Page 7

Chapter six

Abort. Abort. Abort.

Zoe

W armth.

It’s the first thing I notice.

Not the deep, soul-scorching exhaustion curling in my muscles. Not the dull ache between my legs, or how dry my mouth is from too many martinis last night. Not even the unfamiliar weight of a heavy arm slung over my waist, fingers curled over my hip like they belong there.

It’s the warmth.

The ridiculously comforting kind. The kind that sinks deep into your skin and makes you want to linger, to have just a little more. The kind that makes you want to stay.

It’s peaceful, until reality dawns on me.

My eyes snap open, and I clock the unfamiliar ceiling first. The luxury hotel sheets against my skin. The very real, very naked man wrapped around me.

No. No, no, no, no.

I slept here. I fucking slept here. With Chase Walton, a twenty-five-year-old walking PR disaster with the maturity of a Golden Retriever and a frontal lobe that hasn’t finished developing.

My pulse spikes, panic rising so fast I nearly choke on it.

Chase shifts behind me, arm tightening around my waist, pulling me back against him like we do this all the damn time.

I go completely still, pretending I’m not hyper aware of the heat of Chase Walton’s bare skin against my back. Or the weight of his arm across my waist, or his very obvious morning wood pressed against my ass.

I am going to die. At the very least, I need to get the fuck out of here.

Lifting his wrist carefully, I slide out from under his arm with the precision of someone dismantling a goddamn bomb.

If I can just get my dress, get my shoes, get out —

The second my feet hit the floor, Chase exhales sleepily.

It would be an adorable sound if it wasn’t coming from the same man I let do unspeakable things to me last night with his tongue and his magical dick.

The same man who drives me fucking insane and is largely responsible for the nervous twitch in my eyeball most days.

“Mm, hi, sweetheart.” His voice is still rough with sleep. “I’d say good morning, but you look like you’re about to commit a felony.”

My soul leaves my body and

I turn around so fast I get whiplash.

And yep. He’s awake, alright. Looking way too good for someone who just spent half the night taking me to pound town.

I drag my gaze over him. He’s on his stomach, head turned toward me, a lazy yet satisfied grin pulling at his lips. His voice is all deep and sleep-wrecked, arms flexing and muscles rippling as he stretches them out under his pillow.

No. Nah. Nope.

I am not looking at that. I’m not thinking about that. I don’t even answer him, because if I do, I will simply pass away.

“Sleep well?” he asks, all smug and completely unbothered.

I hate him. I hate myself. I hate the entire goddamn NHL.

“Yep,” I lie, my voice too high. “Super well. Very restful. Best sleep of my life, honestly.”

His grin deepens.

Abort. Abort. Abort.

My head darts around the hotel room, and I grab the first towel I see, yanking it around my naked body to protect myself from his heavy gaze raking over me and my own mistakes.

“We can never—” I shake my head, breathing deeply. “We can never talk about this. Ever.”

Chase just watches me, head tilting with that maddeningly unreadable expression on his stupidly perfect face. Then his lips twitch.

This asshole is about to joke.

“Your secret is safe with me, Zo.” He leans back against the pillows, feigning casual. “Although, if you ever wanna do a performance review—”

“I’m serious, Walton.”

He holds up his hands, the picture of innocence. “I hear you.”

“Do you?” My voice sharpens, panic spiking again. “Because I need you to actually understand. No jokes. No slip-ups. This didn’t happen.”

His grin falters. “Zo—”

“No, listen to me.” My voice is harsh, but I don’t care. “I’m contracted to the fucking Storm. If this gets out, I’m done. My career, my credibility, my entire reputation will be in the ground. So I need to know you get it.”

He watches me, still looking half-asleep and entirely too pleased with himself. Then his lips twitch as if he wants to push, wants to see something, but instead he just huffs a quiet chuckle.

“You can tell me it was the best you’ve ever had, sweetheart,” he muses, voice too smooth, too unreadable. “No need to be shy—”

I launch a pillow at his face and the asshole dodges it, but at least he has the decency to look startled.

“This didn’t happen,” I snap. “Tell me you get that, Chase.”

Something shifts in his expression as I say his name. The amusement fades as his jaw tightens. His eyes flick over my face, reading me the way he always does. And then he finally nods.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “I get it.”

I ignore the burn behind my eyes and nod back. “Good.”

And before I can second-guess myself, before I can take in the warmth of him, the intimacy still lingering between us, I turn on my heel and march straight into the bathroom.

I slam the door, lock it, and brace my hands against the counter.

My reflection stares back at me, and I exhale sharply through my nose, trying to force the image to make sense, but it doesn’t.

Hair messed. Lips dry from kissing. So much kissing. Throat covered in bite marks.

For fuck’s sake, is this man a hockey player or a goddamn vampire?

I tilt my head to inspect the bruised skin, feeling the faint tingle of where he sank his teeth into me, dragging his mouth down my throat, kissing and biting his way down to my—

No. Absolutely the fuck not.

My fingers tap against the sink, my brain cycling through every possible consequence, scanning for an excuse that doesn’t exist.

I look like a woman who made bad decisions. Like a woman who definitely, absolutely should not have slept with Chase Walton.

This is fine. This is fine.

Except it’s not.

Because this was never supposed to happen. Because I can’t afford to let it happen again. And especially because I fucking liked it.

I push that thought out of my head. Irrelevant.

Instead, I try to recall my meditation words, the ones I started practicing last year after a particularly bad PR scandal nearly shaved years off my life.

I try to summon the calm I need because of people like the one currently lying naked in a bed on the other side of this wall.

The one that made me come so hard last night, I saw stars.

The one I knew would ruin me, and I let him anyway.

I swallow hard, my pulse spiking again. Think. Strategize. Use your fucking PR brain, Zoe. What’s the play here?

Option A: Burn the hotel down. Probably too much flame and brimstone, even for me. Option B: Disappear into the mountains and live off-grid. Ew. I need Wi-Fi. Option C: Leave immediately and never, ever speak of this again.

Right. C. It’s definitely C.

No one can ever know about this. Not Charlie. Not a single one of the Storm. Not anyone. Because if this gets out, if people even suspect something happened between us, I’ll lose my job. I will never be taken seriously in sports again. I will be just another mistake tied to Chase Walton’s name.

The thought makes my stomach twist.

I reach for my hair on instinct, gathering it over one shoulder, fingers twisting the ends into something neat and presentable. Something normal . But it’s too much of a mess. Too tangled.

I smooth it down and try again, but no matter how I run my fingers through it, I can still feel him there. His hands fisting in it, his breath at my neck. The way he tilted my head back so he could kiss me deeper , trying to memorize every part of me.

My heart thunders.

I turn and slam the shower on so hard the pipes rattle, step under the scorching water, and press my forehead against the tiles.

This was nothing. Just sex. A reckless, stupid, alcohol-fueled mistake.

We got it out of our systems and will never speak of it again.

All I need to do is wash the scent of him from my skin, brush the feel of his tongue out of my mouth, and not think of him every time I try to get off with my vibe for the next few weeks.

Easy.

Rinsing off, I step out of the shower and grab a fresh, fluffy towel to wrap around me. I curse the fact I didn’t bring my dress into the bathroom with me, but it’s fine. I’m feeling marginally more human, and that’s what matters.

Inhaling deeply, I turn the lock on the door and re-emerge into the hotel room, bracing for too much eye contact, innuendo, and smart-ass jokes.

But the first thing I notice is the empty bed. No naked Chase sprawled out as I left him. No evidence he was just there, stretched out and arrogant as hell.

Good.

Maybe I’ve gotten lucky. Maybe he went and showered in a different room. I speed-walk toward the armchair in the corner, where my dress is draped like a crime scene.

Grab it. Get dressed. Get the fuck out of here.

I reach for the fabric—

Clink.

I freeze and turn slowly, just enough to see it.

A steaming mug of coffee, sitting right there on the nightstand beside a cold glass of water.

Fuck.

He’s been up and moving around long enough to get coffee. Long enough to think about the details of last night and me still being here, naked in his shower.

“Made you one.” Chase’s voice cuts through the air like silk.

I whip around further, and there he is. Bare chest, sinful gray sweatpants, one hand on the remote as he leans against the counter, watching fucking sports highlights.

He lifts his coffee to his lips, taking a slow, obnoxiously loud sip. “Figured you might need it.”

I do. But I can’t.

If I take the coffee, I’m accepting the intimacy of this entire nightmare. If I take it, I’m admitting this was more than just a drunken, reckless mistake.

I sniff, flipping my hair over one shoulder as I grab my dress and shimmy into it, trying to conceal myself behind my towel as if he didn’t just see me naked and spread out for him in this very hotel room several hours prior.

“You make all your one-night stands coffee, Walton?”

I don’t look at him when I say it. But I hear him shift, feel him watching me, and when he finally answers, his voice is too fucking easy.

“Only the ones who snore.”

Motherfucker.

My head snaps toward him, eyes narrowing as I rush to tie up the straps of my dress. “I do not snore.”

“Sure you don’t, Zo.” He’s casually smiles back at me.

But fine. Good. If this is how we’re playing it, then this is the best-case scenario.

I force a smirk, yanking on my heels. “Well, as fun as this was, I think we can both agree—”

“Oh? We’re agreeing on things now?”

“—this was just a one-time thing,” I finish, forcing my voice into the most uncaring, dismissive tone possible.

For the second time, I can’t make eye contact.

Because I know the man beneath the swagger.

The one who feels more than he lets on, who shows up every single time his friends need him.

The one who carries a weight he won’t speak of, making him lean into the destructiveness.

The one who shrugs off every insult and every assumption like he doesn’t care—except I know he does.

That’s why I hate myself so much for caving, for letting him be nothing more than a reckless mistake. And this is exactly why I have to leave. Because if I stay, if I let this be something, I’ll ruin both of us. I can’t do that, not with him. Not with someone who means something to me.

Turning to the mirror, I focus back on my dress straps. Tie them, then get out. But they keep slipping through my trembling fingers. I mutter a curse as I fumble with the stupid delicate ribbons, frustrated even this damn dress appears to be conspiring against me.

Then I feel the warmth again. Then his scent, clean and familiar and fucking dangerous, hits me a second before his hands brush against mine.

“Here,” he says quietly, and I freeze.

His fingers are gentle, tugging the straps from my hands, his knuckles skimming my bare shoulder as he ties them for me.

A slow, careful knot. Then another. I barely breathe as he finishes the last loop.

Fingertips linger at the base of my neck for just a second.

Just long enough to make my stomach lurch, to make me want to lean back.

I stare at us in the mirror, hating and loving our reflection in the same breath—his huge hands dusting my shoulder, my skin tone against his.

His stormy blue eyes meet mine in the glass, and my stomach plummets because I see it. A hesitation. A question. A crack in the armor he wears so well.

I have to get out of here. If I stay, I’ll fall. That’s what it feels like. Like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, watching the ground erode under my feet. And if I fall, I won’t stop.

Not with him.

My throat tightens as I clear it, forcing my lips into a smirk that feels brittle and foreign. But I hold it anyway, like I haven’t just made a decision I’ll spend forever justifying to myself.

“Guess you’ve had years of practice tying these things back up, huh?”

The words appear light, like our normal banter. But they taste like fucking acid on my tongue.

I avoid his eyes for the eleventy billionth time and don’t wait for him to answer, but I feel it. His eyes on me, burning into my back. The weight of something unspoken, something shifting.

And because he can never fucking help himself, right before I reach the door, I hear it.

“Zoe…”

His voice is quiet. Unsteady. His body shifts, like he’s about to move and stop me.

I grip the handle. Squeeze. Pause.

Then I walk out.