“Hey.”

She glances around, taking in her position on the floor. “Did I faint?”

“Twice.”

“I don’t handle the sight of blood well.”

“I figured that out.”

“Sorry.”

“Aside from the face-butt to the balls, it’s cool.” Chicks don’t understand how much it hurts to get bagged. I’ve heard Vi talk about how chicks give birth, and I’m sure that hurts like a motherpucker, but at least there’s the option for drugs to take away the pain. When a guy gets a shot to the nuts, there’s nothing we can do but put a bag of frozen peas on it and wait for our balls to come back down from our throats.

“The face-butt to what?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it. I’m going to get you a bandage now, ’kay?”

At her nod, I stand and turn toward the cabinets she pointed to in the first place.

“You’re naked.”

“Yup.” I open the drawer and rummage around, looking for a bandage. I move aside a ball of elastic bands and a million pens and pieces of scrap paper.

“Why?”

I glance over my shoulder. “I’m giving being a nudist a shot. What do you think?”

“Naked looks good on you.”

She gives me a weak smile and sits cross-legged on the floor, showing me her lack of panties under her shorts.

“Not as good as it looks on you.”

I find the bandages at the very back of the drawer, along with some antibiotic cream that’s two months out of date. It’ll do.

Getting back down to her level, I sit on the tile floor. My balls clench up, and my dick shrinks, trying to get away from the cold. Sunny closes her eyes as I unwrap the paper towel and check the cut again. It’s stopped bleeding for the most part, and it’s already clean, so all I need to do is cover it up. I use two bandages instead of one, in case there’s some bleed-through.

I toss the bloody paper towels in the trash and kiss the back of her hand. “All done.”

She peeks up, her expression wary until she sees the bandage.

“How’d you ever manage to make it through a hockey game?”

It’s kind of a joke, but kind of not. Hockey players get roughed up all the time. Everyone who plays professional sports should expect a few stitches along the way, especially with skates in the mix. I’ve had at least five occasions I can think of where I’ve needed stitches, whether from skates, a fast-moving puck, or a stick to a place without much padding. Most of the time, if it isn’t too bad, I get sewn up on the bench and get back in the game.

“I try not to look when people get into fights. I can handle it on TV, but in real life . . .” She shudders and pales.

The oven beeps, and she uses my shoulders to pull herself up. I stand along with her, gripping her at the waist when she falters.

“Why don’t you let me get it?”

“I’m fine. I can do it myself.” She’s almost snippy.

I let go, and she face-plants into my chest. Wrapping an arm around her waist, I lift her easily on to the counter. She grunts and makes an attempt at resisting, but she’s too unsteady, so she ends up gripping my arms instead.

“I can take a pan out of the oven, Sunny. Heating frozen food until it’s edible is one of my specialties.”

She makes a sound somewhere between a stifled laugh and an aggravated sigh.

“I’m not joking. I’m the best cook of frozen food in all of Chicago. I’d go as far as to say all of Illinois, but I don’t want to seem like I have a big ego or anything.”

“Miller.”

“Sunny.”

The oven beeps again. This time she lets go of my shoulders and motions toward it. I grab an apron off the counter and tie it around my waist to protect my dick before I open the oven. Inside is a huge pan of cinnamon buns, covered in pecans and bubbling around the edges. I put the mitts on and take them out, setting them on the granite counter.

“Where did you get these?”

“I made them.”

“When?”

“This morning, while you were sleeping.”

“Like, from scratch?”

“Yup.”

“Dough and all?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s what scratch means.”

I stop ogling the buns and look over my shoulder. I’m almost a hundred-percent sure that was sarcasm. She’s still sitting on the counter, her feet and head dangling.

“I’m impressed.” I search the cupboards for a couple of plates and rifle through the drawers until I find something to help remove them from the pan.

“They still need to be iced.”

“I don’t need icing.”

I’m about to dig in when I hear the soft thud of her feet hitting the ground.

“You’re impatient.” She hip-checks me out of the way and grabs a serving tray.

I step aside and lean against the counter while she places the tray over the buns and then flips the whole thing upside down. Jiggling it around, she lifts the baking pan to reveal glistening, pecan-and-syrupy rolls. Fragrant steam wafts into the air. My mouth is watering, and I’m starving. My post-sex wings last night have already been burned off. I need to feed the beast.

I go to grab one, and Sunny smacks my hand. “They’re too hot.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Let me put the icing on first so you don’t burn off your tongue.”