Chapter 21
Ava
I wake curled into the arms of a devastatingly gorgeous man, my cheek sliding over the solid plane of his chest. Which would be ideal if my brain did not immediately start screaming at me about last night.
A night I vaguely recall and am not prepared to unpack before coffee.
I take in a deep breath. He smells good.
Rather than dealing with consequences, I curl into him like I didn’t detonate my strict no one-night stands policy with a tequila chaser.
His arm is heavy around my waist. Possessive in that lazy, half-asleep way that feels entirely too good.
His thumb drags once, absentmindedly, across my hip.
I swallow and try to move.
He doesn’t open his eyes. Just tightens his hold and murmurs, rough with sleep, “Five more minutes.”
Shit.
What time is it?
Not that I have a curfew or anything.
I ditched Gabe’s friend after he and his family graciously offered me a place to stay. Though I did text. I am many things, but I am not rude.
Besides, he would have told my brother.
I lie still, staring at nothing, and think hard.
Did I say I’d be there in the morning?
Yes. I am sure I did.
Which means five more minutes is not an option.
Wait. Did I promise breakfast? Because that feels exactly like the kind of apologetic, overly earnest commitment I would make.
And nothing says forgive my walk of shame like donuts.
Besides, Gabe mentioned kids, and kids love donuts, right?
The sleeping god beside me shifts, all warmth and weight, and a small, inconvenient part of me wishes this moment could stretch. Just a little.
Long enough to pretend this is something it is not.
But it can’t.
I hate to admit it, but Harrison has player written all over him. No man has this kind of unbothered confidence and woman-pleasing expertise by accident.
Skills like that are learned.
Honed.
Repeated.
The man could teach a seminar.
And frankly, it should be required.
I draw in a slow breath, nuzzling into him before I can help myself. We fit so… perfectly. His warm, unmistakably masculine scent settles deep in my chest, and that’s when it hits me.
No matter how badly a reckless part of me wants to throw caution to the wind, I can’t.
My life, and the role of a lifetime, are waiting for me in L.A. This isn’t just a chance. It’s the chance. The one you don’t fumble because you got distracted by a hot lumberjack and his devastating timing.
So, no.
It’s better I end this fast and clean. And now.
I lift my head. When the room stops spinning, I search for a clock.
Floor-to-ceiling windows spill early morning light across pale wood floors. Beyond them, a glass balcony frames Manhattan like a postcard. Concrete walls are softened by art that looks expensive.
Everything is balanced. Sparse. Intentional.
Does he live here?
Because if he does, he’s a next-level neat freak.
And he’s either my soulmate… or I’m still drunk and he’s the best hallucination ever.
Hmm. A hallucination would explain the absence of a clock.
Then the faint chimes I was pretty sure existed only in my head start ringing again.
That’s my phone. I look around. It’s coming from somewhere outside the room.
I try to turn.
The man behind me with the renewed hard-on tugs me closer. “Five. Minutes,” he murmurs against my hair, voice rough and gravely.
The chimes stop, and I snuggle into him, telling myself that future me can end it in five minutes just as well as I can end it now.
Then the chimes start up again.
Harrison props himself on one elbow, listening intently. “Do you hear… um, the Wicked Witch of the West coming?”
I nod, heat creeping into my cheeks. “It’s my phone. And I really need to get it.”
He kisses my lips. “Stay here.”
Then he’s off me and striding down the hall. He comes back moments later with my backpack in one hand and absolutely zero shame in the other. “You get the backpack if you turn around. Hands and knees. Now.”
I swear, this man is going to be the death of me.
Or at least the death of my vagina.
I do as he asks, far too eagerly.
The backpack lands on the bed, and I fish my phone out.
He smirks at the screen. “Who’s Drama Queen?”
“Someone who will never let me hear the end of it if she knows I’m in bed with a man,” I answer. “Whatever it is, Myra, the answer is no.”
Harrison nips my butt cheek as he whispers, “What if I’m about to make you a very dirty girl? Is the answer still no?”
“Shh,” I hush.
Myra’s voice explodes through the line. “The media is losing its mind. I lined up six shows today. You have to do them.”
When Harrison’s thick tongue swipes me from behind, I see stars.
“Today?” I ask. My overly sensitive body responds instantly. My nails rip into his sheets. “I c-can’t today. I…” I bite my lip to stifle a moan.
The thick head of his cock is at my entrance, his hands gripping my hips.
“Are you listening to me?” Myra barks. “We need to get ahead of this.”
Get ahead of what?
Harrison’s hand fists my hair. “I’d rather get behind it,” my lumberjack growls.
At this point, I’m trembling. I try to form words. “I’m, mmm, just—”
Then he shoves in, and I lose the ability to speak.
“Argh,” I gasp, suddenly a panting mess. “Have. To. Gooo…”
I shut off my phone, toss it aside, and ride this man’s cock like it’s Derby Day at Churchill Downs.
If this is Good Morning, Manhattan-style, sign me up.
* * *
For a long while after, we don’t rush anything. We stay tangled, touching, kissing, drifting in that quiet space where time feels optional. Slow, lazy presses of mouths. Fingers tracing familiar lines like we’re memorizing something we already know we won’t get to keep.
Eventually, he exhales and rests his forehead against mine. “I have to go.”
Relief loosens something in my chest. I’m grateful he says it first.
I smile. “Me, too.”
He rolls away and reaches for his tux pants, then pauses, like the thought physically pains him. I can’t help myself. “I bet you’d give anything to get your clothes back.”
“I really would,” he says dryly.
I grab my backpack. “Catch.”
I toss it like a basketball. He snags it, one-handed, without even looking.
“Your clothes are pretty light,” I say. “Your boots, not so much.”
“My clothes?” He unzips the bag and digs inside, tugging out jeans, boots, and what must be his favorite flannel.
He yanks it free and hugs it to his chest like a woobie. “Yes.”
I arch a brow. “I’ll try not to take it personally that you’re this excited to see a worn shirt.”
“This shirt and I have been through a lot together,” he says solemnly. “Also, it didn’t psychologically torture me during the auction last night.”
I snort. “You were half naked, prancing in front of a sea of other women. Who tortured who again?”
Something shifts in his expression, the humor easing into curiosity. “Why did you leave?”
“Leave?”
“Last night.” His gaze stays on mine. “You vanished during the auction.”
“I didn’t intend to leave. But, it was probably better that I bid anonymously.”
He frowns. “What do you mean?” Then, it dawns on him. “And why do you have my clothes?”
He slips the shirt on, and I sit up and pull my knees to my chin. Where do I even start?
“I was going back to your dressing room,” I begin, trying to explain. “To make the bid anonymously. That’s when I caught my douchebag ex rummaging through your things. And I am so sorry—”
He stops buttoning. “Did you just say your ex?”
“Yes.”
He grabs his jeans next, yanking them up one leg, then the other, suddenly in a rush. “So now he’s your ex. I thought you didn’t know him.”
“I never said I didn’t know him,” I insist. “I said I wasn’t with him.”
“You’re splitting hairs.”
I may like his ass in jeans, but I certainly don’t like his tone. “Nobody’s splitting hairs. I’m not with him. Not now.”
“Right. That’s why the guy chased you down like a dog chasing prime rib.” He pins my gaze. “And you’re not attached to him at all?” He points. “And don’t lie to me,” he adds. “I’ll know.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “It’s… complicated.”
“It’s a yes or no question, Viviana.”
I guess I’m not Pix anymore. Now, I’m Viviana. Fantastic. He sounds like my grandmother.
Maybe if he checked my socials, or recognized me at all, he’d know I go by Ava.
Instead, I’ve managed to sleep with the one man who has no idea who I am. Not the headlines. Not the name. Just me.
And instead of simplifying things, that somehow makes everything infinitely more complicated.
Because he likes me for me.
And God help me, I like him that much more because of it.
His voice lowers. “Answer the question.”
“I broke it off,” I say, already done with this conversation. “Okay?”
Both hands settle on his hips. “Since when, exactly?”
What is he? A cop? I exhale hard. “Enough with the inquisition. Why does that even matter? We’re not together.”
He shakes his head once, like he’s already filing that answer under bullshit. “I’m sure the two of you had a great time rifling through my things.”
“You’re not hearing me. I did not rifle through your things,” I snap. “He did.”
He empties the backpack, muttering his way through the inventory. “Boots. Phone. Wallet.” He fans though the contents of his wallet.
Oh, this man.
“Relax, Casanova. Your tower of condoms is in tact and piled high.”
His jaw ticks. “So you did go through my things.”
Now I’m just pissed. “I didn’t have to. The second your wallet hit the floor at Player Central, they all came tumbling out.”
His voice lifts, sharp with offense. “So now I’m a player.”
“If the Magnum fits,” I fire back.
He scoops up his things in a rush, movements clipped and furious. When he looks at me, I brace for it.
The oh-so-pleasant don’t let the door hit you on the way out.
Being reduced to a one-night mistake.
Instead, something falters.
The anger in those ice-blue eyes fractures, giving way to hesitation. What breaks through is a breathtaking burst of hope.
The kind that can never last.
He straightens, holds my gaze a second too long, and in that suspended moment, I imagine everything.
My soul leans forward.
My stupid brain pulls back.
Everything hangs between us, crackling like electricity with nowhere to land.
The words we could say.
How effortlessly he could ruin me all over again. And how easily I’d let him.
The moment slips past me.
He checks his watch. “The room is paid until noon.” Reality hits as he turns and walks away.
The door shuts.
I collapse back onto the bed, arm over my face. “Sure,” I murmur to no one. “I’d love five more minutes.”