Page 27

Chapter nineteen

My girlfriend is hotter than this coffee

Zoe

I stay awake long after Chase drifts off.

His breathing is steady now, but my brain won’t shut off. Not after what he told me and definitely not after what I saw.

I knew Chase had depth beneath the chaos and that he used humor and ridiculous stunts to shield it. But this is something else, something I don’t think he’s let anyone see before.

And now, he’s just sleeping beside me. Shirtless. Solid and warm and unfairly good-looking, even with damp hair stuck to his forehead and a faint crease in his brow.

I breathe out slowly, my heart full of too many things I don’t know what to do with. Because I don’t do this. I don’t sleep next to people. I don’t share beds or emotions or broken stories.

But I’m here. He’s here. And for once, the silence doesn’t feel lonely, it feels almost safe.

I shift slightly on the mattress, careful not to wake him, trying to find a position that doesn’t make me hyper-aware of the fact that I’m in Chase’s bed with his scent in my hair and his confession still echoing in my chest.

And then, without warning, he moves.

It’s subtle, just a murmur in his sleep, a low sigh against his pillow, but his arm slides over my waist as if his body knows mine, even unconsciously, and is reclaiming it.

My breath catches, and every muscle in my body goes still as his palm settles against my stomach. Loose, not gripping. Just there , warm and heavy and real.

I should roll away. Should put some space between us, remind myself this is fake, but I don’t.

Because the truth is, I’ve been craving this.

Not the spooning, but the stillness. The safety. The quiet moment of someone else being close just because they want to be.

After Gran died, I promised myself I wouldn’t fall apart. That I’d continue to be strong and independent. The Zoe who could handle anything, even being followed home. The girl who says “it’s fine” even when it’s not.

But I’m tired, and his arm feels like something solid to lean into. And for just one night, I want to stop fighting the part of me that misses the warmth of being held. So, I breathe out and let myself relax, just enough to settle back against him.

Chase doesn’t wake, he only shifts slightly, his thumb brushing once, then twice against the curve of my ribs. Not deliberately, just from instinct. It’s soothing.

And it works.

My chest loosens, eyes flutter shut. And I let myself drift, finally wrapped in the quiet rhythm of his breath and the steady beat of his heart against my spine.

***

I wake up warm again.

It’s not the sweaty or uncomfortable kind, but the kind that feels like safety and skin and a faint trace of salty citrus clinging to cotton sheets.

That should be my first warning.

The second is the fact that my pillow feels suspiciously firm. And kind of alive.

My lashes flutter open, and I squint at the early morning light filtering through Chase’s curtains. I blink again, slowly registering that this is not a pillow.

This is a man.

This is a shirtless, very warm, very asleep Chase Walton, and I am draped across his chest like a weighted blanket with abandonment issues.

My leg is hooked over his, and my arm is sprawled across his stomach. My hand—dear God, my hand —is resting just below his pec, right over his heart.

I’m spooning him.

I lift my head carefully, and that’s when I feel it. The cool, traitorous patch of moisture on his skin.

No. Please, please no. I freeze and look down in horror, and sure enough, there it is.

A small, unmistakable mark of shame right where the corner of my mouth was on him moments earlier.

I. Drooled. On. Him.

I contemplate death. I contemplate rolling off the bed and army-crawling into the sea. Unfortunately, I live in Denver.

Chase shifts beneath me, his body moving ever so slightly, but he doesn’t wake. His arm stays relaxed around my waist, and his chest continues to rise and fall, warm and solid and covered in drool.

God, this man sleeps like a Greek god, and I’ve marked him like a Golden Retriever with a dental problem.

I start to stealthily peel myself away, but his arm twitches, and a soft noise rumbles in his throat. My breath catches. He’s not fully awake, but he moves just enough to nudge me closer again, not ready to let go even in his sleep.

So now I’m stuck.

Stuck spooning a naked-chested, sleep-rumpled, needs-to-keep-me-safe, bought-me-a-hideous-lamp-because-of-the-carnations, post-trauma-reveal version of the man I’ve been trying very hard not to fall for.

I close my eyes again and let my forehead drop gently to his shoulder.

Just for a second. Just to breathe him in and to feel that warm, steady heartbeat under my hand—before the world catches up and ruins it.

Slowly, I manage to extract myself from his personal space with the precision of a bomb technician. His grip loosens in his sleep, and I slip off the bed, tiptoe across the room, and shut the ensuite door behind me with a breath of pure relief.

I make quick work of my morning routine. It’s Saturday, so I’m not in a rush to get ready. Just the basics, no make-up, and comfy clothes to start the day.

When I emerge from the ensuite, with the full belief that maybe I got away with spooning my fake boyfriend in his sleep, the man is gone. The bed’s empty, sheets half-kicked down. No Chase in sight.

I pad into the hallway, adjusting my tank top as I turn toward the living room, and immediately stop dead when I spot him.

He’s standing at the edge of the kitchen, stretching one arm overhead like he’s in a goddamn Calvin Klein ad. His hair is a tousled mess, his gray sweatpants are slung way too low on his hips, and worst of all, he’s now smirking right at me.

“Morning,” he says, eyes crinkling.

“Morning,” I reply cautiously.

“Sleep okay?”

“Totally fine,” I lie. “You?”

He grins. “Best sleep of my life.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why do you sound so proud of yourself?”

“Who, me?” He rubs a hand slowly up and down his bare chest. “I’m just a man who had a restful night. No reason. No reason at all .”

“Well, good.” I turn away before I combust. “Glad you enjoyed it.”

He follows, voice way too innocent. “Oh, I definitely did. Especially the cuddling. Very comforting. Ten outta ten, would do it again.”

“I wasn’t cuddling.”

“Right. You were just… clinging to me for warmth?”

“I hate you.”

He huffs a laugh. “No, you don’t… Besides, it’s okay. Denial’s one of the stages.”

I throw a death glare over my shoulder as I make a beeline for the coffee station. “Are you always this annoying before coffee?”

He opens the fridge. “Only when I’ve been drooled on.”

I freeze.

Chase doesn’t even look at me. Just pulls out the creamer, calm as anything.

“I… did not do… that .”

He shrugs. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

I bury my face in my hands. “I’m never recovering from this.”

“You’ve survived worse,” he says, patting my arm with mock sympathy. “You’re strong .”

He sets the creamer down, leans one hip against the counter, and crosses his arms, which I’m convinced is a power play on his part to make me look at his naked biceps. “Anyway. Training camp starts in a couple weeks, then it’s pre-season.”

I exhale through my nose. “I know. I’ve got the PR schedule blocked out already.”

“Which means you know what’s coming.”

“The press rounds. The content day. The open practice. The home opener, yep, I know.”

He smiles wider. “Good. Then you also know you’ll need to be wearing my jersey.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“At the home opener,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You’re my fake girlfriend. You’ve gotta wear my name.”

“No.”

“It’s expected. All the WAGs do it.”

“I don’t care,” I sing-song sweetly.

“You call me Walton most of the time anyway,” he adds, casual on the surface. But I hear it—that shift in his voice, like he remembers how I say his first name when he’s pushed me to my limit. Or more recently, when he made me moan it like a prayer. “Might as well make it official.”

I shake my head. “I’m not wearing your name on my back.”

His eyes spark with mischief. “Well, who else’s name would you wear?”

I hum, tapping a finger to my lip. “Maybe Hutchy’s.”

Chase blinks. “Reid? He’s forty .”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Exactly!”

I smirk. “Maybe I like my men older. That’s called stability , Walton. Maybe I’m trying to grow.”

He stares at me like I just suggested dating a houseplant. “You’d rather wear Hutchison’s name?”

“I mean, he’s emotionally competent. That’s hot.”

Chase steps forward, and I see a little lick of fire behind his eyes. “He’s our goalie . He talks less than Pookie’s dog.”

“All the more mysterious.”

“So you like older men now, huh?”

I shrug. “He’s dependable. Disciplined. Probably owns a slow cooker and alphabetizes his spices—but I bet he’d still fold me and my towels over in the laundry room, if you get what I mean. Moustache and all.”

He exhales through his nose, eyes narrowing. “Disciplined,” he says, voice dropping a note, “is the only part of that sentence saving you right now.”

“Wow. Getting possessive, Walton?”

“Getting realistic ,” he says, stepping a little closer. “You think anyone at that arena’s gonna look at you wearing someone else’s number and not think I fucked up? What about the optics?”

I blink. Oh.

He tilts his head, knowing he’s won. “But hey, go ahead, wear Hutchy’s. I’ll just make sure everyone knows whose name you really moan. Might even give a few details to the reporters.”

I pinch my nose. “This is a fucking nightmare.”

“You said I’m not jersey-worthy!”

“I’m saying I have taste!”

Chase just grins, shameless. “You do. And you drooled on me, so I must be the main course.”

“Oh, you are so damn cocky.”

He steps in close and looks down at me. “Confident, baby. There’s a difference.”

“Bold of you to think you’re some five-star meal.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice turns silky. “I’m the full tasting menu. Custom-curated. Decadent, and served all night.”

My throat goes dry.