Page 12 of Trick Shot (Miami Blazers #1)

And I just stand there, heart in my throat, basket shaking slightly in my hand. And I know that this is just the preview. Because now, I’m not worried about spending a few hours in the car with him anymore. I’m worried about spending a week in a house with him—and coming out with my sanity intact.

The convoy of cars snakes down a winding coastal road, the scenery blurring between flashes of turquoise water and bursts of wild Florida green.

It’s hot—the kind of thick, humid heat that sticks to your skin and makes every breath feel heavy.

The SUV finally turns off the main road and onto a long, hidden driveway flanked by trees.

The air shifts into something quieter and wilder.

We slow to a crawl, tires crunching over the private gravel road as the mansion comes into view. And I mean mansion.

I sit forward in my seat, blinking.

Because what the hell.

I expected cold luxury. Chrome. Sharp edges. A soulless “modern” box with overpriced furniture and nothing personal inside.

But this?

This is something else.

It’s Mediterranean stone and aged wood. Warm, honeyed walls framed by deep charcoal accents.

Arched windows. Heavy wooden doors. Vines curling over one side of the exterior like nature’s trying to seduce it.

There’s a massive wraparound porch, soft white curtains behind massive glass doors.

Everything feels expensive—obscenely expensive—but not in a showy way.

It backs directly onto the beach, the sand blending into wild grass and low brush before giving way to dense, swampy woods. Cypress trees lean into the edges of the property like shadows. It’s almost cinematic—paradise on one side, mystery on the other.

The second the cars stop, doors swing open. Guys tumble out, stretching, laughing, tossing bags around like children on a field trip who happen to be built like gods.

I step out, the heat hitting me again like a slap, and tug my hoodie off with one hand, letting the salt breeze wrap around my arms.

I’m still soaking in the house when I hear voices behind me. Female.

I turn.

A separate SUV has parked, and a group of girls climbs out, all of them wearing crop tops, cutoffs, and that same gleam in their eyes I saw back at the general store.

My stomach drops.

No.

Seriously?

The girls from the store?

I watch one of them—the blonde who was flirting with Jace at the fridge—flip her hair and laugh as she slinks toward the house like she’s done it before.

I blink. Hard.

It was that easy?

A smile, a laugh, and a gas station parking lot was all it took?

They just agreed to come?

I cross my arms, jaw tightening. The Florida heat doesn’t feel like the only thing suffocating me anymore.

Dom walks past, duffel slung over his shoulder, and doesn’t even glance their way. He’s already seen this before. Probably a hundred times.

Jace?

He hasn’t gotten out yet.

But if these girls are here...

He invited them.

And that little flicker of warmth I felt seeing his house?

Snuffed out.

I don’t wait for Dom or anyone. The second I see the blonde from the store walk up the steps to Jace’s beach house like she’s on a tour, laughing like she belongs here, I’m done.

I storm toward the trunk, yanking it open harder than necessary.

I reach for my suitcase and start pulling it toward me. It’s wedged between more bags and refuses to budge.

“Come on,” I hiss under my breath, yanking harder.

“Let me do it.” His voice slides up behind me, way too close for my liking right now.

“I’ve got it,” I bite back, still tugging on the damn thing.

I feel him step closer while I struggle. His large hand brushes mine, reaching for the handle.

“Don’t,” I snap, jerking my arm away. “I said I’ve got it.” I whirl on him, chest tight with frustration.

“What’s with the attitude?” He raises a brow, amused.

“What’s with the Pussycat Dolls?” I snap back before I can think better of it.

Shit.

He glances toward the porch where the girls are still laughing, leaning against the rail like a scene out of every hockey player groupie fantasy ever filmed.

“Ah,” he says slowly and looks back at me. “So that’s what this is about.”

I scoff and turn back to the trunk, refusing to answer. I already told him too much.

“You’re jealous,” he murmurs, stepping around me until he’s blocking me from everyone’s view. “And… I don’t hate it.”

My jaw clenches as I give my suitcase one more pull. He doesn’t give me a chance to protest this time, just simply reaches for the handle and gives it a small tug, freeing half of the suitcase—but not enough for me to get it and get out of here.

“I invited them so the guys have something to play with,” he murmurs low in my ear, causing goosebumps on my skin. “So they don’t go near what I want.”

The air between us ignites. My pulse kicks up as I try to process what he just said. No one’s been this bold toward me before. No one but Ghost. And hearing something like this—feeling it, and seeing it instead of reading it as a text… it’s different. It’s real.

I open my mouth, an insult on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t even form a word before he reaches forward, grabs my suitcase, and hauls it out with one brutal pull. I reach for the handle automatically, trying to snatch it back. My hand wraps around it at the same time as his.

He tugs.

And instead of the suitcase, he gets me.

I gasp, stumbling forward, momentum yanking me into him until we’re an inch apart. He looks down at me, playful smile forming slowly.

“Hope you packed enough panties in there,” he murmurs, pushing the suitcase toward me. “We’re off grid.”