6. Chapter Six #2
Purple and black spreads from his shoulder down his ribs like someone painted him with violence.
But I'm having trouble focusing on the injuries.
Because I've seen Kevin St. Clair shirtless before, but now it’s up-close-and-personal and it's absolutely more than my bourbon-compromised brain can process.
Eighteen months of carefully not really noticing. Not letting myself think about what was under those suits and team Dri-FITs.
Now I'm looking.
Hockey built this body. Functional muscle. Broad shoulders. Chest that makes my mouth go dry. Abs that should be illegal. The dark ink of the large tattoo down the inside of his forearm — Semper Protegam — that I tease him about being straight out of Harry Potter.
"You're staring," he says quietly.
"Assessing injuries."
"Liar."
"Don't question my medical expertise." I reach for the wrap, palm landing on his chest for balance.
His skin is hot under my hands, the kind of hot that makes your mouth go stupid and your brain stop working.
His heart is racing. Racing as fast as mine.
His good hand comes to rest on my hip. Just resting there. His thumb makes a small circle through my shirt.
"You have a veterinary technician certificate," he says. "Also, this is a terrible idea."
I shrug off the clarification to my qualifications and focus on his assessment of the situation.
"The worst," I agree.
"You're a walking DWI."
"Aware. That’s why I’m not in public." I notice the cut on his cheek. Fresh. "Also, you should catch up."
His eyes search my face and he follows my gaze as I turn to stare at the glass I poured for him. His mouth opens like he's about to say something that matters.
The words don't come.
Instead, he just looks back up at me with something my sober brain would probably be more cautious of.
"My mom always said kisses make everything better," I say, not knowing where that even came from.
Before my brain can stop me, I lean down and press my lips to the cut on his cheek.
Quick. Friendly. The silly thing you do when you've had too much whiskey and your best friend is hurt.
Except his sharp intake of breath makes me linger. His skin is warm. The smell of Kevin’s cologne reminds me of expensive decisions, and I want to make some bad ones. Heat pools low in my stomach. The kind of heat that has nothing to do with bourbon.
When I pull back, his hand on my hip tightens. His other hand catches my wrist.
"Sarah." Just my name. Low. Warning or invitation; can't tell.
"The wrap." Breathless. "I should—"
His thumb sweeps over my pulse point.
I try to position the wrap. This requires leaning across him. My chest brushes his.
We both freeze.
"Fuck," I mutter.
The wrap hits the floor.
His eyes go dark. "Sarah—"
"Stop talking."
I swing my leg over his lap. Straddle him. Knees bracketing his hips. I am climbing this man like he's a human jungle gym, which honestly tracks.
Set goals. Achieve them. Good job, Sarah.
"Too many questions," I say when he opens his mouth.
"Sarah, we should—"
The oven timer buzzes straight through the moment.
I practically fall off Kevin's lap. Very graceful. Ten out of ten dismount.
I take out the pizza and slice it into neat triangles, then return with loaded plates to find Kevin has somehow gotten the wrap positioned. He's trying to wrangle Ranger one-handed and failing.
We eat in silence. Me on the couch. Him in the recliner. Ranger between us like the world's worst chaperone.
The pizza helps absorb some of the bourbon.
Some.
Okay, very little.
"How was Ranger?" Kevin asks eventually.
"Perfect angel. Only stole two breakfast tacos this morning."
"He didn't—"
"Ate them straight off the counter. Looked very pleased with himself."
Kevin laughs, then winces. Hand to ribs. "Don't make me laugh."
"Sorry." I start to reach for him. Stop myself. "More ice?"
"I'm good."
But I watch him struggle with the wrap strap. Can't quite reach it.
I get up without thinking.
"Here—"
I lean over to fix it. This close, I can feel heat radiating off his skin. See his chest rise and fall. My hand slips, brushing his abs.
Rock solid. Of course.
"Sorry, the bourbon—"
"It's fine."
It's not fine. I'm standing between his knees again. He's looking up at me.
And my hand is throbbing where a dog nipped me this afternoon.
"Shit." I flex my fingers.
"What happened?" He catches my hand, frowning.
"New intake got scared. Nipped me."
"When?"
"This afternoon. It's fine."
"Sarah—"
"Happens all the time."
He studies the small scab, thumb brushing the edges with impossible gentleness. Then he looks up at me and something shifts.
"My turn."
Before I can process that, he brings my hand to his mouth. Presses his lips to the skin. Right over the bite.
Gentle. Careful. Way too intimate for friends.
"Kevin—"
"Fair's fair," he says against the area near the base of my thumb. "Kisses make everything better, right?"
I should step back. Should laugh it off. Should do anything except sway closer until I can smell the whiskey on his breath.
"This is a terrible idea," I whisper.
"The worst," he agrees, but his hand slides to my hip, fingers spreading wide.
"We work on the board together. And there’s the whole thing with the charity calendar—"
"I know." His thumb traces a circle on my hipbone.
"We're both worse for wear—"
"You started it. You told me to catch up." His voice drops rough. "But yeah."
"Kevin—"
He tugs gently. I end up straddling his good side, his thigh pressed between my legs.
The pressure lands exactly where I don't need it to.
Actually, it’s exactly where I do need it to. And that’s the problem.
I bite back a sound that would be embarrassing. His arm bands around my waist. This is not what friends do."
We should talk about—" I start desperately, fingers finding his chest. "The games. Or the rescue. Or—"
"Sarah."
"What?"
"Remember when you told me to shut up?"
"Yes."
"Take your own advice."