12. Dash #2
She leans forward. “Could we hit a liquor store, too? I think I’m going to need a little more champagne.”
I reach over the back of the seat and snag the bottle chilling in the ice bucket.
“Already ahead of you, Noelle.” I pop the cork with a lowthudand hold up the label so she can see.
“This isn’t gas station bubbly. This is the good stuff—Veuve Clicquot.
Classy, right? Doesn’t even have a screw top. ”
She laughs, the sound spilling out of her like champagne bubbles, and takes the flute I pour for her.
“Not what we drank in college, huh?”
Her nose wrinkles. “God, don’t remind me. That was more sugar water than wine.”
“Yeah, and gave us hangovers from hell,” I say, clinking my glass against hers before taking a slow sip.
The SUV slows to a stop in front of the bakery. I drain my glass, set it down, and slide out. “Be right back.”
Inside, I don’t half-ass it. I point, nod, and order like a man on a mission: cheesecake, strawberry shortcakes, chocolate mousse domes, lemon tarts, almond croissants, cannolis, macarons in every color they have, and more.
When I slide back in the SUV, Noelle’s eyes go wide, then narrow. “Dash … what did youdo?”
“Secured our happy ending,” I tell her, pulling out a couple of the pastry boxes and setting them on my lap. “Don’t worry, Noelle; I’m sure I got your favorite in here somewhere.”
Joel glances in the rearview mirror, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. I hand a smaller box up to him over the seat. “A couple of eclairs and some cannolis for you, Joel. Thanks for putting up with us.”
He chuckles, a low, easy sound. “Much appreciated.”
When I turn back to her, she’s staring at her screen, mouth agape.
“Hand it over.” I hold out my hand. “You don’t need to deal with anything but me, you, desserts, and whatever else we may get down to tonight.”
When she hands me the phone, I’m a little shocked and dare I say hopeful that she’s being agreeable? And then I see the text chain.
Sofie
Dash flew out last night. No one knows where he is. Everyone’s freaking out.
Nalani
Correction, we didn’t, but we do now. He’s with YOU!
Claudia
Girl. Pics don’t lie. Dancing. Sitting with college buds. And, yep, arm around you, getting in the SUV.
Right in the middle, she replied.
Noelle
Do NOT freak out. Seriously. It’s fine.
Three seconds later, the flood resumes.
Sofie
They call him the ONE NIGHT DASH. Noelle, tell me you didn’t.
Nalani
If you did … bless you. Also, DETAILS.
Claudia
He looks like trouble. Delicious trouble. But still trouble.
Sofie
You deserve BETTER than a one-and-done.
Nalani
Or … maybe she deserves exactly that. For cardio and cobweb removal.
Claudia
Oh my God! Nalani.
Nalani
What? I’m supportive.
Then, because, apparently, it can always get worse …
Sofie
Also, Coach D thinks he had a family emergency.
Nalani
But can’t confirm or deny because his phone is off.
Sofie
You are in so much trouble for holding out on me. ME of all people!
Claudia
Worth it?
Nalani
Better be. At least tell me it tastes like champagne.
Sofie
STOP.
Claudia
Noelle, blink twice if you need rescue. Just … not yet. Get it, girl!
I bark out a laugh and glance at her. She’s groaning into her hands.
“I told them not to freak out,” she mutters.
“Yeah.” I nod, waving the phone at her. “I saw that. Real effective. Like pouring gasoline on a fire.”
Her head snaps up, cheeks hot. “They don’t listen.”
“No,” I say, handing the phone back. “But I do. And they’re wrong, Noelle.”
Her eyes soften, cautious. “About what?”
“That One Night Dash crap.” I shrug, casual but deliberate. “Not with you, anyway. I wanna lock this down. Give it the attention I should have then.”
“Who says I want anything more than a One Night Dash?”
I pump a fist in the air and tell absolutely no one, “Confirmation: she wants me.” Then I turn back, lock eyes with her, and drag my tongue slowly over my bottom lip.
“I’m gonna make sure we get so addicted we’ll need a twelve-step program.
Step one: admit you can’t quit me. Step two: admit you don’t want to.
Step three? We’ll figure it out in the meetings.
When they make us sit in that circle, I’ll go first.” I lean in, voice low, my lips across hers, but not quite a kiss, just close enough to tempt. “Hi, I’m Dash, and I’m a Noelle-holic.”
Her snort breaks into a laugh she tries to smother behind her hand, but it’s too late; I’ve got her.
When she catches her breath, she narrows her eyes. “Cute. But if you’re a Noelle-holic, I’m calling your sponsor first thing tomorrow. Intervention, full lockdown. Step one: admit Dash Sterling is a walking red flag. Step two: remember that players don’t get lifetime contracts.”
“Ouch.” I clutch my chest, grinning like an idiot. “That’s cold. Almost Estella-level cold.”
She tilts her chin, lips twitching. “Maybe I’m not Biddy or Estella. Maybe I’m the girl who makes you sweat through every chapter before you find out how it ends.”
“Plot twist,” I murmur, dragging my tongue over my bottom lip again, slow and deliberate. “I like working for it.”
Joel clears his throat up front, steering us into the glowing circle of the hotel drive. The vehicle slows, tires crunching against the curb.
I glance at Noelle, still grinning. She’s flushed from champagne and laughter, hot and a sassy kind of sweet. She gives as good as she gets. And I’m not just hooked. I’m gone.
He eases the SUV to the hotel’s entrance and comes to a stop. I’m out first, bag of boxed pastries in one hand, her smaller hand in the other. She slides across the seat, heels clicking as she steps down. I reach back for the champagne and chuckle at the weight of the bottle.
“Guessing water’s gonna pair better with whatever we choose to eat in the room,” I tease, because it’s over half gone and I decide to leave it there.
She scrunches her nose, busted , and I sling my arm around her as we head inside.
The lobby gleams. The place is nice. Of course it is; it’s where Lauren and Louie would expect their guests to stay.
I wonder how she does it? Has her own place, business, and can spend money on a place like this.
It’s shit I will never stop thinking about, even though I don’t have to anymore.
But I don’t pay for rooms—the team does—and when I booked this, I was still shocked at eight hundred a night for a king-sized room, not a suite.
Would have sprung for that, but they were all booked.
Why am I letting my head drift to money, Lauren, and Louie right now?
Strategy. Those topics are guaranteed boner killers, and I need them.
Because with Noelle tucked under my arm, flushed and smiling, having no damn idea what she does to me, I feel less like a guy sneaking out of a wedding and more like a king who just found his queen.
Which means the last thing I can afford is letting Excalibur make an early appearance.
Or maybe it’s not Excalibur—hell, let’s call it Gungnir, Odin’s spear.
Or Thor’s hammer. Pick your weapon of mass distraction.
Point is, if I draw it too soon, I risk spooking her.
And, for once, it’s not about getting her in bed fast. It’s about pacing myself, keeping the blade sheathed until she knows I’m not here for just the fight—I’m here for the war. For her. For us.
So, yeah, I’ll keep thinking about Lauren’s smug face and Louie’s oversized wallet—anything to make sure I don’t blow the only other thing I’ve ever wanted to last, besides my hockey career.
We step into the elevator, pastries rustling in the bag, and I lean against the mirrored wall, meaning it when I say, “No expectations, Noelle. Just dessert and?—”
Her mouth cuts me off.
Soft. Urgent. Champagne-sweet. She kisses me like she’s in charge, and fuck it, she can think that because the shit you read about in books—that you never really wanted to read when you had to—happens. The world tilts, and every nerve in my body lights up at once.
She tastes like bubbles of sweetness, her tongue darting against mine with this mix of heat and hesitance that shatters me. My hand finds the small of her back, pulling her flush against me, while the other grips the back of her neck like it’s an anchor to my reserves.
Her breath hitches when I nip her bottom lip, and the sound nearly undoes me. She smells so fucking good. Pure Noelle, sweet, and honest, and fucking hot.
The elevator hums, climbing. Floor four, floor five. I don’t hear the chimes; all I hear is her soft gasp when I angle her chin higher, the wet slide of lips and teeth, the little moan she tries to swallow down.
By floor six, my head’s spinning. By floor seven, I’m ruined. By floor eight, when the doors slide open, she’s gripping my shirt in both fists, mouth still fused to mine like she’s not gonna stop—thank God—and like she intends on dragging me straight through the hallway if I give her the chance.
And I will. Gladly.
She breaks our kiss and tilts her face up at me. “How did you know where I was staying?”
“Because I’ve got a room here, too. Fly out to Detroit at five a.m. to get my ass handed to me. That kiss, being here with you in that dress, worth it.”
Her brows lift, but before she can ask more, we step out of the elevator as the doors start to close, the world narrowing to just the two of us walking down the hallway.
“Your room or mine?”