And I wasn’t sure what terrified me more?—
That it had happened.
Or that I wanted it to happen again.
CHAPTER 10
ROXIE
By day three of living with Ledger Hayes, I’d learned one very specific thing: elite swimmers lived like sleep-deprived aquatic monks.
Every morning, his alarm went off at 4:47 a.m.
Not 4:45.
Not 4:50.
Exactly 4:47.
And because our apartment was roughly the size of a large walk-in closet, the vibrating buzz of his phone might as well have been inside my skull.
I groaned into my pillow as he slapped it silent and practically rolled out of bed. There was a thump—him hitting the floor—and a muttered curse.
“Why?” I mumbled into the mattress.
“For excellence,” he grumbled back, already pulling on a hoodie and sweats. He padded around the room like a giant sleepy cat.
I kept my eyes closed, refusing to witness this madness. “You know what’s excellent? Sleep.”
“That’s not what Coach says.”
“Well, Coach sounds exhausting,” I mumbled.
Ledger snorted and brushed his teeth in the bathroom with the door half closed, because shutting it all the way would be too nice of him.
After he rummaged around in the kitchen for what felt like several long minutes, he came back in the bedroom to grab his swim bag, this time moving like he was trying not to disturb a wild animal.
I cracked one eye open.
He hesitated at the doorway to the bedroom. “I, uh, made coffee. The pot’s on.”
That startled me more than the 4:47 a.m. alarm.
“You made coffee?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “You looked tired last night. I know a swimmer’s schedule isn’t for the faint of heart.”
I blinked at him. Ledger noticing anything about me felt illegal. But before I could say anything, he left, the door clicking softly behind him.
And then, like an idiot, I smiled into my pillow.
Thankfully, today I was working from home and got to get an extra half hour of much needed sleep before having to start my day.
By the time Ledger dragged himself back at nine thirty, he looked like someone had wrung him out and then ironed him flat.
I was sitting cross-legged on the living room rugsurrounded by my laptop, my planner, two binders, and a pile of highlighters—all spread out like a crime scene of ambition.
I wasn’t trying to impress him; I genuinely had work to do. But also, maybe it was a little impressive. I wanted him to see that I wasn’t just some trust fund baby. That I showed up. That I did the work, even when the job itself wasn’t glamorous or impressive.
