Accidentally Fudging the Beast Read Online Nichole Rose

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love, Virgin Tags Authors: Nichole Rose Advertisement

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I point at the hallway. "Go to bed. I'll check on you every hour."

He pouts, which is both childish and weirdly sexy on a man his size. "You're leaving me alone already?"

I blink. "Uh, yes? You need sleep, not entertainment."

He shakes his head. "That's where you're wrong. I definitely need entertainment." He pats the couch next to him. "Just until I fall asleep. It's medical best practices."

I hesitate, which is the first sign that I've completely lost the plot. Actually, that's not true. The first sign was agreeing to stay in the first place. I should be halfway back to my apartment by now, preparing to eat ice cream straight from the carton and doom-scroll social media until my eyes bleed.

Instead, I sit at the farthest edge of the couch.

He stretches toward me like a lazy bear, head tilted back, eyes half-closed. For a second, he looks so peaceful that I almost believe the whole day was just a bad dream. But then his eyes flick open, and he pins me with that intense, green-eyed stare.

"Why did you become a physical therapist?" he asks, his voice low and curious.

I blink. "What?"

"You could've done anything," he says, waving a hand. "Why sports physical therapy?"

I'm not prepared for the question, or the way he asks it—like he genuinely wants to know.

I think about the answer for a second, then shrug. "I guess because I was always the one taping up my foster brothers after their Little League disasters. Because I like helping people. Because…I don't know. It seemed like a job where I could actually fix something for someone, you know?"

He stares at me intently. "You were in foster care?"

I nod, avoiding his gaze. "From the time I was eleven until I turned eighteen."

"I didn't know that," he says softly.

I shrug uncomfortably. "Don't talk about it much. The fact that my mom was an addict who spent half of my life in prison isn't really something that rolls off the tongue."

"Damn, baby," he says softly. "I'm sorry."

"Me too," I whisper, desperately trying not to think about the fact that he just called me baby.

"Well, you're damn good at your job."

The compliment, following so closely on the heels of that endearment rolling from his lips, catches me off guard. "Thanks."

He smirks. "You're also the only one on staff who doesn't look at me like I'm a science experiment."

He's not entirely wrong. He's thirty-eight. Most guys have retired from the league by his age. But Trent? Well, he just won't give up. He wasn't built that way.

"You're not a science experiment. You're just…complicated," I offer. It's not that, though. Not really. Trent's simple enough if you understand him. Hockey is his home, his safe place. It's the one place in the world where he knows exactly how and where he fits, where he's in control. He doesn't want to give that up. And as someone who has never really had a safe place or much control, I get it even if no one else does.

He grins, stretching again. "I'll take that as a compliment."

We lapse into a comfortable silence, broken only by the ticking of a fancy wall clock and the faint hum of the refrigerator. It's nice in an odd kind of way. I don't get a lot of quiet time with the guys. Usually, they're either loud and annoying as hell, or they're so wrapped up in their own drama that I feel like an NPC in their world.

But Trent is different. He's cocky, sure. Sometimes, he's even grumpy as hell, but he's also attentive. He listens. And, apparently, he likes my fudge enough to nearly die for it.

After a while, I notice his breathing has evened out. He's not asleep, but he's close. His head tilts back, his lips parting. I could get up and sneak out, but something holds me in place.

Maybe it's the exhaustion, or the fact that I've been running on pure cortisol since well before sunrise, but I let myself relax. Just for a minute.

And then I hear the faintest little snore.

I bite back a laugh, peeking over at him.

"You're snoring," I tease.

His eyes pop open, his expression lazy and amused. "Am not."

"Are too."

He hits me with another of those panty-melting grins. "You're hearing things, Sunshine."

I roll my eyes. "Go back to sleep, Kirk."

But he's not letting me off that easily. He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow, and looks at me with a seriousness that's almost alarming.

"Hey," he says, his voice intense in a way it wasn't just a moment before. "Thank you for taking care of me today. Even if you did try to kill me."

I don't know what to say, so I settle for, "Anytime."

He studies me for a long moment, then nods, satisfied, and settles back onto the couch. Within two minutes, he's actually snoring.

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