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Those big blue eyes cut to mine, and I wait.
“No. It’s not bad. I like you. A lot.”
Why is hearing that such a relief?
“But—”
I reach for her hand pulling it into my lap. “But what?”
“Butthis?” She makes an uneasy perusal of my body, lingering on my bare chest and abs, and even though I threw on the pants from last night, I swear I can feel the heat of her stare burning through the layers of fabric when it stops pointedlythere.
Down, boy.
“This can’t happen again. I’m not a casual-fling kind of woman, and even if we’re not staying married, that’s the only thing that’s changed since Vegas. I don’t want a relationship. I don’t want to fall in love. So, once we leave this room, no more of the will-we-won’t-we. I need you to fit in a box that has a clear label. Okay?”
“Yeah, I get it. Once we leave this room, we’re friends.”
“Friends getting a civilized, quiet divorce.”
“That no one will ever know about.”
We look at each other, in total agreement.
I nod.
She nods.
She inhales.
I exhale.
But the words are there between us. Waiting.
Once we leave this room.
I don’t know who moves first, but my hand is in her hair and she’s throwing a knee over my lap.
“When’s checkout?” I ask, my face buried in her neck so I can get another hit of the sweet smell of her.
Her hips shift on my lap. “Noon.”
It’s not blurring a line. It’s… fuck, I don’t know what it is except that it feels fucking amazing, and when I’ve got the warm, damp softness of her teasing my cock, I stop thinking altogether.
* * *
We’re at home tonight,facing off against the Tempest— a team that’s been on a hot streak we need to break. But when I get to the locker room, no one’s talking about the game.
My teammates have turned into a pack of gossiping aunties, each asking the next if they’ve heard anything more about Nichols’s engagement.
If it’s true.
If it’s serious.
If he’s gone round the bend because hasn’t he only known this girl a week?
Boomer is lacing up his skates, backtracking through away games and after parties, trying to pin down the last time Nichols hooked up. But with every suggestion, Bowie shuts him down.
“Seattle, end of October. That blonde with the pink tank top.”
