My jaw nearly hits the floor as I watch Saint reach for the neck of his T-shirt and pull it over his head, dropping it onto the chair beside him. I knew he was in shape—he’s a hockey player, so that’s to be expected—but holy… shit. He looks like he was carved by a renowned sculptor, molded from the most exquisite marble, with rows and rows of abs and an Adonis belt that tapers into the shorts slung low on his hips. For the very first time, I worry about what I have actually gotten myself into.
