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She’d told Dr. Kowecki the three big rules of her worldwide dick tour.
No fucking anyone who knew where she lived.
No fucking anyone who knew where she worked.
No fucking anyone who knew where she liked to hangout.
But there was a fourth rule, the one so no-shit self-explanatory that there had never been a need to codify it.
No fucking anyone and then staying the night.
Sex was one thing. Drooling on a pillow while dreaming of sharing a chocolate malt with a Maine Coon that could talk about the history of the Stanley Cup was something else completely.
Yet here she was being the little spoon as the clock sitting on a closed sketchpad on Cal’s bedside table changed from one-five-nine to two-zero-zero.
She hadn’t actually slept with anyone since two nights before her wedding that wasn’t. Tig had stayed over, and they’d fallen asleep to that damn song that she’d fully expected they’d be dancing to at the reception; after all, it was their song. It had always been their song. It was so much a part of them that “Love Story” had been engraved on the inside of their wedding rings.
And that realization didn’t make her skin crawl. It set it on fire. She was out of the bed and picking up her panties in the next second, desperate to get out of here now.
Cal let out a sleepy grumble about oil changes as he rolled onto his back, and she froze, watching him for any sign he was awake.
His eyes were closed and his breath had settled back into the long, deep inhales and exhales of REM sleep. He looked rumpled and comfy. Her head would fit perfectly in the pocket of his shoulder. She could lay there and close her eyes and stroke the springy dark hair on his chest until she was asleep, too.
Her whole body went soft at the idea of how good that would feel—which was exactly why she did the exact opposite and made quick work of gathering her clothes and moving silently into Cal’s living room to get dressed. But then his bed squeaked from him rolling over, and he mumbled “brake job” before he started snoring softly.
She had to get out of here.
Now.
Deciding that the odds of anyone being in the stairwell between their two floors at two in the morning was practically nil, Astrid pulled her shirt and panties on to make sure the basics were covered, then clutched everything else to her chest. She added her tote bag with her apartment key hooked to one strap to the bulk. Refusing to give in to the urge to take one last glance toward Cal’s open bedroom door, she gave her six-pack of Diet Coke a regretful look goodbye. Then she tiptoed out of Cal’s apartment.
Almost bare-assed, she hurried down the stairs and sprinted to her door. She sent up a quick but very sincere plea to the universe not to let Mrs. Duffy crack open her door at this exact moment and catch her. Her dignity—what little there was of it at the moment—would never recover from that. She’d definitely have to move.
Hand shaking, Astrid fumbled getting her key in the door lock. The patron saint of dicking and ditching must have been watching out for her, though, because the key slid home on the second try. Clamping her mouth shut tight so she wouldn’t yodel out in triumph, she shoved her front door open, ran inside, and nudged it shut behind her.
She was never, ever, ever doing that again.
She’d never be nearly naked in the hall again.
She’d never be all the way naked with Cal again.
Hell, she just might become a never-nude and start showering in her underwear.
Okay, that was probably a step too far, but still—she could not keep sleeping with Cal Matsen.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Cal had been on his way to the bullpen where all of the coaches’ cubicles were to get another cup of coffee—that he fucking hated, but the machine was right by Astrid’s desk, which gave him an excuse to see her—when Coach flagged him down.
“They want you upstairs,” Coach said as he stood in the open doorway that led to his office.
Cal’s gut clenched. “In HR?”
Had Coach found out and was firing him to set a stay-away-from-my-daughter example? Had he fucked his second chance? And did he give a shit?
What. In. The. Ever. Loving. Fuck. Is. Wrong. You. NumbNuts.
The hockey puck in Coach’s hand that he was always fidgeting with stilled. He looked at Cal as if he had the same question in his mind.
