Chapter 1 Ian
ONE
IAN
August
With my workout bag strapped over my shoulder, I wait for the elevator. Tapping my foot on the floor, I’m impatient to crawl into bed and sleep off my muscle fatigue.
The start of the season is approaching. I can almost feel the weight of the ball in my hand and visualize throwing it downfield, and it slices through the air, spinning until it’s caught in the end zone—a touchdown leading to the ultimate win.
The head coach has us on a draconian program we must follow—no partying, a strict diet, and training that leaves me exhausted to my bones. But I am where many dream to be and fewer ever get, playing professional football.
I’m at the top of my career, one of the highest paid quarterbacks in the league, and after two Super Bowl wins, the motivation for another ring injects a shot of renewed energy into every knackered limb. I have this.
No distractions are allowed either, even though I wouldn’t even know what that was.
Ever since I was drafted in the first round, football is what I live and breathe. Getting to the top is hard, staying there is even harder.
There are moments when I would like to be more than Ian Weston, quarterback for the San Diego Sharks. It’s as if that’s all I am. A young captain who still must prove himself worthy of his position. When you play at this level, one mistake could cost you everything.
A groan rumbles out of my throat. Look at me, whining about my privilege. But it’s the mix of excitement of playing another championship game, coupled with the fear of losing that knots my stomach into a ball of anxiety. I have to push through, and then I will enjoy the break, letting loose.
The elevator door slides open, and getting in, I press the button to my floor. I pluck my phone from my jeans pocket when a dainty hand shoves between the doors. I take a step back, making room for the newcomer, when my breath catches in my throat.
I blink as she walks inside, trailing a roller bag behind her. It’s her. Lilly. The woman who has been haunting my days and infiltrating my dreams for four years.
I shake myself out of the stupor, trying to get my head straight. My heart pounds a merciless beat. I’m afraid it will barrel out of my chest. Am I hallucinating with so much pressure dangling over my head that my brain conjures her—the one that got away—reminding me of the best night of my life?
I wish that were the case, but she gulps, recognition flashing in those captivating green eyes with speckles of gold. Her heart-shaped mouth parts on a surprised gasp.
“Ian.” Her soft voice seeps through the confined space.
My fingers tighten on the duffel strap. At the confirmation she’s real, a surge of anger blasts through me.
I thought we shared something special. I guess I was wrong.
When I went to her the next morning, there was a note slapped on the door.
I can’t do this. Thank you for last night, reducing me to a meaningless hookup.
“Do I know you?” My tone is icy, the opposite of how I feel inside.
She blinks at me, hurt blanketing her delicate features.
“No,” she says, closing her eyes for a moment. “My bad.”
No, my bad for thinking the feeling was mutual.
Tension stretches between us in wisps of smoke. The air grows headier with her flowery scent: lily, sensual vanilla notes, and her. I narrow my eyes at the panel. Come on, you stupid elevator, move faster. I can’t stay in her vicinity one more second or I’ll combust.
The elevator finally stops at my floor, and she’s the first to stumble out. At the only other door on the floor, she steals a glance at me over her shoulder, her brows furrowing.
I hurry past her. Shoving the key in the lock, I open it with more force than necessary, letting myself into my loft.
It’s an open space with floor-to-ceiling windows providing the best view of the city spread below me. On the far right, I can glimpse the stadium. White walls, polished floors, and dark furniture. It’s minimally decorated and modern, just how I like it.
What the fuck am I going to do with her being my damn neighbor? She’s not a distraction; she’s a Trojan horse sent to destroy my focus.
For years I’ve searched for her in every woman I met. No one could hold my interest because no one compared to Lilly and the night I spent with her. I thought what we shared was significant, impossible to repeat—our connection transcending the physical and going straight into intimacy.
A total simp after a one-night stand. But that night taught me a valuable lesson. Sex with a connection is what truly matters.
I throw my gym bag on the floor and rake a hand through my hair. Fuck.
Slumping on the large rectangular cushioned sofa, I hold my head between my hands, trying to get a grip on my disarrayed thoughts. The memory crawls out from where I stuck it deep inside my brain and shut the lid.
I park in front of my friend’s apartment building. It’s past ten. Only the streetlights flicker, casting shadows on the mostly deserted street.
I get out of my truck when something catches my attention.
A girl walks along the row of red brick buildings on the opposite side, carrying a brown bag, humming to something she listens to on her ear pods—she looks so unperturbed and content, the opposite of how I feel with the constant pressure to perform weighing me down.
Her hair is pulled up in two cute buns, and she’s wearing a denim jumpsuit.
I can’t stop looking at her. There’s something refreshing about her presence that keeps me rooted in place.
As if she feels like she is being watched, she turns her head and trips over her feet.
A smile lifts the corners of my lips at causing that reaction.
The contents of the bag spill over, and an orange rolls across the street and straight toward me.
Is that a sign, divine intervention? On pure impulse, I bend down, picking up the succulent fruit. Our gazes meet, and her eyes widen, a small frown pinching her brows.
My feet carry me to her, raising my arms in a signal that I am no threat.
“Hi. Sorry if I scared you.”
“No, just… I wasn’t expecting you.” She makes a gesture pointing at my face and body, biting her plump bottom lip.
“Sorry for distracting you.”
She gives me a knowing look. “I doubt you are. I am quite sure you’re used to girls tripping over their feet.”
I chuckle and help her gather the discarded contents—some fruit and vegetables, but the bag is broken.
“Let me see if I have a spare one in my truck,” I offer, wanting to prolong my time with her—any excuse to remain close to her.
Her enchanting eyes look me over. “Are you a serial killer? I’m sure that’s a red-flag comment.”
After a moment of intense scrutiny, making my skin hot, she shrugs as if coming to terms with something. “But again, you could have a worse pickup line. With you looking like that, there would be no women left.”
I burst out laughing. She’s a breath of fresh air breezing over my barren soul.
She gazes at me again as if she can’t help herself. “No, you’re not a serial killer. You’re too nice to be a serial killer.”
I cock my head, arching a brow. “So, no need to reassure you that I’m not?”
The brightest smile kisses her face. She’s so beautiful I ache—everywhere.
She shrugs, being so damn adorable. Her aura is like a beam of light—good, genuine.
“I want to believe the best in people. So, I believe you.”
I splay a hand on my heart and in my most serious tone, I say, “I’m not a serial killer.”
We walk toward my truck in silence as we glance at each other. A grin teases my lips whenever I catch her.
I open my passenger door, and she takes a small step back. Her eyes dart from left to right as if not knowing whether to stay or run. I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable in my presence, so I hurry, grabbing my spare gym bag. Showing it to her, I say, “I think that should do.”
She sighs in relief and smiles at me as if grateful for not breaking her trust. I offer a nod, understanding that, sadly, women don’t have it easy, always having to stay alert.
It’s fucked up. I have a mother and a sister who are everything to me.
I would never hurt a woman. I would intervene if I ever saw that shit.
Then we return to the sidewalk to load it with her groceries.
A blush taints her cheeks. “Just out of curiosity. How many hours do you work out?”
“A lot.”
She sends me an appreciative look. “You must be disciplined.”
“That too. May I?” I offer to take the bag from her arms, and she hands it to me.
“That’s very gentlemanly of you,” she says, looking up at me.
She has the cutest button nose and curly lashes that give her eyes an enchanting allure.
“Is that a good or a bad thing?” I ask, just wanting to be sure. There’s just something about her that makes me nervous. A first.
A soft smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “Always good.”
Good. I smile back at her, and she hikes her thumb toward a building, crammed between two others at the end of the pavement. “This way.”
We walk side by side, sharing secretive glances and teasing smiles. My phone pings, but I ignore it as I follow this girl who captivates me.
There is this strange familiarity I can’t make sense of.
After stepping inside the apartment building, we climb the stairs to the first floor.
She opens the door and turns on the lights, revealing a small apartment.
I don’t know what I expected, but there’s no trace of her vivacity in this place.
Some furniture is scattered around and a small couch lies in front of a TV—nothing truly homey, just practical.
Inside the small kitchen, I place the bag on the table. While she unloads the bag, she puts each item in a basket, separating them. I watch transfixed as she explains her process to me. “Fruits ripen sooner if you mix the acidic with the sweet ones.”
She bites her lip, fidgeting with her fingers. “Do you want something to drink?”