Needing something to quiet the noise, I slide my hand between my thighs. I need to end this day the way I started it, thinking about Patterson.
I need to remember what matters.
This orgasm builds gently until it crests and releases the tension I’ve been holding since the gallery. I come with his name on my lips, and my body lets go.
Kendall
Chef
I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.
I should warn him that something happened tonight. But what would I even say?
Tomorrow, when he comes over, I’ll explain everything to his face.
I set my phone on the nightstand and pull the covers over me.
Tomorrow.
26
PATTERSON
The flight back to New York drags because all I can think about is Kendall and how she sounded on the phone with me last night. Then she flooded me with all those water-drop emojis. She has no idea what I plan to do to her the second I walk through her door.
I smirk, thinking about it.
I’m scrolling through my phone, half watching highlights from last night’s game, when aPage Sixnotification catches my eye with her name in the headline. I click before I can stop myself.
The photo loads, and my smile fades away.
Damien Blackwell has his hand on her waist. His body pressed against hers. And that filthy fucking mouth of his is on her cheek in a way that looks like he has permission to touch her. I stare at the screen while the cabin noise fades to nothing.
Last night, she texted me water-drop emojis and didn’t say a word about this, whatever the fuck this is.
I scroll through more photos and see him leaning close, his fingers wrapped around her arm.
“You good?” Callan asks from across the aisle, watching me. “You look like you’re about to fucking combust.”
“Feeling constipated.”
“Fuck, me too,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “It’s why I hate traveling.”
He actually makes me laugh.
The rest of the flight, I stare out the window and try to convince myself there’s a good explanation for this. But the photos are real.
The flight lands, and I skip the team bus. I take a cab straight to her apartment in my travel clothes with my bag over my shoulder. I don’t text or call, just show up with a knock.
She answers in leggings and a tank top, hair piled on her head. The smile that breaks across her face makes it worse because she looks happy to see me. Like she’s been waiting for me while I’ve been losing my mind for three hours.
“You’re early.” She steps back to let me in. “I thought your flight?—”
“When were you going to tell me?”
The smile dies. “Tell you what?”
I hold up my phone with the photo on the screen and watch the color drain from her face.
