Page 17 of Don't Fall for the Goalie
Probably not for a professional hockey goalie living in a cabin hidden in the middle of the woods that looks like it belongs in an expensive architecture magazine.
Still feels weird though.
My gaze drifts toward the suitcases sitting near the hallway. “I should unpack.”
“No.”
“I need clothes.”
“I’ll unpack.”
I stare at him. “You’re not unpacking my stuff alone.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you absolutely are not.”
He sighs heavily, like I’m the difficult one here, before pushing away from the island. “Fine.”
The next thing I know, he’s scooping me up in his arms again.
“Daltyn—”
“You’re staying off the ankle.”
“I can hop.”
“You’re not hopping anywhere.”
My pulse flutters traitorously as he carries me down the hallway.
The cabin gets quieter back here. Softer somehow. Wall sconces cast warm light across dark wooden floors while framed black-and-white mountain photographs line the walls.
He nudges open a door with his shoulder.
The guest room is pristine. A large bed with dark gray bedding sits against one wall beneath a window overlooking endless trees. Matching nightstands. No clutter.
It looks untouched. Like no one’s ever actually stayed here before.
Daltyn lowers me carefully onto the bed before grabbing an extra pillow and propping my ankle up.
“Comfortable?”
“You ask that like I’m ninety.”
“You’re injured.”
“I’m not dying.”
“That’s still debatable.”
I snort softly. “You’re the one making a big deal about it.”
He gives me a look.
My gaze sweeps around the room again. “This place is ridiculously clean.”
“I have help.”
