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I huffed out a laugh. “You must not have a girlfriend, kid, because otherwise you’d know you don’t let a woman do anything. They do whatever the fuck they want.”

The smile he cut me as I took the tablet to sign was sheepish. “Oh, that’s right. I read about how you’re seeing someone now. She looked real pretty from those pictures of you two. That’s cool you brought her with you.”

Shit.

“Um. Yeah…” My tongue felt too big for my mouth. Correcting him would dig me deeper, so I let him think the woman humming on the other side of the frosted door was my girlfriend instead of my publicist.

“Well, here you go. Thanks for bringing it by.” I shoved a few hundred dollars in his hand and had him out the door before Graciella walked out.

“Monr—”

Her voice cut off.

Silence.

No music, running water, or commentary from one very opinionated woman. It was so abnormal, I nearly ran down the short hallway that led to the main part of the room to make sure she hadn’t passed out. Graciella’s face whipped to me, the towel perched on the top of her head nearly toppling over.

“What’s all this?” She flicked a hand toward the carts. The move made her robe gap at the top, giving a glimpse of the soft curve of her breast.

My throat tightened, heat coursing to my dick.

I cleared my throat, dragging my eyes to the silver domes instead of the skin peeking through. “You said one of everything.”

“Wait—you actually went through with it? I was joking.”

“Were you, though?” My lips twitched, and I shrugged a shoulder. “Figured this was safer than guessing.”

The smile she shot me was blinding, and damn if it didn’t do something to my chest. “Monroe. Dare I say, for an old man, you’ve got some game.”

“When you hit thirty-three, I’m going to remind you of how old that is.”

“Yeah, whatever. Come on, I’m starving,” she said, tugging at the barricade of pillows she’d built.

My brows lifted. “Eating on the bed? The very white bed?”

“Do you see a dining room table in here?” she shot back, tossing the last pillow at me and climbing up. “All right, surprise me, Coach.”

I picked two random trays and set them between us. She tucked her legs under her, the robe slipping enough to make it hard not to notice, but I focused on the screen as the broadcast flickered to life.

Within minutes, her questions started. “Okay, the sport of hockey, I get. The Draft.” —she waved a breadstick around— “I never bothered to learn. I know you and Tommy go up last in the rounds the next two days, but why are the Stars getting last picks if you won the Cup? Shouldn’t the champions get first choice? Like, why bother winning then?”

A chuckle slipped out. “We both know you’re competitive enough to get why we’d want to win. Even if it was purely for the bragging rights.”

“Okay, fair. But still, I’d be pissed I didn’t get to pick first.”

“Depends on how you look at it. Theory is our team is already stacked since we won, and we don’t require as much franchise building.” I popped another bite of steak into my mouth. “The worse your season, the higher your chances of picking earlier in the draft. Those teams hopefully improve their rosters with priority picks of new additions.”

She hummed, standing to trade out the focaccia she’d downed for something else.

The edge of her robe crept up the back of her legs, taunting me.

Fuck me.

“Is there cake here somewhere?” she asked from where she was bent over, rifling through the lids.

I was about to hop up and help her find it, just to get the torture to stop, when she straightened, holding a plate above her head like a prize. “Found it.”

“Please tell me you’re wearing clothes under that,” I ground out, eyes squeezing shut.