Chapter 10
I see why my mom wanted me to meet with Dr. Addleton.
He’s slick, rather good-looking, and it’s hard to ignore his personal wealth.
Especially since he lowkey brags about it in so many not-so-subtle ways.
The rotating slideshow on his computer screen behind him showing him with celebrities on red carpets, in exotic places for vacations, on his yacht .
. . it’s all part of his hard sell, I’m sure.
And if I were more like my mom, I’d probably be walking out of this meeting dreaming of building a life just like his by taking that first step with the North State business school program.
But I’m not like my mom. At least not when it comes to ambition.
I don’t want to accumulate things. I want experiences, but I don’t need them to come with caviar and servants.
I want to be useful, to help people, and avoid a life that comes with a closet filled with pant suits and name plaques for my office and titles.
I’m carrying the weight of sitting through that hour-long meeting with Dr. Addleton into this one with my swimming coach, Becca Cruz, and my cheeks ache from all the fake smiling.
At least her office is attached to the indoor swimming facility and comes with a cleansing waft of fresh chlorine. Maybe the fumes will clean out my mind.
“A lot of our athletes come up a week early, too. It’s an option for you, but not mandatory.” The way the last word tumbles from my coach’s tongue gives me a sense that while I’m not obligated to show up early, I am expected to.
“Thank you, Coach. I’ll give that some serious thought.” I shake her hand at the exit from the swimming venue, the rumble of Miguel’s truck apparent about fifty feet behind me. My coach’s gaze drifts over my shoulder as our hands part.
“That your ride?”
I glance behind me, my eyes going right to the tatted arm stretched out the driver’s side window. Rowan’s other hand is draped over the steering wheel, and his ballcap is pulled low over his brow. He looks to be napping.
“Which one?” I chuckle when I turn back to face her.
“I'm assuming the one being driven by that sexy guy with tattoos.” Coach lifts a brow when our eyes meet, and we share a silent but mutual acknowledgement that Rowan is incredibly good looking. “It looks like the other two aren't really road-ready.”
“Yeah, he’s my ride. The ugly Toyota on the trailer is mine, and I lucked out running into him.”
“As in, you just met and he’s already hauling your car around for you and driving you back to the Valley?” She laughs through her words, and I realize how I made it sound.
“No, not like that. Rowan and I are . . . old friends.” I chew at my lip for a second, and my coach lets out an audible, “Ha!”
“I have an old friend like that. He became my husband,” she jokes, but the insinuation lands heavy in the center of my chest.
“Really, we’re just friends.” It’s a lie, and even I don’t believe it the way it sounds coming from my mouth. But I don’t exactly have terms that define whatever the hell it is Rowan and I are doing. And I’m not telling my coach that he’s my ex’s brother and we’re potential fuck buddies.
“Keep me posted on your plans, if you plan to come up for the early week and off-the-books training. Oh, and let me know how the coaching works out. Maybe I can catch a meet when I head down there for recruiting this summer. You can tell me which fifth and sixth graders to keep an eye on.”
We exchange a pleasant laugh as I nod, then turn to head toward Rowan.
My jaw pops as I stretch my mouth open wide, erasing the smile from existence.
I’m exhausted from pretending to be excited about any of this, and I feel guilty that Coach Cruz likes me so much.
I like her! In fact, I wouldn’t mind getting a few coaching pointers from her.
I’m simply not jazzed about competing anymore.
But who knows, maybe I’ll find that spark before that first week of August rolls around.
“Excuse me, sir. There’s no loitering here,” I say in a deep voice that still sounds exactly like me.
Rowan’s mouth quirks up on my side, and he stretches both arms out over the steering wheel before pulling his hat from his head and running a palm through his incredible hair. He tosses the hat on the dash.
“You texted me to be here at five. I can’t help it if you ladies got chatty.” He taps the watch on his left wrist.
I wince and utter, “Sorry.”
He leans his head toward the passenger side.
“Come on. Get in.”
Four simple words, but somehow, uttered in his deep voice, they’ve made me feel all tingly.
I skip around the front of the truck and climb into my seat, dumping my stack of business school brochures and application onto the center console. Rowan slides his hand over it while I buckle up.
“You thinking of following in your mom’s footsteps?” He squints as he glances up to meet my eyes. I sense his disappointment, and I want to quash it fast.
“Oh, God no! I did her a favor and met with the dean. That’s as far as that goes. I can’t imagine a life of spreadsheets and boardrooms.”
He nods, then sweeps my stack of papers into a neat pile and deposits it into the groove between my seat and the console.
“Good. I don’t see that life for you either. You’re meant for something . . . more.” He nods with that final word, and hearing him say it with such confidence fills me with a little bit of my own.
“Thanks,” I croak.
He winks, then turns his attention to the front of the truck, shifting gears and slowly pulling us around the athletics parking lot and onto the road.
The lodge isn’t far, and the air smells of fried fish the second we exit the truck.
“Would you be against ordering a pizza instead?” I plead.
“Good idea,” he laughs out, pulling his phone from his pocket as we head toward the lodge’s lobby doors.
“Supreme? Cheese? You pick,” he offers, passing the phone to me with an order app ready and waiting.
“How do you feel about mushrooms?” I quirk a brow.
“Fucking disgusting.”
I smirk, then select the Supreme. I’m tempted to get double mushrooms just to be a brat. It’s something I would have done when we were kids. But I don’t feel like teasing Rowan that way as an adult, so I ask for them to only be on half, then hit submit and hand him back his phone.
“I would have eaten them, by the way,” he utters as we pass through the lobby. “But only for you.”
He chuckles, and I know he’s simply being flirty and cute, but the sentiment makes me swoon like a schoolgirl. I could smell his fresh-showered scent in the truck, but somehow in the closeness and quiet of an elevator—the two of us alone—the fragrance is more intoxicating.
“Is that the hotel’s shampoo I smell?” I ask.
He laughs silently and pivots so he’s facing my left side, then drops his mouth to the curve of my neck. His lips are soft and send an instant rush of chills down my body.
“I think it’s called Amber Rain. You like it?” His mouth moves up my jawline, then nips at my ear.
“I think I might, yeah,” I say, my eyes fluttering shut as the beeps counting the floors count their way to eight.
The doors open, and Rowan backs out slowly, holding a hand out to me. Our fingers tether, the connection so easy and natural.
“The top floor, huh? Did you reserve the penthouse for us?” I know this place doesn’t have those, but still, I like that he put us on the top, and as we make our way down the hall, it seems he also put us at the end. Away from everyone else. Private. Alone.
“It might not have a hot tub inside, but it does come with complimentary water and the best mattresses according to reviews on Yelp and .”
“Oooo,” I tease.
Rowan keeps our hands locked as he reaches into his pocket with his other hand and fishes out a key card that he presses against the door sensor.
It unlocks and pushes the door open, dragging me behind him and quickly tossing the card into the room before spinning me around so my back is against the door the moment we’re inside.
With my wrists locked in his hands and held above my head, Rowan has me caged between the door and his body.
My breathing stutters, and my eyes lose focus as the lids grow heavy.
Through everything, we haven’t kissed. The way Rowan’s mouth is hovering over mine, his lips so close, but not quite, his tongue tempting to taste, but not giving in, has me feeling drunk.
“We have thirty minutes until pizza gets here. But I’m hungry now,” he says as his eyes seer into mine.
The green is showing off tonight. His hair is still damp from his earlier shower, and the longer strands have curled over his forehead.
I’ve never felt the rush of desire so quickly.
One look from him has me soaking wet. His touch, both rough and gentle, has my breasts aching.
My mouth wants to bite into his, to tug on his soft bottom lip, then sink into the hard muscles along his shoulders.
“So, eat,” I finally say, my voice raspy with want.
“Fuuuuuuck, Saylor. The way you have me,” he growls into the crook of my neck.
He keeps my hands locked under one of his while his other hand drops to the bottom of my T-shirt, gliding up my stomach to the cotton bra underneath. He pulls the cups down and rolls my hard nipple between his finger and thumb, and my body buzzes with both relief and need.
He pushes my shirt up my body to expose my breasts, sinking his mouth over my nipple and holding it hostage between his teeth, sawing the tender peak with sweet, gentle pressure.
“Oh, fuck,” I moan.
At the sound of my voice, Rowan leaves my hands and quickly pulls my shirt over my head, then strips me of my bra, tossing it behind him. His mouth moves from one breast to the other, his tongue flicking my nipples before his soft lips suck them until I cry out.