Page 57 of Off the Post

Soren has never mentioned wanting a girlfriend or a relationship. He’s said he wanted me physically and called me beautiful, but he didn’t say I’d be his top priority. That spot is taken by hockey and his family in Austria.

I scramble out of bed, stepping into my discarded panties and throwing my dress over my head. My shoes are out by his couch along with my purse. I look longingly at the elevator, reminded of my fantasy that will probably never come true, and pad down the stairs in bare feet. I’m about to grab my shoes and bag and rush out the door when Soren’s voice echoes down the stairwell.

“Ali? Are you still here?”

I remain quiet for a moment, holding my breath and running through my options.

I can quietly sneak out the front door and book it to my car, which is parked a block up the street, or I can stay and see if the cold signals Soren gave me aren’t proof of my worst fear come true, that sex is all he wants.

I swallow thickly at the slapping of his feet against the wood steps, the sound becoming louder the closer he gets to where I am.

Clutching my purse and shoes in a protective hold against my body, I debate over my ridiculous predicament, but I don’t make a move. Deep in my heart, I want to know that I matter to Soren and am not just a hookup.

He finally appears, a towel wrapped snugly around his waist, his hair wet like it was when I first arrived earlier. He tilts his head and looks at me curiously, like he’s trying to solve a problem. “Are you leaving?”

I glance down and wonder how I must look. Deer-in-the-headlights eyes, disheveled sex hair, overall messy appearance.

I stammer, my voice thick with indecision and panic. “Um… well… I figured you wanted me to leave.”

“Why? Do you want to leave?” He edges a few feet closer. So close, in fact, that I can smell the soap and deodorant he just used.

My eyes dart side to side. Shoulders tight, body poised for a quick getaway. His questions throw me for a loop. Of course, I don’t want to leave. All I want is to be wrapped up in his warmth and cuddled all night as I melt into his side.

I quirk the corner of my lip up. “Only if you want me to.”

His hand snaps out and he grabs me by the wrist, tugging me into his chest. The contents in my arms drop to the floor, and I’m suddenly enveloped in his embrace.

“Nein. I want you to stay right here.”

28

Soren

Jesus Christ, that was intense.

When I’ve hooked up with women in the past, it was always a means to an end.

Sex is just sex. It scratches an itch and that’s it, nothing more. Hello, goodbye. Auf Wiedersehen.

But with Ali? Holy fuck. This is a whole different ball game, and I want it to go into overtime.

The time I’ve spent with her—and inside her—has produced an emotion I can’t describe. It’s knocked me off my feet, and I’m not sure I can get myself up off the floor.

And today I’m expected to treat her like she means nothing to me, like I didn’t spend hours touching her creamy skin or kissing the freckles that pepper the bridge of her nose or witnessing how she comes apart so beautifully when my tongue brings her to orgasm.

Nope. I’m supposed to pretend nothing has happened between us as I hit the links for the LTLFK charity golf event Ali has planned.

I’m also scheduled to meet Nicolas, the kid with Wolf-Hirschhorn Syndrome who’s a big fan of mine. It honestly makes me nervous when I meet fans. I hate having to put on a show and try to act friendly and open and engaging. These are all traits my agent has suggested I work on, and all of them are especially difficult to me to do around kids.

In the past, I’ve turned down appearances such as this event for those very reasons.

But the moment I see Ali’s smiling face from afar, something strange happens to my insides. My nerves and angst seem to evaporate and a warm calm washes over me.

Fuck me. Is Ali my talisman?

I swing the shiny new golf bag over my shoulder and head down the cart path toward the clubhouse and check-in table. Ali’s back is now turned away from me as she and another woman organize baskets at a second table. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but she’s chatting animatedly, arms gesticulating wildly. The other woman turns around, sensing my approach, and smiles.

“Hello, Mr. Wolfenspiel,” says a dark-haired woman who can’t be more than five foot nothing. She offers me her hand to shake. “My name is Leanne Lee, and I’m the foundation’s executive director.” Ali’s back stiffens when the woman says my name, and she glances over her shoulder, hiding a grin by sucking her lower lip between her teeth. I’m half-listening now to what the woman—Leanne—is saying, my thoughts solely on the memory of those lips on me.