Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Ledger
The air in Costa Serena is thick with the scent of saltwater and citrus—a postcard-perfect paradise that makes my skin crawl. This place screams romance, and I’m here for a wedding. If that isn’t irony, I don’t know what is.
I shift the strap of my duffle bag higher on my shoulder as I step up to the reception desk. The guy behind the counter barely looks old enough to rent a car, with a name tag that says Giorgio and a grin that’s way too enthusiastic for someone stuck behind a desk all day.
“Buonasera, signore,” he says, his smile so wide I want to tell him it’s wasted on me.
Reservation for Ledger Timberbridge. That’s T-i-m-b-e-r-b-r-i-d-g-e.” I’ve been on this spelling crusade since I checked in at LAX—or honestly, probably my whole life. No one ever gets it right, and spelling it out is easier than saying, “Timberbridge, not Timberidge,” on an endless loop. I even try to make it foolproof: “It’s like Timber and Bridge, not Timber and Ridge.” You’d think that would do the trick, but nope. They still drop the b every time. The b is not fucking silent. So now, I got the spelling down to a rhythm, for maximum clarity.
I should change my last name. It’s not like I’m attached to it. Timberbridge is my only link to my fucking father—or as I like to call him the sperm donor. That’s one connection I wouldn’t mind severing. Mom never even took his last name, so why should I? But the thought of dealing with all the bureaucratic hoops makes me cringe. Ledger Smith—Mom’s last name—has a nice ring to it. Simple. Proud. Unburdened.
Giorgio’s fingers fly over the keyboard. His cheerful demeanor falters for a fraction of a second, and I feel my jaw tighten. Here we go. I brace for whatever nonsense is about to hit.
“Ah . . . Signor Timberbridge, it seems there has been an issue with your reservation.”
Of course, there has. “What kind of issue?”
“Well . . . it was canceled by mistake and unfortunately we are fully booked,” he says, wincing slightly, like he’s been trained to deliver bad news with minimal backlash. Then his grin reappears, bright and polished, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. “But you are in luck. There was a cancellation yesterday.”
I nod stiffly. Great. A leftover room at a resort I didn’t even want to stay in. Still, here I am, playing the role of supportive captain for one of my teammates. Kraig Blackwood, our goalie, is young enough—and dumb enough—to think marriage is the best thing that’ll ever happen to him.
“If I were a good captain,” I mutter under my breath, “I’d tell him to call it off and run.”
Giorgio blinks, his brows knitting in confusion. I wave him off. “It’s not important.” Focus, Timberbridge. Handle your own mess first.
“So you’re sending me to the janitor’s closet and calling it a room?” I ask, because with the luck I’ve been carrying lately, that sounds about right.
“No, no,” Giorgio says quickly, his grin widening as if to reassure me. “Our last available room is a suite, but I’ll give it to you for the same price as a regular room.”
He slides a keycard across the counter, his voice smooth with practiced charm. “It’s a premium suite. The guest who canceled had excellent taste. It includes complimentary champagne—and I’ll throw in a massage.”
“Fine, I’ll take it.” I grit my teeth as I take the keycard.
The team might pay me enough to afford this level of luxury, and my trust fund ensures I’ll never have to sweat over a hotel bill, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy bleeding money on a suite I didn’t ask for.
“Thanks,” I mumble, though it comes out more like a grunt, and I head toward the elevators.
The hallways are immaculate—polished marble floors gleaming under the soft, recessed lighting. Even the air feels expensive, like someone distilled Mediterranean perfection into a scent and pumped it through the vents. Every detail screams indulgence, designed to impress.
It reeks of everything I hate.
The suite is exactly what I expected: over-the-top luxury aimed at starry-eyed touristy couples who think this will make their life enchanting. A private terrace overlooks the sea, sheer curtains ripple in the breeze, and a bottle of champagne sits in a bucket of ice on a small glass table. Then, there’s a service with deli meats, strawberries, and wine. Not too bad.
“Ugh,” I groan when I see the bed.
Rose petals. Of course. They’re scattered across the pristine white sheets like a romantic movie cliché come to life. At the foot of the bed, a haphazard pile of towels sits abandoned, like someone started staging a romantic night and gave up halfway through.
I drop my bag with a thud, run a hand through my hair, and sigh. This entire trip is ridiculous. I should be anywhere but here, letting someone else handle the emotional support duties. But no. You’re the captain. You lead by example. Blah, blah, fucking blah . . .
I kick off my shoes and head toward the balcony, peeling off my shirt as I go. The heat is stifling, the kind that clings to your skin and makes the air feel heavier than it should. I toss my shirt onto the nearest chair and turn toward the champagne, ready to pop the cork and pretend I’m anywhere else.
That’s when I hear it.
A high-pitched, startled yell.
I freeze, my head snapping toward the sound. It’s coming from under the door.
And then I see her.
For a second, I think she’s a mirage, the kind conjured up by exhaustion and jet lag. But no—she’s very real, standing there, framed in the soft glow of the light.
Her dark, wet hair clings to her shoulders, drops of water rolling down her collarbone. Her wide eyes—brown? Green? Hazel?—are blazing with shock. She’s breathtaking in a way that catches me off guard, her skin glowing in the light like she just stepped out of some Renaissance painting.
And then there’s the towel. It’s barely covering her, the towel clinging to her chest like it’s fighting a losing battle. One breast is teasing the edge of exposure, the curve just visible, while the other . . . well, there’s no teasing. A single nipple peeks out, taut and glistening, and I swear my mouth goes dry.
Fuck.
She’s wet. Not just damp—wet. Her skin still shimmers from the shower or a bath, tiny rivulets of water trailing down her collarbone and over the soft swell of her breasts. I track one bead of water as it slides lower, disappearing beneath the towel.
And of course, my cock doesn’t miss a beat. It stirs to life, hardening fast because, really, how could it not? This woman is stunning. The kind of beautiful that makes your chest tighten and your pulse pound.
I shouldn’t be staring. I know I shouldn’t. But damn it, she’s standing there looking like temptation itself, and I’m only human.
“What the—who the fuck are you?” she yells, her voice rising in panic. She clutches the towel tighter, holding it like a shield against an intruder.
Should I tell her I can still see her pretty tit? Probably not. Instead, I smirk, the absurdity of the situation hitting me all at once. Maybe this is the hotel’s way of making up for their mistake—sending a beautiful woman to welcome me. They work fast.
This is a service I could definitely get on board with.
“I’m ready for my massage,” I say, unbuckling my belt with deliberate ease. “Are you giving me the happy ending, or is that an extra I should request before we start?”
Her jaw drops, her expression flipping between confusion and fury. “Massage? Happy ending?” she repeats, like she’s testing the words for poison. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“Depends,” I say, letting my belt hang loose, smirking just enough to needle her further. “What kind of massage are we talking about here?”
Her face flushes a deep, fiery red, her shock quickly boiling into rage. “Get the fuck out of my room, or I’ll call security.”
Before I can respond, she lets out a shriek and stumbles through a flurry of what sounds like half-baked Italian. “Aiuto! Si . . . so . . . see—soccur? . . . Saycurezza?! Help me—uh—man. Signore here. Ayuda aquí. Just fucking help me, he’s attacking me!”
Her words tumble out in a confusing, choppy mix of terrible Italian, Spanish, and plain desperation, like she’s cobbling together phrases she vaguely remembers from Google Translate. Honestly, it’d be endearing if she weren’t glaring at me like I’m some kind of criminal.
“If you’re not here to give me a massage, why are you in my room?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest.
Her face twists into pure disbelief. “Your room? I’ve been here for hours.”
I glance toward the bed—the scattered rose petals, the toppled towel swans, the general chaos—and then back at her. “Well, that explains the mess. You desecrated my room, but now that I’m here, you’ll have to find your own.”
Her jaw drops, her expression swinging wildly from mortified to livid in the span of two seconds. “Mess? You think this is my mess? Those stupid petals were here when I arrived.”
I raise an eyebrow, keeping my tone deliberately dry. “And the towels?”
“They were stupid swans. Looking all romantic and . . .” She waves a hand furiously at the crumpled pile on the floor, her gesturing so frantic the towel slips lower. Now it’s barely covering anything.
I clear my throat, flicking my hand toward her towel. “Not to interrupt your rant, but you might want to adjust . . . uh, your towel.” I gesture vaguely, mimicking the motion of pulling an imaginary cover over my chest. “You’re, uh, showing the goods. Don’t get me wrong, the view’s fantastic, but . . .”
Her eyes widen, and she glances down, clutching the towel tighter against. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she mutters, cheeks burning.
It’s both funny and weirdly endearing, watching her wrestle with the fabric while still glaring at me like she wants me vaporized.
And then the cracks start to show. Her anger wavers, and her lip trembles as she says, “Can anything go right this week?” Her voice breaks, and tears spill over her lashes like she’s been holding them back for hours. “This is my room. The honeymoon suite I was supposed to spend the week in with the asshole who left me at the altar.”
Oh no. Tears. I don’t do tears.
I glance at the ceiling as if some divine intervention might help. The Vatican is nearby. Miracles should happen here on demand, right? But nothing happens.
“Focus, Timberbridge,” I mutter under my breath. Fix this, or better yet, run. But no—running isn’t an option. Not now. “There’s obviously been some kind of mix-up. Maybe they were supposed to send me to another suite. The reservation was canceled yesterday,” I say, forcing calm into my tone. “Let me call the front desk.”
“They said this was canceled yesterday?” And now her tears are mixing with anger. “Chase booked this stupid honeymoon last year.” Her voice cracks as she practically spits his name. “Fucking Chase. Can you believe that bastard left me at the altar wearing a fucking wedding dress that I didn’t even like? And he dared to cancel this, even when it was fully paid.”
I wince. She’s crying and cursing all at once, and I’m not sure which I want to deal with less. “Okay,” I say slowly, holding up my hands like I’m calming a feral cat. “How about we figure out a room for one of us?”
Her laugh is biting, laced with sarcasm and disbelief. “Oh, brilliant idea, Captain Obvious. Which one of us gets the honeymoon suite? You, the random guy who walked in half-naked? Or me, the devastated ex-bride who was supposed to be here?”
She’s biting, furious, and undeniably captivating. And I hate it. Hate that, for a split second, I forget how exhausted I am or how much I don’t want to be here.
I grab the room’s phone, ignoring her glare that practically drills into the side of my head. “This’ll take only a few minutes,” I say, already dialing. “Stay put.”
Her laugh is humorless. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. I’m half-naked, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Oh, I’ve noticed, sweetheart.
I glance at her and smirk, letting the corner of my mouth quirk up. “I got a good look at those perky tits. That’s half the problem.”
Her gasp is audible, her mouth falling open, her eyes blazing. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Thanks,” I say, turning back to the phone. “I try.”