14. MADDIE

CHAPTER 14

MADDIE

W ow.

There are stars in the sky. Even though a second ago, it was dark gray from clouds loaded with snow.

Wait, no. My eyes are closed. It just hurts like a bi?—

I groan. The sound awakens me to a reality I can't believe. I must've slid on black ice, and sure enough, as I paw around, that's the cold asphalt beneath me. Now I'm not sure what hurts more: my womb, my butt, my head, or my ego. Hopefully no one witnessed this.

Something odd registers. It takes me another second to make out approaching footsteps. I finally open my eyes right as someone drops to their knees beside me. Did I hit my head so hard that I'm hallucinating?

"Where are you hurt?"

Nope. I would recognize the voice that is smooth like velvet and rich like a wine and makes me feel heady. Or that last part could just be the headache sinking in.

"Aran?"

He pauses his inspection. "Glad you recognize me."

Just my luck that the hottest guy I've ever met has been selected by fate to witness every one of my humiliations. I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Sliding my elbow up, I attempt to sit, but his hand on my shoulder pushes me back.

"Stop." At the strength of his command, I have no choice but to obey. "Don't move. It could be dangerous."

"Huh?" I blink hard.

"Where did you hit yourself?"

"Um, my butt and my head, I think. Maybe my elbow too?" It's throbbing like a toothache.

The lampposts cast a weak light around the area, which is probably why I didn't notice the frozen patch. Even so, I can make out how Aran's expression darkens almost to the point of anger.

"Let me check a few things before you move." He leans down the opposite way, and I feel his hand cinch around one ankle, then the other. "Felt that?"

"Yeah." Like brands on my skin, but I don't say this part.

"Move your feet for me."

I will move a mountain for him if he keeps talking all soft and concerned like this. Clearing my throat, I stretch out my feet a little.

"Okay, lift your arms."

I do.

Sighing, he holds on to my hands and slowly pulls me up. I didn't bother putting on my gloves before getting out of the car, because it's hard to fiddle with my keys while wearing them. But he isn't wearing any, either. The heat of his skin is shocking against mine. It feels feverish, but he looks healthy. Maybe he just runs hot in more than one way.

Too quickly, I'm on my feet and swaying. His hands abandon mine to steady me by my upper arms.

"Whoa, are you dizzy?"

"A little," I admit.

Air hisses between his teeth. "Depending on how hard you hit your head and where, you may have a concussion."

"I don't think it's that bad?—"

"And I don't underestimate blows to the head or the spine," he snaps.

He lets go of me and takes a step back, as if I'm the one burning. His breathing grows harsh in the span of a few seconds, and he sucks air deep into his lungs to slow it down. Now that he's not looking at me, he finds my bag on the ground and picks it up before turning away.

"C'mon, you're going to my place."

As I brush away gross slush from my coat, I ask, "Why?"

"Because I'm going to make sure you don't fall asleep tonight."

His response is so shocking that I stumble. With a yelp, I land against his back.

I feel him shift slightly, and his voice comes over his shoulder. "My, my. The little Strawberry has a dirty mind on her."

"Ugh." I push him away, glad he can't see how my face is probably turning scarlet. "You're the one who said it all weird. And I'm fine. You don't need to bother."

"Yes, I do. No one's getting hurt on my watch." He grunts at me or at his keys. Or at both.

Aran opens the building entrance and holds the door open for me. The automatic lights fire up and cast deep shadows on his face. He's still concerned. It's kind of cute to find out he's capable of that feeling.

At the stairs, the tiniest moan escapes me. Climbing up four floors isn't my idea of passing the time while on my period. But then I sense a massive wall of heat beside me. Aran waits to see if I need help. Something deep inside in my chest squeezes.

I focus on the steps one at a time. The slow, silent trek to our floor helps me clear my head. One of my many problems with guys is that the moment they're kind to me, I develop an instant crush. It's taken forever to understand that just because a guy is decent once, that doesn't mean he has feelings for me. And even though I'm still mechanically climbing stairs, I recognize this moment as the crossroad it is.

On one side, I could fall so fast for Aran that I break myself in the process. That's my usual pattern. On the other side—the harder, seemingly less interesting one—I could recognize that this is just him being a good Samaritan. As a hockey guy, he's probably seen terrible injuries, and if he witnessed anyone else slip and fall, he would no doubt react with the same concern.

So what if he looks like a spicy fantasy come to life? With his broad shoulders and his chiseled everything. With a face that deserves whole photoshoots. With a mouth that begs for sonnets whispered right against it. With hands that could do who knows what.

So what if he's actually nice ? With an odd sense of humor, a die-hard loyalty to his friends, and a steadiness that gets him called ‘the Iceberg.'

Aran doesn't have any interest in me, other than to make sure I don't die in my sleep tonight. He's just a good guy. The only reason he's giving me his attention is because I keep making a mess out of everything around me.

By the time we make it to his door, I'm so winded I wish I could run away and hide. But first, I know he won't let me. And second, I need to prove to myself that I can be around a decent guy—particularly this one—without nosediving straight into a crush. I take a bracing breath and follow him into his apartment.

"Why are you walking funny?"

I startle at his question. "Uh, I'd rather not say."

He stops in the middle of removing his coat, and his eyebrows rise all the way.

"Oh, my gosh. It's not like that, you perv!" I hide my face behind my hands.

"Why am I the perv? I didn't say anything."

"Your eyebrows implied it!"

His snort comes from behind me. I try to turn, but he steadies me by the shoulders. "Stop squirming. I want to inspect your head."

Even though his touch is as delicate as a beefy guy can handle, it still makes me wince. He shifts my hair around and digs his fingers softly into my scalp.

"Well, you're not bleeding."

The murmur would make me shiver if I were a weaker woman. But I tighten every muscle in my body and hold still. "I told you it wasn't that bad," I say through gritted teeth.

"Lucky you."

His heat moves away, and I can breathe again.

Tentatively, I glance over my shoulder in time to catch him unzipping his hoodie. He flings it across the living room, and it lands neatly on the enormous blue couch that swallows up most of the space. Underneath, he's wearing only a black long-sleeved T-shirt, which is now too little in the way of clothing, in my opinion.

"Sit." Aran motions to a barstool. "I'm going to cook and you're going to keep your eyes peeled open the whole time."

Sure will. I won't miss a single detail.

I bend down to leave my bag on the entrance floor with less difficulty than before. Maybe the blow to my head sucked in all the pain my body is able to produce, which is why my uterus is starting to cooperate. I shimmy out of my coat and turn it around to inspect the back. The vibrant emerald I so love has turned into gunky, brown splotches. Even worse, I can perfectly see the shape of my butt in them.

Ugh. I'm going to have to dry clean it. And if that doesn't work, I may cry. It's my favorite one.

But then something else occurs to me. "Aran, tell me the truth."

His response is to grunt, but he keeps washing his hands as if I haven't spoken.

"Is my hair a cakey, slushy mess?"

"Why do you think I'm washing my hands?"

I expel all the air in my lungs. Great, now I'll have to wash my hair tonight, even though I wasn't planning to wash it for another couple of days.

"This day really is the worst," I mumble as I climb onto the barstool.

Aran chooses to latch on to my words and asks, "Why?"

"You mean aside from how I showed an elite hockey athlete my abysmal skating skills?"

"I would not call that skating."

It's as if a dam breaks, and I explode into laughter. It's either this or bursting into a fountain of tears. Aran watches me in impassive silence as he dries his hands with a cloth towel.

"Okay, I will reveal all my secrets to you, Aran Rodriguez. I'm walking funny because I'm on my period and it hurts. Like someone's trying to shovel their way out through my womb."

I keep snort-laughing. If that's not enough to formally friend zone myself, I don't know what else would.

"Then I had to go to the first dress fitting for my sister's wedding. Which is great. Don't get me wrong! I'm super happy for Meg and Justin, but super miserable for myself because it means putting up with my mom as she criticizes every inch of my fat body. Like critiques alone have the power to smooth it all down to a perfect size four or something, you know? Oh! And that's excluding the veiled mockery about how I can't even find a plus-one for the freaking wedding. It's only two months away, Mom! Where am I going to find a boyfriend that quick? I'm busy getting ready for my book release!"

He hangs the towel back on the oven handle and slides over to the fridge, where he starts grabbing stuff to put on the counter by the stove.

"And that whole torture should've lasted, I don't know, a couple of hours, max?" I expel an exaggerated hah and continue. "Of course not. Five hours. Five freaking hours of trying on one hideous dress after another, because apparently, if you're of a certain size, you deserve to be punished with ugliness. And then?—"

Aran sets a large bowl on the kitchen island across from me. He blinks up, as if surprised that there's more.

"I was supposed to meet with one of my students. But he canceled, because guess what? Apparently, he doesn't need tutoring anymore, which, good for him, I guess, but now I'll have less income. Which is just exactly what any student not on a scholarship needs, am I right?" I throw my hands in the air. "All I want is to write my silly little hockey romance without much drama—I mean drama in my life. The book will have plenty of it. Is that too much to ask?"

Aran presses his hands against the counter, which moves him a smidge closer to me. Even though there's a whole slab of granite between us, it feels like he's too close. I clamp my mouth closed. Heat spreads across my cheeks. It's half embarrassment at my outburst and half because of his sheer physicality.

This must be what I feel when I glance at him. It's not a crush. It's good old-fashioned attraction. The biological kind you can't help but feel when a superior specimen of your desired sex flaunts in front of you.

"I know you're vegetarian, but do you have any food allergies? Intolerance?"

"Um, no?"

"Is that a question or a statement?"

"A firm no." I scratch my head and wince.

"I can help you with some of your problems," he says as he grabs a yellow bag and opens it carefully, without spilling any flour. "Ibuprofen for the pain."

"Oh, yes. Actually."

"And also with the hockey romance." We both remain suspended in silence for a moment. Then he blinks real slow. "With the hockey part, I mean."

I sag a bit.

"Of course. And that would be great, actually!" Oh no. Am I giggling? That's way overdoing it for how awkward I feel. "Your friends are lovely but not super helpful." At least this is true. After the move, while Aran was napping, all his friends did was share glory stories about themselves. I jotted some of them down but don't really understand most of it.

Pouring a little flour into the bowl, he mutters, "Good thing we have all night, huh?"