Iwake up to emptiness, the sheets beside me are cool. No, they’re cold, she's been gone for a while. I reach out anyway, my hand finding nothing but wrinkled fabric.
Fuck.
Did she seriously go? I thought we might have time for another round.
I sit up and scrub my hand over my face. The hotel room is too quiet. Too still. Morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows. London in all her gray glory outside. When I look around the room, I notice her dress is gone from the floor, as are her shoes. Everything.
Of course, she left. Was I too rough? Did I scare her? The guys always tell me my gruffness is a turn-off to women.
I swing my legs out of bed and stand, then walk to the bathroom just to double-check she isn't in there and I'm overreacting. The countertop is bare except for the hotel's complimentary shit. No proof she was ever here except the marks on my body and the ache in my chest I don't want to acknowledge. I brace my hands on the sink and stare at my reflection. You knew this was a one-night thing.
I did. I do.
Still feels like I got hit with a slapshot to the ribs, though, which is kind of a first. I've had one-night stands before. I'm a professional athlete. I've been on the road since I was eighteen. I know how this works. You hook up. You leave. You move on. No strings. No complications. No feelings.
Except I kind of wanted her number. She wasn't afraid of the silence between us. Nor my gruffness or directness. I'm not always great in social situations, which is a problem, especially as the captain of the Manhattan Mavericks hockey team. The PR people hate me because I'm neither warm nor chatty. But she seemed to like my one-syllable answers. My grunts and huffs. And that's rare. I wanted more than one night with that beautiful woman. I'm also pissed she didn't even leave a fucking note. Most do. They leave their number and social handles. And the one time I want the information, nothing. All I know is her name is Jo. She has an accent, maybe French Canadian, but I think she lives in London.
I turn on the shower and make it as cold as I can stand. Let the water beat against my shoulders, my neck, the muscles still tight from last night. From her. The way she felt under my hands, the sounds she made. The way she looked at me like she was deciding whether to trust me and then chose to.
Now my dick is hard.
Fucking hell.
I blast myself with icy cold water to make my dick go down. I shut off the water, dry off, and get dressed.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Lincoln: Outside. Are you ready or still sleeping off whatever you did last night?
Right, I promised him a round of Top Golf yesterday before he kidnapped me to the club.
Emmett: I'm coming.
Lincoln: I bet you did last night.
I roll my eyes at him. Fucker.I grab my wallet, my phone, and my key card and leave the hotel room without looking back.
Lincoln is leaning against a sleek black Range Rover in the hotel's circular drive, aviators on, looking like he just stepped out of a fucking cologne ad. He's wearing dark jeans and a fitted white tee that shows off the build of a professional soccer player. Sorry, footballer, as he calls himself. His hair is artfully messy in that way that probably took twenty minutes. Loser. Our moms are twin sisters and are super close. Except that Aunty Cora fell in love with an exchange student in college from London. Unbeknownst to her he was some billionaire, Lord. She moved halfway across the world from where she grew up with my mom, Clara, back in Madison, Wisconsin. Two completely different worlds. But every summer school holidays we went to England, or they came to America. We were forced to get along. Which was hard when I was hockey mad, and he was into soccer.
He grins when he sees me. "You look like shit, mate."
"Good morning to you, too."
"Rough night?" He chuckles.
I shrug, refusing to answer him, and climb into the passenger seat. "Something like that."
He doesn't push, just pulls out into London traffic with the ease of someone who's lived here for years. We're quiet for a few minutes as I stare out the window, watching the city slide past. People living their normal lives, while mine feels like it just got flipped upside down by a woman in a white dress who didn't want to stick around.
"Are you good?" Lincoln asks, glancing at me.
"Yeah, fine."
"Are you sure? Because you've got that look," he states.
"What look?"
"The one where you're about to murder someone on the ice." He chuckles.
