Page 5 of Penalty Shot

“I want to, though not in either of our beds,” I continue. “I don’t bring people to my place, and I’d rather not go to yours.”

“There’s a Westin close by. Is that what you had in mind?”

“Yes, though that might be too dressy for my current couture,” I say opening my jacket to remind him that I’m wearing my friend’s discarded jeans and a shirt I use to paint stage sets. I had nicer clothes on after the show, but the shaken champagne did a number on my dress. I changed before we left the theater.

“You could wear a sack and still be the prettiest thing in that hotel,” he says.

“Wow, you’re real smooth,” I laugh.

“Stating a simple truth, Elise. Besides, I don’t think you’ll be needing muchcouturetonight.” He wiggles his brows, and I can’t help grinning. We are definitely on the same page.

The Westin is a historic building of brick façade and intricate carvings surrounded by a modern cityscape. We pull up the entrance where a valet attendant practically throws himself in front of Randall’s sports car. Another man opens my door. If he thinks my clothes are rags, he doesn’t show it.

The grand lobby sparkles with crystal chandeliers, scrubbed marble floors, polished brass, and the kind of shine that requires an army of cleaners. Randall holds my hand as he guides meto a plush armchair covered in luxurious dark fabric not too different from the period pieces we use at the theater. Except this one doesn’t have faded fabric on the seat or the sour smell of perspiration. Wearing Regency costumes under stage lights is like walking around attached to a sauna.

“I’ll be right back.” He heads to the check-in counter.

The bar we had left was dark and noisy, filled with other hockey players and the fuzzy filter of booze. I found him attractive then, obviously. But in this well-lit lobby, the sheer sex appeal of Randall is so potent it draws every eye. People turn to gawk at his athletic backside when he walks past. The woman at the front desk beams like she won the lottery when he chooses her counter over the other two.

I fiddle with a thread on my ripped jeans. If Randall and I ever go on a real date—and we’re allowed to have nine more—I’m dressing to the max.

He returns to me in steady strides. When I stand, his arm wraps around my waist, and he places a sweet kiss on my temple. “Are you sure, Elise?”

“I’m sure,” I state simply. Congratulations to me for not screamingtake me to a room already!

We hold hands crossing the lobby. Since it’s past midnight, we’re alone in the elevator. He lifts my hand to his mouth, running my knuckles over impossibly soft lips.

I called it earlier: he is definitely a Disney prince in disguise. I make a mental note to swallow at regular intervals so I can avoid drooling.

“You said conditions. Plural. What are the other items on your list?”

The door opens to the seventh floor. Neither of us move, although my muscles are practically coiled to shoot my body down the hallway and straight to a room. Any room.

He’s not in a hurry, waiting for me to get my thoughts in order. That’s another thing I like about Randall. He could wait two minutes or two weeks, it’s all the same. His desirability is such a foregone conclusion, he doesn’t need to rush or exert pressure.

“I’m probably going to come across as presumptuous, but there’s no harm being clear. Especially since we don’t know each other very well. Or, like, at all,” I ramble.

The elevator door makes an impatient jerk, but Randall’s arm keeps it from sliding closed.

“OK,” he says with a shrug, his expression amused like I said something both silly and delightful.

“Not that I expected you to ask me to stay, but just in case, I won’t be sleeping overnight.”

He raises both brows and bites down on his lower lip. Is he trying not to laugh at me?

“That’s it?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Suddenly, Randall sweeps down to carry me like a bride before stepping out of the elevator. His chest is sculpted ridges, his forearms steady. The heat of his body sears through me as my arms cling to those impossibly wide shoulders.

When he speaks, the rumble of his vocal cords reaches into my chest before traveling to my aching center.

“Elise, baby. You’re not gonna be sleeping at all.”

“Pocket,” I state, loving how her hair tickles my nose while I walk down the hallway.

She runs a hand over my collarbone and then down my sternum before fishing for the room’s key card in my breast pocket. After Elise unlocks the door, I manage to push the lever and swing the door wide.