A text popped up.
LACH: Don’t do me like that, love. Answer your phone.
A reluctant smile cracked across my face, warming something deep in me that had no business burning hot.
ME: No.
For once, I’d bethatgirl. Untouchable. Chased by men instead of the girl who rearranged her world for amaybe. It was easier to be bold from behind a screen—where he couldn’t hear the lilt of anticipation in my voice or see me breathless.
LACH: Okay. Room 1512. Merry Christmas.
ME: Not happening.
Okay. That was a lie. Because I was absolutely going, even though I told him I’d meet him at the hotel, and we’d exitsaid hotelfor the evening.
LACH: Trust me?
Those two words. I inhaled slowly, my chest expanding against the cashmere dress. Truth? I knew everything about this man. His stats. That nasty video of him from his early days with the Dodgers. Super scandalous. Excessive camera angles. I hadn’t watched it with the rest of the female population. Butitexisted. That … very long video.
Still, the question lingered. I groaned, “Do I trustme?”
LACH: Don’t talk to yourself.
My head snapped up. I glanced around. Marble walls. Christmas trees with humongous ornaments every step of the way.
LACH: Don’t look around either. Just come to my room. Because if you leave looking that good, I will find you.
ME: First of all. Super incriminating text messages.
I pressed send. Chewed my lip and fished for more snark.
LACH: Second? Cmon Tasha. When you say first of all with that cute attitude you gotta follow it up.
Every time I read the wordsmy roomI got anxious. Hot. Bothered.
ME: Don’t bait me. You don’t get a second.
LACH: Stop playing thumb wars. Get up here.
ME: If you shuddup, I’ll meet you.
LACH:
I shook my head, smoothing the curve-hugging dress draped off one shoulder and pooled at my ankles. My three-inch heels clicked across the marble floor. Three inches was all I could handle.Barely. I’d worn them for him.
Each step toward the elevator tightened the knot in my stomach. As the doors closed behind me, I distracted myself by replaying Lachlan’s stats—his batting average, his spring training numbers. World Series plays. I knew them all. Most girls didn’t like baseball. I did. It was the one safe place I could retreat to when things got hot.
Literally.
Because every time I thought of Lach, my body betrayed me.
The elevator swooshed open and added to how I ached, all over. On the top floor were two doors. Classy. Private.
I took a steadying breath.
The door opened. And there he stood.
Lachlan MacKenzie. All six-foot-three of sun-kissed muscle and low-key swagger. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Forearms inked. Blond fauxhawk tousled, like he’d just walked off a magazine cover. Tall. Built like a dream. It wasn’t the way he watched me like art and an answer to everything in between that brought me to my knees. It was the grin for me. Yep. Made me want to sin.
