Page 35 of Slapshot Baby

I redirect to his forehead. That's a safe zone. Foreheads are not attractive.

The scar along his hairline from the surgery is somehow attractive. I'm losing my mind.

“Friends,” I repeat firmly.

“Fine. But I want it on record that you’re the one drawing that line, not me.”

“Fine,” I mutter.

“And when you change your mind…”

“Well, I won’t,” I shoot back.

His mouth curves. “Don’t be so sure. I haven’t even turned on the Donovan charm yet.”

He has no idea I know all about the Donovan charm.

“I know we don’t really know each other,” he continues, “but I’m a pretty good judge of character, and I like what I’ve seen so far. So when you’re ready, tell me. I’ll take you out.”

“Not when. If.”

“When.” He picks up his fork again. “This chicken is good.”

I stay for two hours. We talk about everything that doesn't matter.

His physical therapy schedule, which he's already pushing harder than his doctors want. My business, the projects I'm juggling, a client who wants me to turn a garage into a meditation studio.

He asks specific questions about my work, the kind that prove he's actually listening instead of waiting for his turn to talk.

He laughs three times. I count because I'm pathetic.

When I leave, his eyes follow me to the door.

"Tomorrow?" he asks.

"Tomorrow."

I come back the next day and the one after that.

Each visit, Kai is a little bit stronger than the day before.

The IV comes out a few days later. He starts walking the hallway, slow laps with a physical therapist trailing him like a shadow. Soon enough, he's doing them alone and the nurses have stopped hovering.

His body fills back out gradually. Shoulders broadening, arms thickening, jaw losing that hollow look that made me want to feed him every meal personally. He starts looking less like a patient and more like the crush I knew.

That's when the trouble starts.

Because friendship with Kai Donovan is a joke I'm telling myself with a straight face.

One day, he catches my wrist when I hand him a water cup. His thumb presses against my pulse point.

My heart starts pounding. I hope he can’t tell.

On another, I adjust the blinds because the afternoon sun is hitting his eyes. When I turn around, he's watching me with the kind of focused heat that makes my thighs clench.

"Stop looking at me like that," I say.

"Like what?"