Ever.”
One corner of Mac’s mouth lifted to pull his lips up into a cocky smile. “Of course it won’t,” he replied, his voice oozing sarcasm. “Because we have no chemistry and you can resist me.”
Lord give me patience. Rory yanked the door open and barreled into the passageway. Because if You give me strength I’m going to need bail money, as well.
She’d had her hand on his crotch.
His life was currently a trash fire—messy and ugly—and all he could think about was how Rory’s fingers felt brushing across his junk, how much he wanted her hand encircling his erection, how nobody had ever managed to set his blood on fire like that pint-size fairy who needed her attitude adjusted.
Mac glared at the half-open door, dropped into the chair and leaned his head back against the wall. He was not having a good day; it was just another day from hell in a series of hellish days in Hell City. He hadn’t felt this crazy since that disaster ten years ago.
Wah, wah, wah... Admittedly, he sounded like a whiny ten-year-old, but wasn’t he allowed to? Just this once? He hadn’t been this unsure of his future since he’d hitched a ride out of his hometown fifteen years ago. And even then, he hadn’t been that worried. He’d made excellent grades in school and a rare talent on the ice had translated into a full scholarship to college. He’d then been recruited to play for the Mavericks and earned serious money. By investing in companies and start-ups, he’d earned more. Considerably more. He was, by anyone’s definition, a success. He was living the life, incredibly wealthy, popular, successful.
Despite his rocky upbringing, he believed he was, mostly, a functioning adult, fully committed to steering his own ship. He had an active social life; he genuinely liked women, and while he didn’t “do” commitment, he wasn’t the player everyone assumed him to be. Sure, he’d dated one or two crackpots but he’d managed to remain friends with most of the women he’d dated.
So, if he was a successful adult, why was he so insanely pissed off right now? Bad things happened to good people all the time...
He’d be handling this better if his fight with the fridge had only impacted his own life, his own career. Like that long ago incident with Shay, his actions had not only hurt himself but could hurt people he cared about too. He knew what it felt like to be collateral damage. He’d been the collateral damage of his mother’s bad choices and perpetual negativity.
To this day, he could still hear her lack of enthusiasm for anything he said or did. His mother was the reason he had no intention of settling down. In his head commitment equaled approval and he’d be damned if he ever sought approval from a woman again. He didn’t want it and he didn’t need it...
Wanting approval was like waiting to catch a boat at an airport. Constantly hopeless. Endlessly disappointing.
It was far easier not to give people, a woman, the opportunity to disappoint him. Rory—funny, loyal, interesting—was a problem. He didn’t care for the fact that he liked her, that this blast from his past excited him more than he thought possible.
You are overthinking this, idiot. This is just about sex, about lust, about attraction.
It had to be because he wouldn’t allow it to be anything else.
That being said, he was playing with fire in more ways than one. Yes, Rory might be the best physiotherapist around and eminently qualified to treat him, but she was also his famous ex’s sister. If the press found out about this new connection, they would salivate over the story. If they then found out he and Rory were attracted to each other they’d think they’d died and gone to press heaven.
There were many reasons to downplay his injury, but the thought of putting Rory through the same hell Shay experienced at the hands of those rabid wolves made him feel sick. Not happening, he decided.
Not again.
Thank God she’d refused his asinine suggestion to move in with him. Wasn’t that a perfect example of how his brain shut down whenever she was around? If she moved in he’d give them, mmm, maybe five minutes before they were naked and panting.
He had no choice but to keep his attraction to her under control, keep his distance—emotionally and physically. He had to protect himself and protect her, and the only way to do both was to put her in the neutral zone—that mental zone he’d created for people, events, stuff that didn’t, or shouldn’t, impact him.
So he’d put her there, but he wasn’t convinced, in any way, shape or form, that she’d actually remain there.
* * *
Rory stood on the pavement outside Mac’s Kitsilano home, the key Mac had given her earlier in her hand. The house wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d thought he’d have a blocky, masculine home with lots of concrete and steel. She hadn’t expected the three-story with its A-pitched roof, painted the color of cool mist with dark gray accents. It looked more like a home and less like the den of sin she’d expected.
Rory walked up the steps to the front door, slid the key into the lock and entered the house, stopping to shove the key back into the front pocket of her jeans. There was good art on the wall, she noticed as she moved farther into the living area, and the leather furniture was oversize and of high quality. A massive flat-screen TV dominated one wall, and apart from a couple of photographs of the three Maverick-teers, there wasn’t anything personal in the room. Mac had no hockey memorabilia on display, nothing to suggest he was the hottest property on ice. She’d expected his walls to be covered with framed jerseys and big self-portraits. Instead his taste ran to original art and black-and-white photographs.
“Rory?” Mac’s voice drifted down the stairs. “Come on up. Top floor.”
She walked back into the hallway and up the stairs. She reached the second floor, looked down the passage and wished she could explore. Instead she jogged up the short, second flight that ended at the entrance to an expansive bedroom. The high pitch of the roof formed the paneled ceiling. The room was dominated by a massive king-size messy but empty bed. Rory looked around and saw Mac sprawled on a long sofa on the far side of the room. His head rested against the arm and his eyes were closed. Pain had etched deep grooves next to his mouth. His normally tanned skin was pale and he was taking long, slow, measured breaths.
His eyes didn’t open but his mouth did. “Hey, were there any press people outside when you let yourself in?”
“No, why?”
“Just asking.”
Rory dropped her gaze and her eyebrows lifted at his unbuttoned white shirt, his unzipped gray suit pants and his bare feet. An aqua tie lay on the seat next to him, on top of what was obviously a matching suit jacket. Black shoes and socks sat on the wood coffee table in front of him.
Oh, hell, no! “Going somewhere?”
“Planning on it.”
“The only place you are going is back to bed.” Rory folded her arms against her chest. “You need a full-time nurse, McCaskill.”
If she moved in then she could stop him from making stupid decisions. But would she be able to stop herself from making stupid decisions,
