Page 109 of Wild Card

“I’m going to head back to my hotel. I wanted to talk to you about some things, but I don’t think it’s the right time. I’m sorry if I ruined the party.”

Alarm bells sound in my head.Talk about some things?

My conscience berates me for how I’ve behaved today. Like a territorial animal with no forethought. My mood swings fast as I realize how close he came to walking in on us.

“We can talk if you want,” I choke out through a tight throat.

“Nah.” He waves me off as we hit the bottom landing near the front door. “It’s nothing pressing.”

Then he turns to face me, his expression slightly defeated. And even though he’s been a royal asshole today, a surge of guilt hits me like a punch in the gut. He’s a product of his upbringing and I know I see flashes of him trying to be better in his own clumsy way.

“You didn’t ruin the party. Maybe we should get together before you head home?”

He shrugs. “I think I might jet early tomorrow. Try to get my head straight. Maybe I can come back again during the offseason?” He turns wide, hopeful eyes on me before adding, “I’d love to fly with you again.”

My heart swells, and I nod. “I’d like that,” I say. And it’s true. Iwouldlike that.

The problem is, I’m not sure the offer will still stand when he finds out what I’ve done.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

GWEN

I wake up slowly, fighting my way through the thick grogginess blanketing me. Everything feels soft and warm except for something hot and hard pressed against my back. As awareness seeps in around me, my lashes flutter, my toes wiggle, and I eventually crack my eyes open and smile when I realize that I’m wrapped in Bash’s arms.

I press back into him, snuggling closer, but as I move, I’m hit with a wave of light nausea. Fuzzy memories take shape in my mind as the day before filters back to me.

The plane ride, the party, the closet, and lots of wine. After Tripp left, the instinct I’d had to stay on guard disappeared, and as lousy as I feel right now, it was totally worth it.

Then Clyde went to bed, and with only the other couples there to see, Bash stayed close to me for the rest of the evening. Our shoulders bumped, our fingers brushed, and after a few drinks, he’d taken to giving my ass a firm squeeze on the way past.

I have no doubt our friends noticed, but none of them said anything. We carried on. Hell, we even played poker, and the camaraderie—the ease and the comfort level—was something that I’ve never been a part of before.

Moving from place to place has meant that I don’t create friendships like that. The kind that are built over years and decades, holidays, favors—a kind of friendship that feels more like family.

I didn’t realize until I stood there in the middle of it all thatthisis what I’d been craving. Maybe this feeling is what I’ve been moving around searching for all along.

It felt surreal, and it made my birthday even more special than it already was.

What’s not so special today is realizing that I forgot I’m the one scheduled to open the yoga studio. I have classes starting this morning and running through the afternoon.

Which makes the amount of wine I consumed less than ideal.

I turn over to face Bash, ignoring the lurching sensation in my stomach. Propping myself up onto an elbow, I slide one hand over his thick chest and press a kiss to his sternum, breathing him in.

His cedar-and-amber smell is downright intoxicating.

I kiss him again on one pec, then on the other, and his arms tighten around my back as a contentedmmmsound vibrates in his throat.

“Bash,” I whisper, “I really hate to do this to you… Actually, I really hate to do this to me, but I have to go to work.”

He chuckles, rough and lazy. “Did you have too much fun last night?”

I press my cheek against his chest and smile into him, feeling warm, safe, and protected. “No such thing as too much fun,” I murmur. “But I think there might be such a thing as too much pinot grigio, and that is what I’m suffering from today. Tabitha told me it was organic, like that made any difference at all.”

He laughs and I draw back to glance at him, wondering if I might find any threads of uncertainty in his eyes.

But I don’t. Not with Bash.