Chapter 4 Stella #2
“Ow! Fuck you, Book. A man can dream. I mean, have you seen her tits?” Drew and Booker go on to argue the pros and cons of Summer’s boobs like they forgot I’m in the room.
Beau, still standing next to me, looks like he’s trying not to bust out laughing. “Come on, I’ll show you to Colt’s room. He’s in the shower but should be finished soon.”
He leads me down a short hall and gestures to the door on the right. “You can come hang out here with us until he’s done, if you want,” Beau offers, “but I figured you wanted to escape that specific conversation.” He leans against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Yeahhh,” I drawl, “I wouldn’t have had much to contribute given that I’ve never seen her tits, so…” I try for a lighthearted joking tone, but I think my words still come out awkward.
Fortunately, Beau seems unfazed. “Really? I thought all chicks had seen their friends’ racks. Like just changing in front of each other and shit.” He purses his lips in contemplation.
This is one of the oddest conversations I’ve ever had. “Well, sure, I’ve seen some of my teammates naked, but Summer and I aren’t friends.”
His eyes widen slightly. “Ahhh, so you’re not breaking girl code by hooking up with Colt.” He gives me a smirk that brings a dimple to his cheek.
“Colt and I aren’t hooking up!” I clarify quickly. This only causes Beau’s smile to widen.
“Whatever you say, Stella,” he replies, clicking his tongue as he pushes off the door frame. He walks back out to his friends, leaving me with reeling thoughts.
Had he seen us kissing outside the bar? God, all of Colt’s friends probably think I’m another notch on his headboard.
I distract myself by looking around the room.
Colt’s bed is neatly made with a black comforter and—yes, I swear—extra pillows.
He has a couple of signed hockey posters framed and hanging on one wall of the room near the closet.
There’s a shelf mounted to the adjacent wall that houses all of his trophies and awards.
There’s also a desk with textbooks strewn all over it, but the chair is covered in a pile of laundry, telling me that he doesn’t sit there to study.
The dresser is across from the bed with a TV mounted above it.
It’s the final wall of the room that grabs my attention.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves take up half the wall on the opposite side of the room.
He really meant it when he said he liked to read.
I see Game of Thrones, The Lord of the Rings, The Hunger Games, and many more that I recognize.
There’s fantasy, sci-fi, dystopian, and even some classics like Moby Dick and Frankenstein.
It’s evident that he loves reading even more than I do, which is saying something.
I’m looking at a book of Edgar Allen Poe’s full works when I hear the bathroom door open.
I set the book down quickly, feeling guilty at being caught snooping around. When I turn, apology on the tip of my tongue, I freeze.
My mouth goes instantly dry at the sight of Colt’s perfectly sculpted body in nothing but a low-hanging towel.
He’s shaking out his damp hair with his fingers; having his arms above his head causes his biceps to flex. When he notices me, the grin that spreads across his face can only be described as pleased and seductive.
“What was it you said when we met? Oh, that’s right. ‘Are you done staring, or do you want a picture?’”
Quickly, I avert my eyes, going to set my tote bag on his bed. He chuckles and goes to grab some boxers and pants from the dresser.
After changing in the bathroom, he comes back and throws himself on the bed. His current appearance isn’t any less distracting than his previous one. He’s wearing baggy black sweatpants that hang low on his hips.
“Do you have something against shirts?” I ask, hoping to convey an air of indifference even though it’s the complete opposite of what I’m feeling right now.
“Hey, I worked hard to look this good. You could at least let me show it off a little,” he answers, folding his arms behind his head, causing more muscles to flex.
If I were any less resilient, I’d probably be drooling by now.
I can’t help but note the jagged scars that trail up either forearm.
The one on the left is a long, solitary line of about four inches.
There are two on his right arm, in the shape of an elongated X.
The only other time I’d seen him shirtless was in my kitchen, and it must’ve been too dark for me to notice them.
Every other interaction we’ve shared, Colt’s been wearing long sleeves.
“The humility makes its return,” I tease, ignoring the scars. I gingerly sit on the edge of the bed, laptop in hand.
“Come up here, Stella, I’m not going to bite. Unless you want me to.” He smirks and pushes his tongue into his cheek. His arrogance is truly astounding.
I scoot up to sit beside him on the bed, leaving half a foot of space between our bodies. “I am not kissing you again,” I state.
“Okay,” he says, feigning innocence. He leans over to his nightstand, grabs a pair of wire-framed glasses, and slips them on.
You’ve got to be kidding me. He just went from athlete sexy to Clark Kent sexy.
I feel a flutter in my core as he rakes his eyes over my face again. Lord, help me, I’m in so much trouble.
“Let’s get started.”