Page 58 of Breaking the Ice

I open my mouth to speak, but his alarm goes off. He rolls over to silence it, and a rush of cold air gives me goosebumps as he draws back the duvet and gets out of bed.

“Cuddle time is over already?” I tease. “I thought you could do this all day.”

Evan chuckles. “That doesn’t take into account my hockey coach. He’s already pissed at me for marrying his daughter.” Evan chuckles. “Sorry, snuggle bunny. Being late to conditioning is not an option.”

He bends down and presses a kiss to my forehead, and my chest practically explodes with the sweetness of it. Of him. But then his words about my dad register.

“What do you mean? Is he being difficult?” More so than normal, I mean.

Evan sighs as he stumbles to the bathroom. “I dunno. It’s hard to say if he’s singling me out or if I just…suck.”

“You definitely don’t suck.” I huff, yanking at the covers. “What’s he doing?”

Evan turns on the shower to let it warm up, then peeks his head out of the doorway. “Let’s just say that I’m going to be the best skater on the team, since I’m getting in so many extra laps.”

Maybe I should say something to my dad? Or is that overstepping?

Like he can read my thoughts, Evan says, “I don’t mind. I’m used to him treating me like a screw-up, ‘cause that’s been my M.O. for the last three years. And I know he’s making me the best player I can possibly be. Which is good for the team, too.”

I’m not sure I can handle that convoluted logic before coffee, so I let it go. I don’t have to be up for another hour, but I roll out of bed, too, toss one of Evan’s extra-large hockey sweatshirts on over my tank top and shorts, and re-do the messy bun my hair was in for sleeping.

I take ten steps across the room into the “kitchen”—a generous term for the countertop that spans the back wall of our studio apartment. We have a small refrigerator, an oven, and a sink. It’s not much, but enough that I can make scrambled eggs, at least, for Evan before he needs to leave. I prep the eggs in a bowl and set the skillet to warm up. Then the toilet flushes and the shower curtain rattles.

“Hey.” I crack open the bathroom door. “I’m just gonna brush my teeth.”

“Okay,” Evan calls over the water. I try not to glance his way, but too late. Heat rises in my cheeks.

Because the shower curtain doesn’t leave much to the imagination. It’s clear. Not frosted, not opaque, not even soap-scummy enough to block the view of his naked backside. There’s some steam obscuring a little, but whew. At least I can blame the flush on my skin on the temperature in the room.

I want him, there’s no doubt. His kisses this morning proved that. And his no pressure attitude just compounds how much of a good guy he is. But can I trust that he’s really different? I’ve never bought into the idea that I’m the right girl to make a man change his ways.

The water turns off. My toothbrush hangs out of my mouth, forgotten.

“Can you hand me my towel?” Evan asks, and I snap out of it. Did he catch me staring?

“Uh, sure.” I spit into the rusty ceramic sink, then try not to look as I fumble to give him a towel off the back of the door. His fingers brush mine, wet and warm, as he snakes his hand around the curtain and takes it from me.

Once it’s wrapped around his waist, he throws open the curtain with a flourish, and I think he asks me something. But how can I be expected to process anything? Droplets of water drip down Evan’s muscular chest, trailing a path through his light hair that I’d like to follow with my tongue. Somehow, I just want to cuddle, has me more turned-on than ever.

“Bella?”

My eyes snap to his, and I’m pretty sure I’m drooling. “Huh?”

“I said, what do you have going on today?” His brows draw together in a frown. “Also, do you smell something burning?”

I gasp. “The oven!”

Maybe I shouldn’t have set the pan to warm and then gotten distracted. I rush out of the bathroom, only to find the apartment full of smoke.

“Shit!” Evan’s right behind me. “What happened?”

I turn the stovetop off and fling the hot pan in the sink. It sizzles as I turn on the faucet, and the cold water hits the hot surface.

“Are you okay?” His hands grasp my biceps as he maneuvers me to face him. “You didn’t get burned?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I just feel dumb. I almost burned the building down. I’m just glad the smoke alarm didn’t⁠—”

Famous last words. I wince, cut off by the sudden blaring of the fire alarm. “Dammit.”