Dirty Talker (Slayers Hockey #4) - Mira Lyn Kelly Page 0,21

up in bed with the sheet covering her legs. She’s wearing a pink, short-sleeved pajama set with white piping and buttons down the front that really shouldn’t be as sexy as it is. But maybe it’s her slightly rumpled hair or how she’s even prettier without a lick of makeup.

Whatever it is, I need to forget about it before she notices that I’m standing like a creeper at the end of her bed. I clear my throat. “Give me two minutes and I’ll be out of here and you can sleep as long as you like.”

She waves me off. “I’m good. Early riser. I was texting with Nettie.”

“Letting her know I’m not a serial killer? Maybe we should snap a proof-of-life selfie.”

“I was actually thinking about sneaking out for a run. I can get one then.”

I perk up. “You run? That’s what I was heading out for. We could go together if you want? I can do an easy one today. Maybe show you around?”

Her sleepy eyes light, and I have a wholly inappropriate flash of what it would be like to see her peering up at me from the pillow.

Not cool, creeper.

Thankfully, Harlow doesn’t follow my train of thought and bounces out of bed, ducking into the bathroom before I have a chance to beat her there. Through the paper-thin door, she calls out, “Don’t blow off your workout on my account. I don’t want to slow you down.”

“It’s one day,” I assure her. “It’ll be a nice break. Fun.”

“No, really, Wade, don’t hold back on my account,” Harlow teases, jogging backward in front of me as we close out the sixth mile of a run I was expecting to be more about leisure and less about this ego-crushing good girl giving me a lesson.

“Ha-ha,” I say, chasing her down the path through the wooded park. Yeah, I could take her in a race… I think. I could outlast her… probably. But it wouldn’t be easy. And not only is that unexpected, but it’s pretty damn hot too.

As hot as the black running shorts and matching tank that’s cut like the white sports bra she’s wearing beneath. As hot as the long braid that’s draped over her shoulder and dipping into the valley between her breasts.

Don’t gawk, perv.

I clear my throat, watching her face and not the sweat-slicked expanse of her golden-brown skin. “You got me. I’m the dickhead underestimating you. Again. You’re a badass.”

Her smile cranks up, and I find my own rising to match it.

“You’ll learn. I’d like to think, eventually, everyone will.”

The way she says it, quietly, more to herself than to me, makes me wonder how often and how badly she’s sold short.

It’s a mistake I won’t make again.

The path splits ahead, but we bypass the loop around the lake for the one leading down to a pebble beach. Slowing to a walk, I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my arm.

“And your reward for spanking me on this morning’s run. Behold, Lake Ridley.”

“It’s beautiful here,” she says, her skin flushed from exertion, those burnt-umber eyes lighting up as she takes in one of Enderson’s best views.

“It is.”

She is. She’s beautiful. Sharp. Driven. Funny. Competitive. And unexpected.

So unexpected.

I think that’s my favorite part.

“Is this where you ran when you were growing up?” She puts her hands on her hips and bends at the waist before straightening up and balancing on one leg to stretch out the toned muscles of the other.

I laugh, shaking my head. “Nah. I ran for football, but only where they told me to. How long, how far. Never anything more. Same with hockey. It wasn’t until I was coming home on breaks from college that I started running out here.”

When I started needing excuse after excuse to get out of the house.

Harlow cuts me one of her sidelong looks, and I have to remind myself that we’re not in public so pulling her into my chest isn’t on the table. And my T-shirt’s soaked through with sweat, so… gross.

“What?”

“Tell me about the football. What happened there?”

I grin and grab her hand, leading her down to the shore where the water laps gently against the stretch of small stones nestled between piled boulders at either side. Guiding her around the rocky bend, we come to the sheared-off slab of a boulder high-schoolers have been calling “the bed” since my parents were kids. Probably longer.

I help her up and then hoist myself onto the level top, leaving a few