Dirty Talker (Slayers Hockey #4) - Mira Lyn Kelly Page 0,24

him. “The party, Harlow.”

Yes. Right.

“It was so much fun. Thank you for the nudge, by the way. I would have been fine with a night here in the room, though. So if anything comes up that you need to do on your own, don’t worry about me. I mean that. But tonight was a really good time, and I’m glad I got to go.”

“Just tell me Janie’s stripper didn’t get as handsy as ours did. If my brother’s taking a swing at me tomorrow, I want to be prepared for it.”

“He didn’t.” I laugh and, peering up at him, get caught in that smile. “No offense to Walt, because he seems like a really nice guy. But I’m having trouble imagining him coming after you.”

Wade has several inches on his brother and a couple dozen pounds of muscle, at least. The bulk of which I’m still getting an eyeful of.

“If you’d seen us growing up, you wouldn’t doubt it. That little fucker fought dirty.”

And now I’m imagining the two boys Grace showed me picture after smiling, innocent picture of going after each other. When I finally stop laughing, Wade’s eyes are still on me.

And I like it. I like the way he smiles at me and the way he laughs with me and the way he looks at me like he likes me.

Tracing a square in the pattern of the bedspread, I put my thoughts back on track. “Okay, so dirty fighter aside. What reason would Walt have to come after you?”

“I might have helped Janie’s mom out with the entertainment.”

My jaw drops. “You hired Officer Dwayne DeLong-Johnson? That is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. But it definitely makes more sense than Mrs. Hamilton scouring the exotic dancer listings on her own. FYI, she couldn’t stop giggling the entire time he was there. Her face was tomato red, but she was delighted.”

Pushing off the desk, that hooked grin in place, he heads for the bathroom. “Nice. I’m glad Janie had a good time.”

He leaves the door open and turns on the sink, so I follow him back and prop a shoulder in the doorway. “Janie did too, but I was talking about her mom. And yours.”

Rocking back on his heels, he cackles. “Tell me there are pictures.”

“Oh, there are pictures, all right. I’m pretty sure Janie has video too. Play your cards right, and maybe she’ll share them.”

Still grinning, he runs a washcloth under the tap, soaping it up before he goes after the lipstick marring his jaw and forehead.

Catching sight of a few pink smears he probably can’t see, I step into the room, take another washcloth from the rack, and reach around Wade to get it wet. After the last two days, I’ve gotten so used to intentionally touching when we have an audience, I don’t even think about the fact that my hand is pressed to the bare skin of his side until I look up and find him watching me in the mirror.

“Sorry,” I breathe out, pulling my hand free. Suddenly, the laughter is gone, leaving only the awareness of how small this room is and how close we’re standing.

“There’s some on your neck and back too… If you want me to get them.”

He nods, and I try to focus on wiping away the evidence of some other woman on him, but my gaze keeps slipping back to the mirror. To the too-blue eyes still watching mine, impossible to read.

I want to say something. Break the silence. But that easy conversation between us feels further out of reach as the seconds stretch.

“There, you’re all cleaned up,” I finally manage, still clutching the washcloth.

Wade turns, his big body swallowing up the space in the small bathroom in a way it hadn’t when his back was turned. He reaches for a bit of my hair like he did at the gas station—God, was that only yesterday?—and wraps it around his finger before smoothing it back over my ear.

The air feels thin, warm.

His knuckles graze that sensitive skin along my neck.

Forget thin. The air is gone.

Or maybe I’m just holding my breath. His brows pull forward, those blue-sky eyes turning midnight as they track the path his fingers just followed, then slowly shift back to mine.

Something cold splatters against the top of my foot, shocking the air back into my lungs on a gasp.

I’m clutching the wet cloth in my hands hard enough to wring the liquid from it.

When I look back to Wade, whatever I thought I