“Buonasera, signore,” he says, his smile so wide I want to tell him it’s wasted on me.
Reservation for Ledger Timberbridge. That’s T-i-m-b-e-r-b-r-i-d-g-e.” I’ve been on this spelling crusade since I checked in at LAX—or honestly, probably my whole life. No one ever gets it right, and spelling it out is easier than saying, “Timberbridge, not Timberidge,” on an endless loop. I even try to make it foolproof: “It’s like Timber and Bridge, not Timber and Ridge.” You’d think that would do the trick, but nope. They still drop the b every time. The b is not fucking silent. So now, I got the spelling down to a rhythm, for maximum clarity.
I should change my last name. It’s not like I’m attached to it. Timberbridge is my only link to my fucking father—or as I like to call him the sperm donor. That’s one connection I wouldn’t mind severing. Mom never even took his last name, so why should I? But the thought of dealing with all the bureaucratic hoops makes me cringe. Ledger Smith—Mom’s last name—has a nice ring to it. Simple. Proud. Unburdened.
Giorgio’s fingers fly over the keyboard. His cheerful demeanor falters for a fraction of a second, and I feel my jaw tighten. Here we go. I brace for whatever nonsense is about to hit.
“Ah . . . Signor Timberbridge, it seems there has been an issue with your reservation.”
Of course, there has. “What kind of issue?”
“Well . . . it was canceled by mistake and unfortunately we are fully booked,” he says, wincing slightly, like he’s been trained to deliver bad news with minimal backlash. Then his grin reappears, bright and polished, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. “But you are in luck. There was a cancellation yesterday.”
I nod stiffly. Great. A leftover room at a resort I didn’t even want to stay in. Still, here I am, playing the role of supportive captain for one of my teammates. Kraig Blackwood, our goalie, is young enough—and dumb enough—to think marriage is the best thing that’ll ever happen to him.
“If I were a good captain,” I mutter under my breath, “I’d tell him to call it off and run.”
Giorgio blinks, his brows knitting in confusion. I wave him off. “It’s not important.”Focus, Timberbridge. Handle your own mess first.
“So you’re sending me to the janitor’s closet and calling it a room?” I ask, because with the luck I’ve been carrying lately, that sounds about right.
“No, no,” Giorgio says quickly, his grin widening as if to reassure me. “Our last available room is a suite, but I’ll give it to you for the same price as a regular room.”
He slides a keycard across the counter, his voice smooth with practiced charm. “It’s a premium suite. The guest who canceled had excellent taste. It includes complimentary champagne—and I’ll throw in a massage.”
“Fine, I’ll take it.” I grit my teeth as I take the keycard.
The team might pay me enough to afford this level of luxury, and my trust fund ensures I’ll never have to sweat over a hotel bill, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy bleeding money on a suite I didn’t ask for.
“Thanks,” I mumble, though it comes out more like a grunt, and I head toward the elevators.
The hallways are immaculate—polished marble floors gleaming under the soft, recessed lighting. Even the air feels expensive, like someone distilled Mediterranean perfection into a scent and pumped it through the vents. Every detail screams indulgence, designed to impress.
It reeks of everything I hate.
The suite is exactly what I expected: over-the-top luxury aimed at starry-eyed touristy couples who think this will make their life enchanting. A private terrace overlooks the sea, sheer curtains ripple in the breeze, and a bottle of champagne sits in a bucket of ice on a small glass table. Then, there’s a service with deli meats, strawberries, and wine. Not too bad.
“Ugh,” I groan when I see the bed.
Rose petals. Of course. They’re scattered across the pristine white sheets like a romantic movie cliché come to life. At the foot of the bed, a haphazard pile of towels sits abandoned, like someone started staging a romantic night and gave up halfway through.
I drop my bag with a thud, run a hand through my hair, and sigh. This entire trip is ridiculous. I should be anywhere but here, letting someone else handle the emotional support duties. But no. You’re the captain. You lead by example. Blah, blah, fucking blah . . .
I kick off my shoes and head toward the balcony, peeling off my shirt as I go. The heat is stifling, the kind that clings to your skin and makes the air feel heavier than it should. I toss my shirt onto the nearest chair and turn toward the champagne, ready to pop the cork and pretend I’m anywhere else.
That’s when I hear it.
A high-pitched, startled yell.
I freeze, my head snapping toward the sound. It’s coming from under the door.
And then I see her.
For a second, I think she’s a mirage, the kind conjured up by exhaustion and jet lag. But no—she’s very real, standing there, framed in the soft glow of the light.
Her dark, wet hair clings to her shoulders, drops of water rolling down her collarbone. Her wide eyes—brown? Green? Hazel?—are blazing with shock. She’s breathtaking in a way that catches me off guard, her skin glowing in the light like she just stepped out of some Renaissance painting.
And then there’s the towel. It’s barely covering her, the towel clinging to her chest like it’s fighting a losing battle. One breast is teasing the edge of exposure, the curve just visible, while the other . . . well, there’s no teasing. A single nipple peeks out, taut and glistening, and I swear my mouth goes dry.
