Page 23 of Married to the Scottish Player
“Are you seriously eating my chocolate right now?”
Startled, I scream. Drop the second cluster I had waiting in the palm of my hand, and spin around on my heels, hands going up in mock defense.
Maverick stands in the kitchen, fridge light illuminating him, looking every inch like a serial killer with abs, arms crossed.
No shirt. Chest, skin, pecs.
“JesusChrist,” I sputter, clutching my chest. “Are you trying to scare the shit out of me?” I huff. “You can’t sneak up on people like that!”
He blinks. “Ilivehere.”
“I thought you were sleeping!” I accuse, eyeballing the fallen cluster, sad that its short life ended on my watch.
“Iwas,” Maverick says, leaning his big, annoyingly broad frame against the doorframe like he’s posing for a lumberjack calendar. “Until I heard moaning. I always wake up for that.”
“I’m sleep deprived and emotionally fragile,” I reply, standing tall and unapologetic in my fuzzy socks and T-shirt.
He lifts a brow. “But why is my chocolate in your mouth?”
Maverick reaches around me to grab a bottle of water from the fridge, and his arm brushes against my boobs—just briefly, but enough to make me remember I’m not wearing a bra and maybe standing in the middle of the kitchen in this oversize tee isn’t the brightest idea.
“I was under a blanket,tryingto sleep,” I huff. “But someone snores like a dying bear, and one thing led to another ...”
“I do not snore.”
“You absolutely do. Like a chainsaw.”
He laughs, low and gravelly, and I hate how much I like the sound. Then he reaches past me to grab a second package of clusters from the top shelf—hidden behind a container of plain Greek yogurt—and an English muffin. Asuper-secret backupstash?How Dare He!
I gasp. “You have more?”
Maverick pulls the bag out of my reach, grinning. “You want these too?”
I nod, eyes wide and hopeful.Yes, please.
“Say you’re sorry.”
I purse my lips. “For what?”
He waves the bag tauntingly. “For eating my snacks without asking first, per the rules.”
I mean, he’s not wrong. Still. I love digging my heels in. “Wow. Are you going to hold that over my head?”
He waits.
“Fine,” I murmur. “I’m sorry.”
“For . . . ?”
“Foraccidentallyeating your chocolate. And moaning. And traumatizing you with my not wearing a bra.”
“Obviously you’re not wearing a bra—it’s two in the morning.” Spoken like a guy who was probably raised with sisters.
The second he says it, the kitchen gets warmer. Or maybe that’s my skin combusting? Warm. So hot.
I’m so very well aware of my braless boobs, aware of the way the soft cotton of my oversize shirt caresses my chest. Aware of the slight chill in the air brushing against my thighs. Aware of the fact that Maverick isveryshirtless,veryclose, adding an intimacy to this entire encounter that makes my breath catch in my throat.
My nipples tighten under my shirt, traitorously.
