“I’m listening.”
“Good,” Tanner grins. “So? Your place?”
“We’ll see.” I nod assurance.
“That’s a no.” Addams scoffs.
“It’s not a no,” I say calmly.
It is absolutely a no. But the trip’s gonna happen whether I host or not. Still, worse than leaving Jessica alone in Miami is bringing her to a beach house with an entire team of testosterone, eyes, and intrusive thoughts.
There is no universe where I let my team watch Jessica stretch out in the sun in tiny bikinis. Not unless I want to gouge out twenty pairs of eyeballs.
And we need those eyeballs to win games.
“We gotta start planning it.” Tanner drags a fry through ketchup.
“We’ll… figure it out.” I exhale slowly.
They’re not getting front-row seats to Jessica half-naked on my property or anyone else’s. Over my dead fucking body.
Which brings me to the next problem: the schedule. We have away games coming up, and the idea of leaving Jessica alone in Miami after everything thathappened—leaving her unsupervised—sets every alarm off in my head.
God fucking knows what she’ll do with me out of town if she throws another fit. The cameras all over my house don’t mean shit if Jessica decides her playground is Miami’s nightlife. And she absolutely would if she wanted to prove a point and torture me.
A new thought drops in: She might have to come with us to away games. Maybe I can tell her it’s mandatory. PR thing, make it sound official. Make it impossible to argue. Because I sure as shit won’t go anywhere she’s not.
I step into the house and let the door fall shut behind me. The place looks the way it always does: quiet, bright, still. Afternoon sun spills across the kitchen island, catching on stainless steel and glass. I move through the open living room, eyes doing what they always do when I walk in—a quick sweep.
The kitchen is clean, the dining table clear.The couch—
I slow. One of the throw pillows is not how I left it. I go over to straighten it, fingers catching the edge, and the fabric underneath feels different. I look down and see why. It’s not the pillow; it’s something lying over it. A white T-shirt, almost the same color as the cushion, crumpled like she peeled it off and tossed it there without thinking.
“Jessica,” I exhale, short and annoyed.
I pick it up with one hand, ready to carry it upstairs and dump it on her bed so she gets the message. The fabric slips between my fingers as I lift it, and her scent reaches me. It’s faint but hits hard enough to stop my next step.
I look down and, before I register what I’m doing, bring the shirt to my nose and inhale the sweet scent of her. The moment is over as fast as it happened, replaced by the familiar tension sitting between my ribs.
“Fuck,” I mutter, irritated at myself for even reacting.
I toss the shirt back onto the couch to get it out of my hand.
What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t smell women’s clothes.
I rake a hand through my hair, tugging once at the roots.
Pathetic, Moreal.
I turn, ready to march upstairs, when movement catches at the corner of my eye through the glass doors. My feet stop before the thought forms. There’s a figure stretched across one of the sunbeds outside, the umbrella pulled back, sunlight spilling over bare skin.
Jessica.
She shifts onto her stomach, adjusting the towel under her hips, long blonde hair falling over one shoulder. Her bikini bottom is a bright, barely-there scrap of fabric curved perfectly over her ass, vivid against her skin.
My hand tightens around the back of the couch, and the leather groans under my grip.
She reaches behind her back, undoes the clasp of her bikini top, slides it out from under her body, and drops it casually to the side.
