“Get a grip,” I mutter.
He didn’t even look at me during dinner afterward. He just sat there, calm as a glacier, like he hadn’t turned me into a puddle of hormones. He acted like it never happened. Meanwhile, I barely tasted my food.
How can a man kiss a woman without kissing her, pin her without pinning her, ruin her without touching her…
I take a sip of my second coffee. I didn’t sleep last night. Not a single restful second. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt it again—that hot swipe of his tongue at the corner of my mouth.
I can still feel it ghosting there. If I concentrate hard enough, I can still feel the pressure of his body, the dark heat of his breath against my cheek.
I press my fingertips to my lips. No matter how hard he pretends he hates me, Captain Stone-Coldlost control because of me. Giddiness bubbles up my throat until I’m smiling like an idiot at a pile of fabric.
My phone buzzes, jolting me.
Melody: WAGs are going out tonight. Tell me you’re coming!
By the time I turn onto Dom’s long driveway, my Corolla sounds like it’s having an asthma attack. The mansions around me look like they’d tow me on sight. Dom’s driveway is already clogged with his terrifying lineup of machines: a Bugatti, a Maserati, a matte-black Mercedes G-Wagon. No, I’m not about to wedge my Corolla between them.
So I park up the road, far enough that I don’t ruin the lineup in front of his house. Far enough that I can calm down before I face him again.
I’m embarrassingly excited to see him. I didn’t get to at breakfast—he’d already left for practice by the time I woke up—but he left breakfast, the keys to his house, and a note that said, Eat.
From where I’m parked high up the street, I get a view of Dom’s front door. All the air in my chest is replaced with crushing boulders the moment my eyes focus.
A woman steps out: long glossy hair, a tight white dress, and matching heels. She turns back toward the doorway, and my stomach drops.
Dom has one arm casually braced on the doorframe as if this is how most of his days go. The woman laughs at something he says, leans in, and kisses his cheek goodbye.
I grip the steering wheel, nails digging into the leather.
She gives him a knowing smile—the kind that lingers—before crossing the driveway. A click of her keyfob, and her S-Class blinks to life.
The realization hits sharp and sudden, slicing through my chest.
Dom had sex with her. While I was at my atelier replaying his tongue on my lips like some lovesick idiot. And he was sleeping with someone else.
My throat closes and hot tears burn behind my eyes. This is what it’s going to be like living withhim. This is the reality: women—beautiful, perfect women—leaving his house while I… what? Cry in my Corolla?
That’s what I get for inviting myself to live here. I can’t tell him what to do in his own house. He’s not really my boyfriend. He’s not my anything.
A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it. I wipe it quickly, furious at myself.
God, I’m ridiculous.
I take a deep breath, then another, and wait until her car disappears. My vision blurs as more tears spill. For one stupid, brief moment I thought he was softening.
I wipe my face and start the car again. My chest is too tight, and the idea of walking into his house after watching another woman leave it smiling? I physically can’t.
I throw the car into reverse, get one last glimpse of his front door, and blink through the blur as I speed away.
The farther I get, the harder the tears fall. Ugly, hot, humiliating tears. I hate myself for caring. Hatethat my stupid heart reacted like he’d cheated when he owes me nothing. We’re a business arrangement.
And he’s a hot, six-foot-seven Stanley Cup champion. What did I think would happen? That he’d hold himself to celibacy because his fake girlfriend demanded it?
I grip the steering wheel tighter, tears slipping down my cheeks despite how hard I try to choke them back.
Twenty minutes later, I pull into my old apartment complex. It’s still mine until the end of the month—half-empty, box-filled—and park crooked because my hands are shaking too much to care. I sit there for a long moment. The sobs have softened into something bitter.
If he wants to act like nothing happened in his kitchen, fine. So can I.
