiful, beautiful body, and I panicked a little. The plan was one night. But I’d texted Brett anyway. Practically begged him to have sex with me before he left.
The first time we got naked and horizontal, I had the luxury of sneaking out and bypassing the etiquette of the morning after.
As a result, I have no idea how the morning after is supposed to go.
But I can’t sneak out of my own house. Though I did consider it briefly.
Right before I started measuring flour for the scones.
I know the instant he steps into the kitchen. It raises the hair on the back of my neck, and my blood sizzles in my veins giving the bacon in the frying pan a run for its money.
“Something smells good.”
I intend to throw him a distracted smile over my shoulder and check on my omelette, but the sight of him turns my glance into a full-fledged ogling.
He’s a god amongst kitchen appliances, framed by my stainless-steel fridge and dishwasher, clad in white boxer-briefs and nothing else. He runs a hand through his sleep-tousled curls, and I almost drop my spatula.
“I made breakfast.” So. Much. Breakfast.
“Yeah, I noticed.” He looks around, eyebrows inching up as he takes in the extent of the spread. “You didn’t need to make all this for me.”
Oh, great. I’m freaking him out. Does he think I’m playing house?
He came over for a post-win orgasm and now, instead of the quick exit he intended, I’ve trapped him in a four-course brunch.
He probably thinks I’m one of those stage five clingers who’s going to be scouring bridal sites the second he leaves and—
“Do you need help?” he asks, stealing a strawberry from the plate of fruit I’d cut earlier.
“I’m not great in the kitchen, but I’ve scrambled an egg or two in my day.
” He pops the plump berry in his mouth, and I’m transfixed by the flex of his jaw beneath his morning scruff.
All my sexy places clench, and not for the first time, I wish he wasn’t quite so potent.
I turn back to the omelette, so he won’t notice the tight peaks of my nipples against my T-shirt. “It’s under control. Everything will be ready in—” I check the oven timer I set for the scones “—ten minutes.”
I’m not surprised when his chest presses against my back, or when his hand comes up to ride my hip. I heard him approaching, after all. Felt the current in the air. But advanced warning doesn’t stop the shock of heat that jolts through me as he presses his mouth to my neck.
Sighing, I let my head fall to the side so he can continue his lazy exploration, and the dichotomy of soft lips and prickly stubble has me deliciously melty.
“If you keep distracting me like this, I’m going to burn breakfast.”
“Yeah, but it’d be worth it,” he counters, nuzzling my ear with his nose.
Despite his words, he steps away and I have to remind myself I’m definitely not disappointed.
“Okay. No more distractions. Do you mind if I grab a quick shower?”
Great. Now I’m thinking about him naked again. “Go for it. There are towels in the cabinet in the bathroom.”
Brett drops a quick kiss on my bare shoulder before he disappears. The simple touch sends an aftershock through my body that requires bracing a hand on the counter so my knees can re-solidify. The ease with which he makes me want him is a little disconcerting. It’s never been like this before.
Sure, I wanted sex with Dustin, but it was a more cerebral, “healthy sex lives are important” kind of want. Not this all out, can’t get enough, please-touch-me-or-I’ll-die-of-longing thing that happens whenever Brett is near.
The sound of the shower sends a rush of tingles through me.
Or not so near.
A knock at the back door yanks me out of my lusty thoughts.
What the heck? I push the omelette pan off the heat so I can answer it. The only person who ever comes in through the back is—
“Shanna!”
Why is she here? Did she see Brett’s SUV? Do I smell like popcorn and orgasms?
“Chelsea!” she says back, mimicking my tone and expression, making it clear that I suck at playing it cool. “Can I come in or what? The wind is biting.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, pushing past me and bracing a hand against the wall as she toes off her boots.
“What are you doing here?”
Shanna’s already in the kitchen as she holds up the binder in her hand.
“Don’t play stupid with me, Ms. We-Should-Probably-Review-The-Wolfpack-Charity-Foundation’s-Strategic-Plan-For-Next-Season.
Because I’m the one who thinks this meeting is overkill.
If you were presenting to the board, sure, but we’re just running it by your dad for input. ”
Oh damn. I completely forgot. Shanna rearranged her schedule and everything. How the hell am I going to get rid of her?
“Holy crap. I forgive you! You didn’t need to make all this for me.” She snatches a piece of bacon from the serving dish. “I’m totally going to eat it though.”
True to her word, she takes a bite as she sets the binder on the kitchen table and unzips her coat.
“Listen, things are a little crazy here right now, and I totally should have called you to reschedule. This morning might not work. I’m kind of—”
The oven timer beeps.
“Hold on one sex—one sec.”
I flinch at the blunder. Dumping the omelette onto a nearby plate so it doesn’t burn, I put the pan in the sink and don an oven mitt so I can pull the scones out.
“What, are you trying to get rid of me?” Shanna jokes. “Because you know that I love your white chocolate and raspberry scones more than almost anything. I won't go without a fight.”
Okay. Don’t panic. Just tell her she needs to go and that—
“Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
Shanna frowns at me. “It sounds like water. Did you leave the shower running or something?”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“Let me go check.”
“Nope. No. That’s fine. It’s fine.”
Mercifully, Shanna freezes mid-step.
She lifts an eyebrow.
My relief curdles into something acidic as she does a slow three-sixty.
She inspects the kitchen like she’s majoring in crime scene investigation instead of nineteenth-century lyric poetry. She takes in the fruit platter, the pair of coffee cups, my lack of pants, my very soul…
A tremor of fear trickles down my spine at the look on her face.
“Chelsea?”
“Yes?”
“What’s going on?”
I shake my head, transferring the scones from the baking sheet to a wire cooling rack. “Nothing. I just need to reschedule our meeting.”
“Then what are you making breakfast for?”
Hoping I can blame my flushed cheeks on the heat of the oven, I turn to face her.
Shanna crosses her arms. “Or should I say, ‘who are you making breakfast for?’”
I slide the baking sheet into the empty side of the sink and turn the heat down on the hash browns. “I think technically it’s, ‘for whom are you making breakfast?’”
“Oh, are we being technical now? Then, for whom are you wearing that Wolfpack T-shirt?”
Busted. “Shan…”
“Are you insane? I thought you said it was a one-night thing!”
I shrug with a casualness I don’t feel. “Now it’s a two-night thing.” A two-and-a-half night thing, including the alcove.
“And what happens when he breaks your heart? I’m supposed to pick up the pieces when he lets you down?”
“This has nothing to do with my heart,” I protest, but for some reason, the words sound a little bit hollow.
“Exactly! That’s exactly the problem. The Chelsea I know puts her heart into everything. Even tabloid-scandal-ridden hockey players who are not her type.”
It’s the second time Shanna had dropped the not-you-type thing, and it lends a little heat to my rebuttal. “Oh? And what exactly is my type?”
“You know, more like Dustin.”
More like Dustin? I try not to gape. Dustin, who treated me like a freak for wanting sex and dumped me for his barely legal, tight-bodied teaching assistant because she understood his physical needs? That Dustin?
And okay, maybe Shanna still being Team Dustin is partially my fault.
Because the whole situation was mortifying.
And it hurt. And pretending that it was mutual so I didn’t have to relive the details with her is a choice I fully regret now, because the fact that my best friend is operating on the idea that I want a relationship that even remotely resembles what I had with him is way off-base.
“Look, I get it. Brett’s good looking. Exciting. And I’m sure he knows what he’s doing in the bedroom. But that’s because he’s practiced.” Shanna gives me a hard look. “A lot. He’s not a forever kind of guy. Just ask his ex-wife.”
I shake my head. “You’re making way too much of this.”
“I’m making too much of this?” Shanna gestures around the kitchen. “Check out exhibit A. Restaurants don’t have this much selection.”
“Can you just stop? Stop trying to shove us on a horse and send us riding off into the sunset. Maybe I want to practice. Maybe it’s the best practice I’ve ever had.”
“One night to rebel. That’s what this was supposed to be. That was your plan.”
“I already told you. I’m tired of plans and checklists. I’m tired of doing the responsible thing. Maybe it’s finally my turn to make some bad decisions.”
So far, doing the opposite of what I’d usually do has been treating me just fine, and there’s a super hot man in my shower to prove it.
“You’re not this person, Chelsea.”
I try to decipher what Shanna means by that. Not fun? Not spontaneous? Not lust-drunk on the best orgasms of my life? Why can’t I be myself and all of those things? I like Brett. I like how he makes me feel.
“Your dad is going to flip out. You heard him at the gala.”
That Shanna would bring up my father right now—thereby cheapening this incredible, confusing, heart-pounding thing I’ve found—stings like betrayal.
All I did was make breakfast! Why is she blowing it out of proportion?
“Stop acting like this means anything. We’re not getting married. It’s just sex!”
Shanna goes eerily still at my outburst, and I enjoy a split-second of vindication at her widened eyes... until her gaze shifts a little to the left.
Awareness prickles up the back of my neck.
No. Please no.
“Hey, Brett,” my friend says softly.
“Shanna.”
I wince at the sound of his deep voice. It scrapes over my nerves like sandpaper as my brain desperately rewinds my conversation with Shanna. How long has he been there? It takes every bit of my courage to turn and face him.
He looks incredible, his dark curls damp from his shower, barefoot in his dress pants as his big hands work their way deftly up the buttons of his wrinkled shirt. “I should get going. Thanks for letting me use your shower.”
All the sweetness from last night is gone, replaced by a stoic formalness that makes my heart wrench. Because in our entire acquaintance, the one thing Brett has never done is look through me.
“Brett, I—”
He shakes his head, stopping me. “You two obviously have a lot to talk about. I can show myself out.”