My eyes flicked to the couch in the corner. It was barely long enough for a decent nap, let alone a full night. “I’ll take the sofa.”
“We’re adults. We’ll live.”
Her voice was even, but the air tightened between us anyway—like the room wasn’t big enough for the silence stretching out.
She turned back to her laptop, the tapping of keys filling the space where conversation should’ve gone.
I nodded to no one, grabbed my bag, and walked into the bathroom.
Door shut behind me with a click. I leaned against it for a second, exhaled hard, and tried not to picture her in that hoodie. Or in this room. Or in that bed.
This was going to be a long trip.
I stepped out of the bathroom and snagged one of the muffins from the welcome basket on the dresser—blueberry, slightly stale, but I wasn’t about to complain. I hadn’t eaten much since the bus, and the team dinner was already a blur. Between dodging questions and watching Daphne try to act like she wasn’t watching me, I’d barely touched my plate.
The muffin disappeared in three bites.
I brushed the crumbs off my hands and grabbed a clean T-shirt and sweats from my duffel. The hotel bathroom wasn’t anything fancy, but it was clean. Warm light, cool tiles, and just enough of a hum from the vent to dull the noise in my head.
I changed quickly. Pulled the shirt over my head and caught my reflection.
Still looked like hell.
Jaw tight. Tension coiled in my shoulders. Not from the flight. Not from the game prep.
Her.
She was going to be in that bed. Right next to me.
I hadn’t thought about it at first. Not really. I figured there’d be two beds, or I’d take the couch, or Cam would’ve actually mentioned it before sending us into this PR minefield.
But no. One bed. One hotel room. And her.
I closed my eyes for a second. Let my head fall back against the door.
This wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t even about temptation—not exactly. It was knowing she’d be within arm’s reach. Her hair on the pillow. That little breathy sigh she made when she concentrated too hard. The way she always slept curled on her side, half-cocooned in blankets like she was hiding from the world.
And I’d be lying there. Awake. Pretending to ignore every second of it.
“Jesus,” I muttered.
Cam was dead.
Not literally. But the moment I saw him, I was going to bury him in bullshit and make him wade through it for miles. One bed? No heads-up? He knew exactly what he was doing.
I shut the light off and stepped back into the room.
Daphne had turned off the lamp on her side, the soft blue glow of her laptop now replaced by the soft flicker of the TV—some cooking competition playing on mute. She was already under the covers, glasses on the nightstand, hair pulled down.
She looked over as I walked in.
“You took forever,” she murmured.
“I was trying to talk myself out of committing homicide.”
A sleepy smirk curved her lips. “That would look bad in the press.”
“You think this doesn’t?” I gestured to the bed. “Cam’s got a death wish.”
