Page 25 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

therapist uber drivers

Devon

The sun is warm on my face as I come back from a deep, deep sleep. At first, I’m confused by my surroundings, but when I feel the weight of an arm draped over my midsection, I remember.

I spent the night with Grant Gerard, and I remember exactly how we spent our night together, too.

Yes, I came here to tell him we needed to stay away, and I ended up spending the night. Zero willpower when it comes to this man. Zero!

He’s dead asleep still, on his stomach, face turned toward me with his arm stretched out across me. His usually perfect, thick hair is wild on his head, and a five o’clock shadow gives him a sexy, rugged look.

I slip away, my feet hitting the soft carpeting as I stretch toward the ceiling, my body hurting in all the good ways.

Grant doesn’t stir, so I take a moment to memorize him.

His lips, his nose, his jawline. And his back.

Good lord, his back. The back of Grant is all sculpted muscles in a broad-shouldered package tapering down to a V that’s even more carved on the front of him than his ass is on the backside of him.

Male back perfection.

Can a man have a sexy back?

If his name is Grant Gerard, then yes, he can have a sexy everything.

Frankly, there’s not much about Grant that doesn’t turn me on.

His body is a well-oiled machine, for sure, and he’s a pro in bed, but it’s more than just his physical beauty.

I do really like him. I connect with him.

I can talk to him, and I feel like he really sees me, wants to know me.

I’m not just a pretty face to him, like I seem to be for a lot of men.

I haven’t had such a genuine and comfortable connection with a man in a long, long time.

Maybe ever, honestly, because the connections we make with people when we’re barely more than children, how real can those really be?

I mean, we hardly know ourselves at that age.

We change so much. But now, as an adult with a career?

This is what I didn’t know I was missing.

Which is why it hurts so much, knowing that this must definitely be the last time we’re together.

It really is the cruelest twist of fate that he’s my boss’s boss.

The non-fraternization policy at the Crush is a running joke at this point, considering three staff members have now married players.

But this is different. It’s different because we’re both staff, and there’s a power dynamic that can’t be ignored.

Having a relationship with a staff member would be viewed as inappropriate, casting a strange light on him in a brand-new role.

I’ve heard such positive things about his energy, commitment, and drive as GM, and the Crush will only benefit from that.

I’d hate to hear people say he’s a womanizer, which is probably how it would be perceived. Even though, I know he’s anything but.

I can’t help but think back to that first night and how awed he’d seemed that I’d said yes to a drink with him.

He’s far more humble than you’d expect from such an incredible sportsman.

But the naysayers wouldn’t care to hear the part about how we met before he was even hired.

People tune out those details they don’t want to know.

He deserves better than that. And I do too.

I’m teary as I gather my clothing and dress as quietly as possible. I really don’t want him to wake up. I don’t want to have this conversation with Grant yet again.

It makes me so anxious I fear I might throw up, quite honestly.

In his kitchen, I find a piece of paper and a pen, and write a note.

Grant,

This has to be the last time. I think you know already how much I really do like you, but we have to keep things professional.

I’ll do my job and you’ll do yours and we’ll stay out of each other’s orbit from now on.

I don’t want to be the ruin of this professional opportunity for you, nor am I ready to give up my job just yet.

Please stay away. Please don’t come to my classes anymore.

You know this is the right thing for us.

I only want the best for you in your new position, as I know you want the same for me.

When the time is right for us to be together again, we’ll know, but that time cannot be now.

Be well,

Devon

I took a cab to Grant’s place last night because I didn’t want to risk anyone seeing my car, knowing I was spending the night with him.

Good decision on my part because I’d be totally incapacitated for driving myself right now because of the tears. Maybe tears is not the right descriptor. It’s more like big, ugly crying. Sobbing that has my Uber driver looking very concerned for me.

“I’ve had a breakup,” I offer, which isn’t the total truth, but it’s also not a lie.

“Any guy who would break up with a woman as beautiful as you is an idiot.”

“That’s sweet, but it was I who did the breaking up. It was my choice.”

“You don’t seem happy about it. Or relieved, or whatever other things people feel when they do the breaking up. I wouldn’t know. I have been married for thirty years.”

“I’m not happy or relieved.” I shake my head. “It’s just the best thing for both of us right now.”

“Sometimes, we think things are best for us, but really they are not.”

“It can be hard to tell sometimes,” I agree, suddenly overcome by nausea. “Hey, I’m feeling a bit car sick. Could you roll down the windows?”

He obliges as I put all my focus on not throwing up.

Thankfully, it’s not a long ride, but by the time he drops me at my building, and I take the elevator up to my floor, I’m pretty sure I’m going to puke.

I barely get to the bathroom before I lose everything in my stomach, and violently.

I cannot recall a time that I’ve felt so stressed that I’m this ill.

Once I’m pretty sure I can stand upright again, I turn on the shower, letting it heat up as I brush my teeth. I look like garbage, with crazy bedhead and dark circles under my swollen eyes. Ugh. And to think the driver thought this was beautiful.

The hot water feels amazing, but as I wash myself, I realize how heavy and tender my breasts are.

God, this accounts for the sobbing, then.

I must be ready to start my period. Well, thank goodness it didn’t happen at Grant’s.

Talk about adding insult to injury. Hey, let’s not see each other anymore.

Oh, by the way, I bled on your sheets. Yikes.

I step out of the shower and pull open my Cycles app on my phone to double-check. Everything’s been so hectic, I haven’t been paying attention at all—

Oh.

I’m weeks late.

I wrap myself in a towel and sit down on the toilet, staring at my phone as if the dates are magically going to rearrange themselves, back to my normal cycle, which is always like clockwork.

My mind races. Grant and I have had sex, what, three times now? Well, on three occasions? We’ve used condoms each time—

Oh. Shit.

That first night. He said the condom broke. I’d put it out of my head. He and his ex-wife tried for years. Was he lying about that to cover his ass? No. Surely not. I don’t know him that well, but I’m pretty certain he’s not a liar.

Oh God. The nausea and vomiting. The fatigue and volatile emotions and the low energy.

I don’t think this is a virus.

Fuck.

The sickness I feel mixes with anxiety. My head swims, and my mind races. I can hardly remember to breathe as my vision goes blurry. I breathe in and out, in and out, until I can get it together enough to call Gia.

“Good morning,” she answers cheerfully.

“Um…I need you to c-come. I think—I nee—I—can you bring me a pregnancy test?”

The line is quiet for a long moment, and then, “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

And she is. When she lets herself in, she finds me in the same position, wet and towel-clad, sitting on the toilet lid, trying not to pass out from the panic I feel.

“Hey,” she says. “So…”

“I’m weeks late.” I shove my phone at her. “I’m never late.”

“Okay, but you’ve also been burning the midnight oil on your side gig, plus your day job. Maybe it’s just stress.”

“And throwing up. So much throwing up. Always in the morning. Gia, I think I actually am pregnant and I am trying really hard not to freak out, but I am. Freaking out.”

“Well, let’s do the test and be sure, okay? And then we’ll figure out what to do next, depending on the results.”

I nod, tears flowing again. She pulls the test out of the box and reads the directions. “Pee on this and then wait three minutes.”

In the longest three minutes of my life, I manage to pull on a T-shirt and shorts and to braid my wet hair. When the timer on Gia’s phone goes off, we both scramble to look at the test, where two side-by-side lines appear.

“Two lines?” I ask weakly.

“Pregnant.”