Chapter 3
EMMETT
Iwake up to emptiness, the sheets beside me are cool. No, they’re cold, she's been gone for a while. I reach out anyway, my hand finding nothing but wrinkled fabric.
Fuck.
Did she seriously go? I thought we might have time for another round.
I sit up and scrub my hand over my face. The hotel room is too quiet. Too still. Morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows. London in all her gray glory outside. When I look around the room, I notice her dress is gone from the floor, as are her shoes. Everything.
Of course, she left. Was I too rough? Did I scare her? The guys always tell me my gruffness is a turn-off to women.
I swing my legs out of bed and stand, then walk to the bathroom just to double-check she isn't in there and I'm overreacting.
The countertop is bare except for the hotel's complimentary shit.
No proof she was ever here except the marks on my body and the ache in my chest I don't want to acknowledge.
I brace my hands on the sink and stare at my reflection. You knew this was a one-night thing.
I did. I do.
Still feels like I got hit with a slapshot to the ribs, though, which is kind of a first. I've had one-night stands before. I'm a professional athlete. I've been on the road since I was eighteen. I know how this works. You hook up. You leave. You move on. No strings. No complications. No feelings.
Except I kind of wanted her number. She wasn't afraid of the silence between us.
Nor my gruffness or directness. I'm not always great in social situations, which is a problem, especially as the captain of the Manhattan Mavericks hockey team.
The PR people hate me because I'm neither warm nor chatty.
But she seemed to like my one-syllable answers.
My grunts and huffs. And that's rare. I wanted more than one night with that beautiful woman.
I'm also pissed she didn't even leave a fucking note.
Most do. They leave their number and social handles.
And the one time I want the information, nothing.
All I know is her name is Jo. She has an accent, maybe French Canadian, but I think she lives in London.
I turn on the shower and make it as cold as I can stand. Let the water beat against my shoulders, my neck, the muscles still tight from last night. From her. The way she felt under my hands, the sounds she made. The way she looked at me like she was deciding whether to trust me and then chose to.
Now my dick is hard.
Fucking hell.
I blast myself with icy cold water to make my dick go down. I shut off the water, dry off, and get dressed.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Lincoln: Outside. Are you ready or still sleeping off whatever you did last night?
Right, I promised him a round of Top Golf yesterday before he kidnapped me to the club.
Emmett: I'm coming.
Lincoln: I bet you did last night.
I roll my eyes at him. Fucker. I grab my wallet, my phone, and my key card and leave the hotel room without looking back.
Lincoln is leaning against a sleek black Range Rover in the hotel's circular drive, aviators on, looking like he just stepped out of a fucking cologne ad.
He's wearing dark jeans and a fitted white tee that shows off the build of a professional soccer player.
Sorry, footballer, as he calls himself. His hair is artfully messy in that way that probably took twenty minutes.
Loser. Our moms are twin sisters and are super close.
Except that Aunty Cora fell in love with an exchange student in college from London.
Unbeknownst to her he was some billionaire, Lord.
She moved halfway across the world from where she grew up with my mom, Clara, back in Madison, Wisconsin.
Two completely different worlds. But every summer school holidays we went to England, or they came to America.
We were forced to get along. Which was hard when I was hockey mad, and he was into soccer.
He grins when he sees me. "You look like shit, mate."
"Good morning to you, too."
"Rough night?" He chuckles.
I shrug, refusing to answer him, and climb into the passenger seat. "Something like that."
He doesn't push, just pulls out into London traffic with the ease of someone who's lived here for years.
We're quiet for a few minutes as I stare out the window, watching the city slide past. People living their normal lives, while mine feels like it just got flipped upside down by a woman in a white dress who didn't want to stick around.
"Are you good?" Lincoln asks, glancing at me.
"Yeah, fine."
"Are you sure? Because you've got that look," he states.
"What look?"
"The one where you're about to murder someone on the ice." He chuckles.
"I'm not on the ice."
"Exactly, which means something's up. You're gruffier than usual."
"Gruffier? That's not a word," I tell him.
"It is."
I roll my eyes and don't answer him.
He laughs. "All right, keep your secrets. But I'm kicking your ass today, so whatever's got you twisted up better not affect your swing."
"My swing is fine."
"We'll see," he says.
Top Golf is packed, and as soon as everyone sees Lincoln Beckett has arrived, all eyes are on us.
I like coming to Europe because no one knows me here.
Maybe a couple of Swedes, Fins, or Russians, but the public don't. It's the same when Lincoln comes to America.
They have no idea who he is. It's nice not having all eyes on you for a moment.
Except now they are. All on him, not me.
Thankfully, Lincoln called ahead and got us a private room with a city view. Perks of being a Premier League striker with a recognizable face.
We order food, coffee for me, and some overpriced smoothie thing for him.
"I thought you were on holiday?" I ask. Nodding at his drink.
"Gotta stay looking good for the cameras." He smirks, rubbing his flat stomach. The guy is vain. There are images of him on the side of buildings in his underwear. "Got to give the people what they want, which is me without my shirt on."
I shake my head at him as we grab our clubs.
Lincoln sets up first, punching numbers into the screen with the confidence of someone who's done this a hundred times. He lines up his shot and swings. The ball sails out and lands dead center in the yellow target.
"Show-off," I mutter.
"Jealous."
"Not even close." I step up and line up my own shot. My shoulders are tight, my mind is elsewhere. Jo in that dress. Jo under me. Jo walking out without a word. I swing harder than I mean to. The ball veers left and misses the target completely.
Lincoln whistles. "Told you. Twisted up."
"Shut up."
"What happened last night?" he asks. Leaning on his club. "And don't say nothing because I've known you your whole life and you don't miss shots like that unless something's in your head."
I grab another ball. "Just tired. Jet lag, probably.”
"Bullshit."
"Drop it, Lincoln." I glare at him.
He holds up his hands. "All right, all right. But for the record, you're a terrible liar."
He's not wrong.
We fall into a rhythm. Hit balls. Talk shit.
The sun climbs higher, burning off the morning clouds, the food arrives, and we eat between swings.
Lincoln tells me about his pre-season schedule, the new midfielder they signed, the endorsement deals his agent is negotiating.
I listen. Nod. Offer the occasional comment.
But my mind keeps drifting back to her. The way she tilted her chin up to meet my eyes.
The way she said my name when she came. The way she fit against me in the dark like she was meant to be there.
And then the way she left. Like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.
"You're doing it again," Lincoln says.
"Doing what?"
"That thing where you look like you want to fight someone." He smirks.
"I don't want to fight anyone," I tell him.
"Could've fooled me."
I take another swing, and this one lands closer to the center, not perfect, but better.
Lincoln studies me for a second, then shrugs. "It’s not got to do with that girl you took home?”
I give him a look.
“Are you upset about her? Did she not suck your dick or something?”
“Fuck you,” I warn him.
This makes him laugh. “You're on holiday, forget about her and live a little."
I roll my eyes again. "I live."
Lincoln glares at me. "You taking home that girl last night was the most fun I've seen you have in a long time."
I flip him off. "Where are we going again?" I ask. Changing the subject.
"Monaco. I've got a mate with a yacht. Figured we'd spend a few days there. Hit up some clubs. Enjoy the sun. Meet some beautiful women."
"Sounds good." I try to muster some enthusiasm.
"You sure you're up for it? Because if you're going to be moody the whole time ...." He raises a brow at me.
"I'm not moody," I argue. I am moody.
He laughs. "Right. And I'm not the best-looking footballer in the Premier League."
"You're definitely not."
"Fuck off."
I almost smile. Almost.
Lincoln lines up another shot. "So. The girl from last night?"
I ignore him.
“You’re not going to talk about her?”
“No.” This earns me some grumbles. "What about you? Did you meet anyone last night?"
He chuckles. "Did I meet anyone? Didn't you see me flirting with Polly? She was friends with the girl you hooked up with."
This has my attention. "Did you get her number?" I ask him.
"Who?"
"Penny? Polly? Whatever her name was."
"No."
Fuck. "No?"
He takes another swing. This time there's a little bit of pepper to it.
"No. Because when I woke up this morning, she was gone. Left me in the middle of the night."
"Me too," I say before I realize it.
Lincoln's eyes widen. "Knew it. You did hook up with her friend."
"I did. And she left me in the middle of the night. No number. No nothing."
"Her friend did the same thing to me. I've never had a woman do that to me before." I raise a brow at my cousin. "I know, right. Like, who wouldn't want this?" He smirks.