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Chapter 9
I climb in next to Owen, and as we buckle our seat belts, he flashes me his trademark dimple—the one all his fangirls go crazy for. Entire blog posts have been written about said dimple on the hockey sites. Ugh. God, why does he have to be so damn masculine? Ugh. God, why does he have to be so damn masculine?When I arrived at his place and walked in to see him with his athletic shorts slung low on his trim hips and his sweatshirt stretched across those broad shoulders, something inside me reacted. I have no idea if it’s because we’ve agreed to be bed-buddies, or what, but suddenly I’m having a hard time not picturing him naked. Get it together, Bec. Get it together, Bec.It’s like his muscles have muscles. What? Just because I have s****l PTSD doesn’t mean I’m blind to the opposite s*x
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