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I open the door. He’s lying on his back, and the comforter has been pushed aside, leaving one bare leg exposed. The sheets skim his waist, his bare chest and tattoos on display. While I’ve seen him in a bathing suit many times, he’s usually the guy who pulls on a shirt once he’s out of the water.
The last time I saw him shirtless, though, was last week when he was fresh from the shower, wrapped in only a towel. A line of light filters through a gap in the curtains and cuts across his stomach, highlighting rippling abs and his defined chest, marked with vibrant ink. I long to trace the outline of those leaves with my fingertips.
“Stop checking him out and make sure he’s okay, you asshole,” I whisper.
I take a deep, calming breath and cross the room, quietly calling his name. It feels illicit to be in his private space with him. I’ve taken care of him before, but what I did in here changes everything. Especially because he knows.
I call his name again, louder this time, but all I get is a little snort-snore. I sit on the edge of the bed to shake his shoulder. “Hey, Hollis. Wake up for a minute.”
He groans and rolls toward me.
That makes it easier to jostle him. “Come on, Hollis. Wakey-wakey.” His skin is warm and smooth, and I shouldn’t let my fingers linger, but the zing that travels up my arm makes it hard to pull away.
He grunts.
“Come on, Hollis. Open your eyes for me, pretty please.” Anxiety makes my heart race. I need him to be okay.
He rolls onto his back and grabs my hand. I’m forced to lean in as he settles my palm on his chest and holds it captive.
I exhale an unsteady breath at the unintentional intimacy. I miss how easy things used to be between us, but I can’t turn back time. All these feelings I’ve kept buried have been unearthed, and they keep growing. His heart drums steadily under my hand. What I want most is to stretch out alongside him, rest my head on his chest, and tell him how scared I am—for him, for me, for what’s happening to my heart. For the awful, wonderful hope winding around that single phrase, “if things were different.” Those four little words have tilted my world. It’s about more than getting off to thoughts of him. More than once over the past week, I’ve caught myself daydreaming about being his freaking girlfriend. About cuddling with him on the couch. Being his person. Taking care of him, like I am now.
“Hollis,” my voice cracks with emotion.
His calloused hand smooths along my forearm and up my biceps to my shoulder. He’s clearly not awake. He has no idea what he’s doing, that he’s playing directly into the fantasy I’ve woven. But I’m frozen as his warm fingers skim the column of my neck and slide under my hair.
Hollis makes a noise, this one low and deep.
“If things were different…”
His hand curves around the side of my neck as his eyes open. My breath catches as he blinks against the murky darkness. The sun is still an hour from rising, so only the ambient light from the buildings across the street cuts through the darkness.
The hand at the side of my neck moves, fingers drifting along the edge of my jaw. It’s embarrassing the number of times I’ve wished for this. Longed to be wanted by Hollis the same way I want him. Imagined him touching me like this. To feel his lips on mine.
So much changed after his on-ice accident last year. He stopped being just my dad’s best friend and a hockey star I lusted after in secret. We became friends outside of my dad. I saw Hollis vulnerable, uncertain of his future. The lines started shifting. He confided in me, expressed concerns about his future on the ice, how afraid he was of the unknown. He said he wanted to steal some of my enthusiasm and excitement for what was in front of me. He became more, and we became more. At least for me.
His unfocused gaze meets mine. “I need to stop dreaming about you.”
My breath hitches, and my heart stutters. I catch his hand. “You’re not dreaming. I’m checking to make sure you’re okay.”
“Princess?” His brows pull together.
I secretly love it when he calls me Princess. “Hey, hi. Sorry to wake you.”
“You shouldn’t be here.” His gaze moves over my face and drops to my chest, eyes darkening before they lift again.
I let go of his hand, and it falls to the bed, his fingers skimming my knee. “You suffered a concussion last night. I have an early class, so I told my dad I’d check on you. Do you remember what happened?”
“What happened?” His tongue drags across his bottom lip.
“At the game. Do you remember?” I press.
He blinks a few times. “Scarlet.”
“Reed? The actress? She was at the game.” My stomach clenches. My fantasy dissolves. Maybe he invited her. What if he’s interested in her again? She’s beautiful, accomplished, and much closer to his age. I hate that I’m jealous.
He nods once and sighs. “It threw me. I didn’t expect her to be there.”
Relief is an anvil and a problem. “Do you remember what happened after you saw her?”
