High-Sticked (Hot Ice #5) by Lily Harlem

Author:Lily Harlem [Harlem, Lily]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781419941726
Published: 2013-06-21T07:00:00+00:00

Todd having admitted he had only beer and a jar of pickles in his refrigerator, we headed to my flat, where I had eggs and smoked ham lurking in the cooler.

The damn elevator had an out of order sign on it yet again and I worried about Todd as we climbed the stairs. He’d given his all during the game and then had to walk from the lot beneath his building to mine. He’d yawned a total of five times on that short walk and I could see his eyes were heavy. But he didn’t utter a word of complaint, nor did he get out of breath.

“Go and put your feet up,” I said, bolting the door behind us. “I’ll make supper.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah, you’ve done enough.”

I paused to watch him as he used the hall wall to stretch out his Achilles, pressing his palms flat, dropping his neck and angling his body so his calves went long.

After several seconds he straightened, lifted his hands above his head and pushed them upward, fingers locked and pressed out. He screwed up his eyes and yawned again.

I laughed. “Go get in bed, we’ll have supper on trays.”

“Okay,” he said with a sleepy smile as he hung up his jacket.

Humming a gentle tune I’d heard on the radio earlier, I set about whipping up eggs benedict. While it was cooking I set two trays, made chamomile tea and even added neatly folded napkins and salt and pepper pots.

Balancing one tray per hand, I took our supper into the bedroom.

I stopped in the doorway.

Todd was stretched on the bed, the duvet at his waist, his head nestled in the pillows and his eyes shut. His mouth was slightly open and I could hear, even over the hockey commentary that was on the TV, that he was snoring.

I looked at the supper and sighed, then walked over and put a tray down on the bedside table next to him. “Todd,” I whispered.

No response.

“Todd.” I spoke a little louder.

Still nothing.

“Todd, do you want to eat?”

He murmured, closed his mouth and seemed, if anything, to bury a little deeper into the pillows.

I looked at his chest, at the steady rise and fall of his pectoral muscles. The way light from the bedside lamps slanted shadows over his angled pecs and smooth sternum. His breaths were slow and deep and I realized there would be no waking him, not this evening.

Still holding my tray, I clicked off his bedside lamp and went to the other side of the bed. I placed my supper down, stripped to my boxers and carefully sat next to him.

He didn’t stir.

I adjusted the pillows at my back and reached for the remote that was partially balanced in his right hand, turned down the volume and started on my food.

The commentator on TV was reviewing the Rangers’ match against the Capitals. I speared a chunk of ham coated in rich, buttery sauce and popped it into my mouth.

“And the Rangers had it in the bag right from the first period,” the commentator was saying.

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