Isn't It Bromantic (Bromance Book Club #4) by Lyssa Kay Adams

            “It’s something we should probably talk about, don’t you think?”

            “Now?”

            “Why not?” He twisted in his seat to look at her and then instantly regretted it because all he could see was the gentle curve of her jaw. “What about your car? Are we going to ship it?”

            Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I—I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far. I’ll probably leave it with you.”

            “You can’t leave it here. What will you drive in Russia?”

            “I will buy a new one.”

            “That’s ridiculous. Why would you do that when you already have a car?”

            “Because I’ll be making my own money. I’m not going to keep relying on you, Vlad.”

            It annoyed him when she said stuff like that. A reminder that all of this had been nothing but a transaction to her. He rubbed the center of his chest again.

            “There’s no use fighting about this stuff now,” she said. “I don’t even have a job yet.”

            “You should apply to the paper in Omsk. You could live with my parents.”

            She rolled her eyes. “Oh yes. I’m sure they would love to have their son’s ex-wife move in.”

            “You are like a daughter to them, whether we are married or not.”

            “Well, the last time I looked, the paper in Omsk doesn’t have any openings.”

            “But I’m sure they would make an exception for you—”

            “Vlad, stop,” she snapped, once again peeling her gaze from the road. “You don’t understand how journalism works. Could you just send your résumé to any hockey team and ask to play for them? No.”

            “Why are you being so stubborn?” Vlad asked, eyebrows tugging together.

            “Why are you being so stubborn?”

            “Because I’m just trying to protect you, Elena.”

            She turned onto his street. “I don’t need your protection. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I’m not the same scared little girl you married.”

            “I have noticed,” he said as she pulled into the drive. “And I’m proud of you. If I haven’t said that before, I’m sorry.”

            “There’s a lot we don’t say to each other.” She eased the car into the garage and killed the engine. Irritation was evident in her movements when she threw open her door and slid out. He waited for her to come around to his side before opening his door. She handed him his crutches like always and stepped back so he could get out. But in the cramped space between the car and the wall of the garage, she could only move so far. She was blocked between his open door on one side and his body on the other.

            The mundane suddenly became meaningful, and he began to notice all those small moments of awareness about which Malcolm had waxed so poetically. The fresh-aired scent of her hair. The light spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks. The way her lush bottom lip curled out farther than the top, giving her a perpetual look of someone who’d just been kissed. The way he suddenly felt like he was seventeen again, sitting next to her along the banks of the Om River, his body hyperaware of hers in a way he’d never experienced before. The way the air moved against his skin whenever she flipped her hair off her shoulder. The way his fingers itched to catch a soft tendril and tickle it across his palm. The way her collarbone formed a straight, sensual line above the swell of her breasts beneath her shirt. The urgent, overwhelming, burning need to kiss her.

            Her eyes strayed to his mouth and lingered there. Every breath became a labor of willpower under her scrutiny. Kiss me. The words were there on the tip of his tongue. Why couldn’t he say them? Why couldn’t he move, take that first step? Now, like then, he couldn’t do it. “Elena,” he rasped.

            She blinked, and that cool detachment returned. She stepped back with a forced smile. “Thank you for taking me today. You should go inside and rest your leg.”

            “My leg,” he said, disappointment weighing his voice down.