testosterone radiating from her sofa and fil ing the room.
“You better let me have those Dots so your teeth don’t rot,” he said, poking around in the bag. “Maybe some of those M&M’s, too. There might be some green ones in there, and I know how much you hate anything that reminds you of veggies.”
The last thing Sam LeClaire needed was green M&Ms.
“You can have them al .”
Sam glanced at Autumn, then returned his eyes to the bag. “Thanks, but I—” His head whipped up, and he stared at her as if she’d suddenly turned into an alien. His brows shot up his forehead, and the corners of his blue eyes pinched. An evil alien. She looked behind her, saw nothing, then returned her gaze to his. “What?”
He pointed at her white Jersey. “What the hel are you wearing?”
“A hockey jersey.” She looked down and pointed at the penguin on the front. “Hockey is our Hal oween theme this year.”
His voice was quiet. Deadly. “It’s Pittsburgh.”
“I like it. The penguin has little skates on his feet.” She looked back up. “It’s cute.”
“It’s gay.”
“Sam. Language.”
“Jerseys aren’t supposed to be cute.” He frowned and pointed an accusing finger at her. “You’re wearing Crosby’s number.”
She looked at the 87 on her sleeve. “Who?”
“Jesus. The bastard just scored on me with a hinky puck. He should have been embarrassed instead of skating around like a prom queen.”
Whatever that meant. She pointed at Conner, who was hanging on Sam’s every word. “Language, please.”
Conner shook his head. “I told her, Dad.”
Autumn gasped. “Told me what?”
“To wear Dad’s number, like me.”
Yeah. Like that would happen. “I like this jersey.”
Sam sat back against the couch and folded his arms across his thin beige sweater. “Penguins don’t wear skates.”
She pointed to Conner’s jersey. “Fish don’t swat pucks with their tails, either.”
Sam opened a box of Dots and popped a few into his mouth. He watched her as he chewed, then said, “Crosby’s a whiny little bit—girl.”
She shrugged. “He’s cute.”
“Are you serious?”
She actual y didn’t real y know what Crosby looked like, but Sam
“
No. “Yeah.” Just like women picked Sam’s number because he was hot, but she’d never tel him that. Not that he didn’t know it already. “Why else?”
“Why else?” He stood and dropped the empty box on the coffee table. “How about points? How about number of years in the NHL? How about taking a hit like a man. How about not crying like a girl? How about the mother of my child showing a little support and
He looked serious, and she started to laugh.
He put his hands on his hips. “What’s so funny?”
She slid a palm over her stomach. “You.” She continued to laugh. She couldn’t help it. “You’re ridiculous.” Conner gasped as if she’d committed blasphemy.
He motioned with his hand. “Take it off.”
“Right.” Like he could come into
She shook her head and took a step back. “No.”
“Then you leave me no choice here.” He stalked her into the dining room, towering over her. “I’m going to have to take it off you.” The corners of his lips twitched like he was joking, but his eyes were al about getting his way.
“You can’t.”
“Yeah, I can. I take off women’s shirts al the time.”
“That’s not something to brag about.”
“Not bragging. I’m just gifted.” He held up three fingers, then lowered them one at a time.
“You’re gifted al right.” She didn’t wait for the final finger before she turned on her heels and ran. His hand on the back of her jersey stopped her and slammed her back against the hard wal of his chest. “Sam!”
“Come help me, Conner,” he cal ed out, and wrapped one big arm around her ribs just beneath her breasts.
“No, Conner!”
The little traitor ran into the kitchen and looked up at his dad. “What do you want me to do?”
“Hold her undershirt down so it doesn’t come off with the jersey.”
“Stop,” she protested through a laugh. “Conner, go to bed! I mean it.”
“No way.” He reached his little hands beneath the jersey and grabbed the bottom of the long-sleeved thermal shirt creeping up her stomach.
“I’m your mom. You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“We can do this easy,” Sam said into the top of her head. “Or we can go hard. You choose.”
She tried to squirm out of his arms, but it was useless. “I’m keeping my Pittsburgh jersey. It cost me over two hundred bucks.” Outmuscled and outmanned, the jersey was whipped over her head. For a brief second, it caught on her ponytail, then she found herself in a tug-of-war with her son. “Let go.”
“Hold—her—Dad,” Conner managed between peals of wild laughter and grunts of raw effort.
With both arms around her, Sam held her even tighter. “Take it and hide it somewhere,” he told Conner.
“You’re in big trouble,” she warned her son. “No more cartoons for you.”
In response, he tugged so hard his face turned red. She rose onto the bal s of her feet and used her foot in his little tummy for leverage, but he ripped the jersey from her fingers. He tumbled across the kitchen floor, then took off. “Don’t let her go til I hide it, Dad.”
“She’s not going anywhere.” His arms tightened even more, and she suddenly became very aware of him pressed against her back and behind. Suddenly became aware of being surrounded by a heavy man blanket, throwing off waves of heat. She stil ed as the heat of him seeped through her pores. Two of his fingers brushed her bare waist where her shirt had risen.
Other than the males in her own family or the occasional handshake, the last man who had touched her was the man touching her now. Yes, she felt the heat and pure male grit of Sam. Just like al those years ago in Vegas. What she didn’t feel this time was the jump in her pulse.
“Let go, Sam.”
Chapter Nine
“You about done, Conner?” Sam cal ed out. He glanced from the doorway to the top of Autumn’s head. Her messed-up ponytail tickled his cheek. It had been a long time since he’d been this close to a woman and been ful y dressed. Especial y this woman. He half expected an elbow in the gut and head butt to his chin.
“Not yet, Dad.”
Instead, she dropped to her heels and slid down his body. A slow friction that ignited a fire and burned down
