Chapter 3 #2
Dickhead. "Do we know anything about them?" I ask. Trying not to sound interested.
"Forget them." He throws his arm over my shoulder. "We are about to spend the next week cruising around the Mediterranean, inundated with beautiful women." He's right. But I'm not so sure I can forget about her.
We play another round. Then another. The competition between us heats up the way it always does. Hockey versus football. America versus England. Cousins who've been trying to one-up each other since we were kids. By the time we finish, I'm up by fifteen points.
"Best three out of five," Lincoln says immediately.
"We've already played three rounds."
"Because you knew I'd destroy you if we kept going."
"You literally just lost. Three times."
"Flukes. All of them."
We settle the bill and head back to the car.
The drive to Lincoln's place in Chelsea is quieter.
We pull up to his building and head inside.
His flat is exactly what I'd expect. Clean.
Modern. Expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames.
Trophies and framed jerseys on the walls.
A life built on success and discipline, not unlike mine.
Lincoln grabs two beers from the fridge and tosses me one.
"Just checked the forecast for Monaco. Clear skies all week."
"Perfect." I grin, opening my beer.
Then his brows pull together for a fleeting moment.
"What?" I ask him.
"Nothing."
"Lincoln."
He glances at me. "It's nothing. Just ... I keep thinking about her. Polly."
Fuck. I know exactly how he feels.
"Why?" he asks.
"Why?" I repeat.
"Yeah. I can have anyone. I've been hit up three times today by three different women for a booty call.
" My brows rise as I sip my beer. "But all I can think about is her.
" He sounds very perplexed. "She was different, you know?
" he continues. "Not like the usual girls. She was funny. Smart. Gave me shit right back when I tried my usual lines.”
"Yeah," I say, trying to sound supportive.
"And then she just ... left. Didn't even wake me up to say goodbye. Most women wake me up by sucking my dick one last time. Hoping for me to invite them to stay, or that they might be the one to take me off the market. But I'm never that interested."
"You're a dick."
"Hey, they know what they're getting when they come home with Lincoln Beckett." He points his beer at me.
"A session of devotion at the altar of your dick."
"Damn right they are devoted to my dick. Usually, it's the biggest they've ever had," he boasts.
"Ew. I don't want to know about your dick." I screw up my face.
"Are you saying you don't have a big dick? They say the size usually comes from your mother's side."
"What?"
"It's okay if your dick is average. There's nothing to be ashamed of."
"There's nothing wrong with my dick," I yell at him.
He holds up his hands. "Okay. If you say so." How has this turned around to me defending my dick?
“Maybe you're a selfish lover. I could see that."
"Fuck you. I eat pussy like a fucking champion. My eat out game is strong." He declares this with such confidence that it makes my stomach turn.
"Or maybe the women have been faking."
"Are you fucking serious? No. I know how to make a woman come. They are usually screaming when in bed with me. Polly screamed all night long. Maybe it's you that was shite, and that's why your girl hightailed it."
I glare at him over my beer. "Doubtful."
"You never know. Not all of us can fuck like porn stars."
"I don't need to fuck like a porn star to prove anything."
"Maybe if you did, she would have stuck around in the morning."
"Maybe if you didn't fuck like a porn star, Polly would have stuck around, too."
We both flip each other off and fall into brooding silence.
I stare out the window for a couple of beats. "Maybe that's the point."
"What?"
"Maybe it was always just supposed to be one night. No complications. No strings."
"You think?"
I shrug. "Must have been the vibe we both gave off. Otherwise, maybe they would have stuck around."
"Maybe." Lincoln contemplates that. "So," he says. "Monaco. We leave Thursday morning?"
"Works for me."
"My mate's yacht is docked there through next week. We can stay on it or get a hotel if you prefer."
"Yacht's fine.”
He grins. "Good. Because it comes with a crew, unlimited alcohol, and my mate says, there's a party Friday night. Models. Influencers. The whole scene."
"Sounds like your kind of party."
"Our kind of party," he corrects. "You need to loosen up, Em. Have some fun. Meet some girls who actually stick around for breakfast."
I take a long drink and let the beer wash down the tightness in my throat. He's right, Jo made her choice. Even if every part of me wants to track her down and ask why.
"You're doing it again," Lincoln says, watching me.
"What?"
"That brooding captain thing. The look that makes your teammates skate harder because they're terrified you're going to murder them in practice."
"I don't look like that."
"You absolutely do."
I flip him off.
He laughs and leans back against the sofa, beer in hand.
"Look, I get it. She got under your skin. Mine too. But we've got a week of sun, boats, and beautiful women waiting for us in Monaco. Let's just ... enjoy it. Forget about the ones who got away."
"When did you become a philosopher?" I tease.
"Since I realized moping around isn't going to make her magically appear."
He's right. Again.
I hate when he's right.
"All right," I say. "Monaco. No moping. No brooding."
Lincoln raises his beer. "To Monaco."
I clink my bottle against his. "To Monaco."