“Whose jersey is this?” She traced the number with one finger, tempting him to do the same. “Whose number?”
He swallowed hard, a lump in his throat. “It’s a retired number, one that had been reserved for me if I joined the team. I didn’t.” He shook off past regrets abruptly. He’d never played for the team, so he’d bought it, instead. “So shall I escort you back to you room?”
He couldn’t keep the suggestive tone from his voice. Didn’t want to.
She tipped her haughty-princess chin. “I think not. I can find my own way back.”
That might be true enough. But they weren’t done by a long shot. He wouldn’t rest until the day came when he peeled that jersey from her beautiful body.
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