Knock Me for a Loop (13 page)

She frowned, her lashes fluttering as a short burst of confusion played across her features.

“No,” she replied. “I mean, yes, I could get the time away if I needed it. I turned them down because of you.”

“Me?” This time he was sure his shock registered clearly on his face. He pulled back, shaking his head. “Why me? I’ve got nothing keeping me here right now.”

Of the two of them, he was the one most able to just pick up and take off, with no boss to make excuses to or obligations to put off. It was just one of the perks of being on medical/lame duck leave.

“Because of your knee,” she said, cocking her head in that direction. “There’s no way you could tolerate traveling that distance on a cramped airplane.”

For several long seconds, he stared at her blankly, trying to register her words. She was fighting the endorsement company’s request
for him?
Because she was worried about his knee?

Was this the same woman who had driven one of his hockey trophies through the wall and turned his Hummer into a pile of scrap metal?

Couldn’t be. Either she’d been possessed then, or she was possessed now—once by the devil and once by a saint.

On the other hand, her concern was encouraging. If she didn’t care, if there wasn’t a possibility she still had feelings for him—or could be convinced to let herself have feelings for him again—then she wouldn’t have bothered one way or the other. She’d have said yes to I.O.U.’s request, and told him to suck it up, folding him like a cheap sweater and stuffing him into the overhead compartment if she had to.

Part of him wanted to hop over, wrap his arms around her, and kiss her smack on the lips.

Hell, a bigger part of him wanted to throw her down on the floor and do a lot more than that.

But his dick didn’t always get its own way—more’s the pity—so he tamped down both urges and stayed where he was, knowing she wouldn’t welcome either advance. Not yet.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he told her carefully. “I don’t mind flying.” It wasn’t his favorite thing in the world, but he’d survive. It also wasn’t that long a flight from Cleveland to New York City, and if his leg got stiff, he could get up and pace back and forth along the aisle on his crutches for a while.

“No,” she said adamantly, shaking her head. “Your leg is getting better, but it’s still too much for you at this point. Not to mention dealing with the crowds and airports.”

“What are you going to do?” he wanted to know. “Blow the whole deal because you don’t want me to aggravate my injury?”

“If I have to.” Her mouth flattened into a mulish line and she stuck out her chin, daring him—or anyone—to argue with her.

That was a look he’d seen a million times before, too. One that said
I’m prepared to be as stubborn as it takes to get my own way, so don’t even
think
about trying to change my mind.

“Seems a little silly to me,” he murmured, “to get this far, have such a great deal in your pocket, and then blow it over a minor geographical detail.”

“You won’t think it’s so minor when your knee pops or swells up and you’re in agony again,” she threw back.

She had him there, but he still believed there had to be some happy medium they could find to give everybody what they wanted.

“Any room for compromise?” he suggested.

Her gaze skittered off to the side and her tongue darted out to wet the soft, glossy swells of her lips. “I did tell Quentin that we might be able to drive.”

As soon as the words were out, she fixed him with a glare that was part hopeful, part dare, part nerves over how he would respond.

“That’s a hell of a distance to drive,” he said. Not awful, but definitely longer than it would take them to fly.

“I know, but if we take your Hummer, you can put the seat all the way back and stretch out your leg, and we’ll stop whenever you feel like you need to walk around and work out the kinks. We’ll give ourselves plenty of time to get there, too, so we won’t feel rushed. And we can even take Muffin along, which we wouldn’t be able to do if we flew. He’d have to go to a kennel or something, and you know how much he’d hate that.”

Her mention of his brand-new Rockets-blue Hummer sent a stab of icy fear skating down his spine. He barely heard the rest of what she was saying for the loud
whoosh
echoing through his brain.

The last time she’d gotten near his vehicle, she’d completely destroyed it. She’d gone medieval, breaking out the windshield, side, and back windows. She’d flattened the tires with God-knew-what and shredded the upholstery. Smart money was on a pocket knife or box cutter for that one, but he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn she’d used her bare, taloned hands.

After that little incident, he had personally paid to have security cameras installed in his apartment complex’s underground parking garage.

So the idea of letting her within a thousand yards of his new Hummer—let alone behind the wheel—pretty much gave him the shakes and shrank his teabags down to the size of Milk Duds.

The rest of her proposal…once his heart had started beating again and his brain had regained enough oxygen to interpret her words…did make sense, though. A road trip would take longer than flying, but then
a road trip would take longer than flying.

A lot longer. And rather than dealing with crowded airports and crowded planes, they would be alone for days …and nights…on end.

Just him, Grace, and a snoring, sometimes flatulent dog. Alone in the car, and then again in a hotel room each night.

So maybe the danger to his vehicle wasn’t as important as the chance to get Grace alone—
really alone—
and out of her comfort zone. And that was what car insurance was for, right?

“You think we can find hotels that will let Bruiser stay with us?”

A hint of excitement turned Grace’s blue eyes sapphire sharp. “I’ll make sure of it. I’ll tell Quentin it’s a deal-breaker, and have him call ahead to set up everything.”

Zack took a slow sip from his can of soda, letting the carbonated liquid roll down his throat while he weighed his options and played it all out in his head.

“Okay, I can see the sense in that.” And the bevy of opportunities to charm Grace out of her silky French underwear.

“So I’ll do it,” he said, watching her face light up with happiness, only to have her go pale a second later as he added, “On one condition.”

Row 12

She should have known.

Things had been going so well. They’d been getting along. He’d even offered to put himself out and fake a resurrected relationship in order for her to accept the Insides Out deal, which she’d taken as not only a good sign, but a very kind repayment of how she’d put herself out to move in and take care of him.

But, of course, it couldn’t last. She should have known Zack would find some way to fuck it up.

He was probably ready to ask something truly vile of her, too. Some sick, perverse sexual favor. And he was going to dangle the I.O.U. photo shoot over her head like a thick, juicy carrot until she agreed.

Any modicum of appreciation, or even enjoyment, she’d found herself having by being in his company again vanished, and she straightened, crossing her arms beneath her breasts, regarding him with a stern, even hostile gaze.

“And what might that be?” she asked. As though she didn’t already have a pretty freaking good idea.

“I want you to start calling ‘Muffin’ “—he used two fingers of each hand to make air quotes sarcastic enough to match his tone—“Bruiser again.”

She blinked, wondering if she’d heard him correctly.

“That’s it? You just want me to start using the name Bruiser instead of Muffin for your”—oops—”my”—still not quite right—
“our”
—
grr
, what was wrong with her today?—“dog?”

No requests for naked table dancing? No favors that involved knee pads, lockjaw, or positions that only streetwalkers and contortionists were usually willing to perform?

“He’s a boy dog,” Zack explained, as though she didn’t know that and hadn’t been the one to drag the massive Saint Bernard to the veterinarian to have his nads chopped off. “He should have a boy name.”

“Muffin isn’t a boy’s name, huh?” she asked with a slight curl to her upper lip.

She was still having trouble wrapping her mind around the fact that this was the only thing he wanted when he
could
have asked for so much more. Was he being sincere, or simply biding his time, softening her up for some bigger, more squirm-worthy proposition later on?

Zack frowned, his light blond brows dipping down. “Definitely not.”

“But what about all the adorable accessories I’ve bought for him that already say Muffin?” she asked, fighting the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. It was cruel to tease him this way, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

She could almost hear his teeth grinding together before he said, “I’ll pay you back. And buy new.”

“But if you buy him all new stuff, it will be in Rockets red or blue, or some other ugly, manly colors.”

“I don’t know what’s so wrong with manly colors,” he grumbled, turning his head down and to the side for a brief second. Then he raised his gaze to hers once again and grated out, “You know how much I hate that frilly, girly shit you put on him. You painted his nails red, white, and pink for Valentine’s Day, for Christ’s sake. But if you let me change his name back to Bruiser—and use it yourself—” he stressed, “then you can continue to dress him up however you like. I won’t say anything about the pussy sweaters and booties, or even the nail polish and trips to the doggie day spa.”

Grace was torn. Letting him change her sweet bran Muffin’s name back to Bruiser was a small price to pay to get him to let her drive him to New York instead of flying …not to mention his agreement to go along with the deal in the first place when he didn’t have to.

But yanking his chain was so damn fun!

“Okay,” she agreed, deciding to let him off the hook. “It might take me some time to get used to the idea and remember to start calling him …” She let out a put-upon sigh. “
Bruiser
again, but I’ll try.”

He inclined his head, apparently willing to accept that as good enough for him. “Then set it up. We’ll drive to New York for the photo and commercial shoots. Not like I have anything better to do until I’m fit to get back on the ice, anyway.”

“Thank you.” Without thinking, she stepped forward, closing the distance between them and going up on tiptoe to press a kiss to his slightly stubbled cheek.

Her hand brushed down the hard line of his forearm as she shifted away again, her heart racing and her stomach doing cartwheels as she both realized what she’d done…and realized how much she’d missed touching him, kissing him, being close to him.

She started to retreat, hoping he wouldn’t read too much into her actions or think the one quick peck meant more than it did, when he grabbed her by the elbows and hauled her against his chest. Her eyes widened in surprise a fraction of a second before his mouth swooped down to capture hers.

The kiss was electrifying. Like a direct lightning strike, it zapped her from head to toe and scalded every centimeter, every cell, every nerve ending along the way.

His lips were soft but firm, just as she remembered them. Also just like she remembered, he didn’t bother keeping them closed to tease and tempt, but immediately used his tongue to delve into her mouth.

She let him wrap his arms around her waist and tip her back, one of his wide strong hands at the very base of her spine. Let him tangle his tongue with hers, swirling, sucking, exploring.

Let him?
Ha!

Everything he did to her, she did right back. Her hands drifted up to lock behind his neck, fingers braiding into the longish strands of his sandy blond hair.

Her brain told her to pull away, to slap him for his boldness and storm off before he got any other funny ideas.

But her body…oh, her body didn’t agree with her brain at all. Her bones were melting under her skin, everything turning thick and hot and flowing like molten lava through her veins.

She moaned and made tiny mewling sounds that she would kick herself for later. He tasted so good, though. Of salty chips and the sweet, fizzy bite of cola, making Grace’s stomach growl. She was suddenly ravenous, either for food or—much more likely—what Zack, and only Zack, could give her.

Running a hand over the swell of her bottom, he cupped one of the rounded cheeks and squeezed, drawing her even closer so that she could feel the hard ridge of his erection low against her abdomen.

She wanted to reach down and stroke him through the thick denim of his jeans, but was too busy stroking his neck and toying with his hair. So she settled instead for rubbing herself up and down the length of his body like an amorous cat, adding extra pressure where she knew he would appreciate it most. Where
she
needed it most, the gentle friction making her wet and completely willing.

With a low groan, Zack grasped her waist and turned her so that she was the one with her back to the counter. His crutches clattered to the floor and he leaned into her, deepening the kiss…

And then pulled back, sucking in a sharp breath as he cursed, his face contorted in pain.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” Balancing on one leg—his good leg—he gripped the counter on either side of her, knuckles and lips going white.

Though her chest was heaving, heart fluttering like a hummingbird and lungs gasping for air, she moved quickly, darting under his arm and grabbing the crutches. She shoved them at him, helping him to get propped and steady before whispering a quick, “Hold on,” and rushing into the other room.

She returned less than a second later with a chair from the dining room set and arranged it behind him, helping him to carefully lower himself onto the cushioned seat.

Moving the crutches out of the way again, she hunkered down beside him while he rubbed his knee.

“Are you all right?” she asked, still slightly out of breath and thoroughly concerned.

“Yeah,” he grated, sounding both pained and annoyed. “I put my weight on it. Too much too soon, I guess.”

“Maybe we should call the doctor. You might have torn something or caused further damage. You could need X-rays or more surgery.”

Lifting his head, he shot her a half-amused, half-annoyed glare. “Way to look on the bright side, Pollyanna.”

She licked her lips and made a concerted effort to steady her breathing. “Forgive me for being concerned,” she shot back. “You’ve been doing so well, though. And a setback will cause even more problems with the I.O.U. deal and the advertising shoots in New York.”

In all honesty, those were not the biggest worries currently topping her list, but she was already starting to feel awkward and regretful of the kiss.

The Big Kiss.

The Bad Kiss.

The Kiss That Never Should Have Happened Even Though It Turned Her Brain to Mush.

The Kiss That
Would Not
Happen Again. Ever.

Better to let him think she was only being overly cautious out of fear for how his condition might impact her career.

“I’m fine. A couple aspirin, an ice pack, and a nap on the couch should fix me right up.”

“And if it doesn’t?” she pressed.

“Then we’ll call the doctor, and you can take me in to get checked out,” he acquiesced. With more than a hint of mockery in his tone, but he acquiesced. “Happy, Nurse Ratched?”

“If I were playing Nurse Ratched,” she tossed back, “I’d be kicking you in the knee and withholding pain medication. Not getting you a chair and hovering over you like an anxious mother.”

“You’re right,” he agreed. Quickly enough to make her suspicious. “You’re definitely more the Florence Nightingale type. Care to tuck me into bed and mop my brow?”

He flashed her one of his charming, disarming grins, shifting on the chair so that he leaned forward a bit, bringing their faces closer together.

“If you’re not careful, I might push you out the window instead.”

Rather than putting him in his place, her threat only widened his grin. “Goddamn, I’ve missed you,” he murmured.

For a moment, she thought she’d misheard him. But those had seemed to be the words his mouth formed, and he still looked inordinately pleased with himself.

She swallowed hard and pushed to her feet, nervously wiping her palms up and down her thighs.

Maybe this had been a mistake. Coming here, taking care of him, getting him involved in the Insides Out deal.

Letting him kiss her.

Kissing him back.

Oy. No maybe about that one. Of all the stupid, idiotic, boneheaded things she’d done in her life, it ranked right up there.

“Don’t get up on my account,” he said as she started to move away.

He waggled his brows, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing out loud. Leave it to Zack to crack jokes and have sex on the brain while she was in the middle of a crisis of conscience.

“This was a bad idea,” she said—for his benefit or her own, she wasn’t sure.

“A woman on her knees in front of me is never a bad idea,” he quipped.

She frowned. “Keep it up, Hoolihan, and you’ll be walking with a limp for another reason entirely.”

“No doubt. And you know I’ve never had a problem keeping it up.”

He was still wearing that shit-eating grin, thinking they were joking around. Thinking that because of the kiss, and her response to it, their relationship had moved to a new level. One where he could flirt and tease, and she’d take it all good-naturedly.

Unfortunately for him, she
so
was not there yet.

“Is that what you told the bimbo in your hotel room?”

The question was spoken in a low tone, as short and cold as she felt. And it wiped the smile from Zack’s face faster than a bucket of cold ice water down his pants.

Sitting up straighter, he scrubbed a hand across his eyes and muttered, “Jesus, are we back to that?”

Back to it? He’d ripped her heart out and stomped it into the ground. That wasn’t exactly something a woman got over or moved on from in the space of only a few months…or a few centuries.

“I wasn’t aware we’d ever left,” she told him truthfully.

He muttered a few more creative oaths beneath his breath, injured leg stretched out in front of him, but forgotten in the seriousness of the matter at hand.

“I swear to God…to Buddha, to Allah, to the god of ice hockey and the Stanley Cup, that I didn’t know she was in my room. She wasn’t there when I went into the bathroom to shower, and the first time I saw her was right after you did. What the hell is it going to take for you to believe I didn’t cheat on you?”

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly, moving back a few steps to lean against the refrigerator door, arms across her chest. And for the first time since it had happened, she admitted, “I don’t know if I’ll ever believe you. If there’s anything you could say or do to make me believe you.”

“So my word means nothing,” he challenged. A statement, not a question.

“I guess not,” she admitted. “I wish it did, but how many cheating spouses do you think there are out there who swear their infidelity meant nothing and promise it will never happen again? Of course it does, because once a cheater, always a cheater. They just learn to become better liars and pray they won’t get caught again.”

“And what about the poor schmucks out there who are faithful to their wives and girlfriends, but find themselves in dubious situations that make them
look
guilty when they’re not? They just—what?—have to pay the tab for the guilt of others and their partners’ suspicious minds?”

He was right. Put that way, it sounded decidedly unfair. But every time she thought about it, remembered and relived it, she kept coming right back around to being the betrayed party, and not knowing what to think or believe.

And when it came right down to it, fair or unfair, she chose to err on the side of caution because she was
not
going to be hurt again. She was
not
going to be some man’s patsy or doormat. She was not going to be blind, deaf, and dumb to reality, the “little woman” who stayed home while he was out banging anything that moved.

She’d seen enough of that in her lifetime. Being a victim might have been good enough for her mother, but it sure as hell was not enough for her. She would rather be alone than be with someone who didn’t truly love her, didn’t respect her, and wasn’t willing to forsake all others to be with her.