He gestures casually at the food.
“Isn’t it obvious?Now, I know you said you liked it, but I wasn’t surewhatexactly you like.So, I got a bit of everything.”
Before I can even form a response, he’s moving.And when Noah Walker moves in nothing but a towel—it’s kinda hard to think.
I’m staring at his abs—probably drooling—when he finishes crossing the room, grabs me by the waist, and kisses me.
Slow.
Warm.
Completely unapologetic.
My brain melts somewhere around the three-second mark.
When he finally pulls back, I blink up at him.
“You broke into my room.”
“Technically,” he says thoughtfully, “the front desk gave me a key.”
“That’s worse.”
He shrugs.
“Probably.”
Then he takes my bag off my shoulder like he belongs here and nudges me toward the table.
“Sit.Eat.”
I glance down at the mountain of Chinese takeout.
Facts: I love Chinese food.
All of it.
Every single delicious, salty, carb-filled bite.
More facts: Noah Walker remembered that from a throwaway comment I made weeks ago.
And the most dangerous fact of all?
I’m starting to suspect I might actually be falling for the team’s hooker.
Which is ridiculous.
Because Noah Walker isn’t just some guy.
He’s a professional athlete with the body of a demigod and a small army of adoring fans who apparently travel from city to city just to watch him destroy people on a rugby field while wearing very little clothing.
Believe me.
I’ve seen them.
Women in the stands holding up signs that say things likeSUPPORT YOUR LOCAL HOOKERwith his picture printed across them.
Some of them even tape hundred-dollar bills to the poster board with phone numbers.
