CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Dublin
I wake slowly.
First to warmth. Then to weight. Then to the deep delicious ache low in my body. I know exactly where I am before I even open my eyes.
My breath catches. For one suspended second, before thought comes crashing back in, all I know is that I’m warm. Sated. Tangled in sheets that smell like Cole. Wrapped in heavy, boneless exhaustion that only comes from giving in completely.
Then reality arrives—harsh and merciless—and I open my eyes.
Gray morning light filters through the windows, soft and almost gentle enough to make me forget how violently last night changed things.
Almost.
Cole’s asleep beside me. He’s flat on his stomach with one arm tucked halfway beneath the pillow and the sheet riding low enough to expose the broad span of his back.
He looks younger. Less guarded. And definitely less like the man who kissed me in the foyer as if he was starving and I was the only thing within reach.
Less like the quarterback with the world watching him implode.
And nothing like the man standing in the rain while his father tore him apart one insulting word at a time.
My throat tightens.
The peace on his face is almost unbearable because I know now how hard won it must be. How rare it probably is.
And how I’ve contributed to it in my own ways.
Get up, Dublin.
Instead, I watch him breathe. In. Out. Slow. Even. Easy.
My hand lifts before I can stop it, fingers hovering above the tanned skin of his shoulder, wanting to touch him for no other reason than because I can. And that I want to know if he feels as real in daylight as he did in the dark.
I don’t touch him though. It’s bad enough that I’m here and even worse that I stayed. Some part of me isn’t sorry. I pull my hand back and stare at the ceiling.
What have I done?
I close my eyes and sigh as the question repeats in my head. Not because I’m naive—I know exactly what I’ve done. I crossed a line I’ve never crossed before.
I slept with a man I’m investigating. The one I am supposed to assess objectively.
A man I told myself I didn’t trust while at the same time . . .
I wanted him. Want him.
This most definitely wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t one drink too many in Cabo and a bad decision made under vacation lights and borrowed courage.
This was sober. Intentional. This was me driving here to the point that when it came down to it—when every reason to walk away stood up and stared me in the face—I still chose him.
I press my fingers to my eyes. Decision made. I need to go. To get distance. To have space to think and shake him from my . . . everything. His touch. His kiss. His—
Just go. Stop thinking.
I shift carefully and inch my way out from beneath the sheet, doing everything I can not to disturb him.
This can still be managed.
That’s all there is to it.
I switch into business mode. More like self-preservation mode.
It was one reckless, impossible night that no one has to know about. And if I leave now, quietly, before this becomes anything more, then maybe I can put it back where it belongs. File it away under a lapse in judgment never to happen again.
Another glance at him and I know I’m lying to myself. Do you actually think you can forget this? Move on from this?
I sit up, wincing slightly at the delicious ache between my thighs.
Heat floods my face and body.
It was just sex. Just incredibly good, deliciously satisfying sex.
Okay. It was the best sex of my life.
Move. Get up. Leave.
The sheet slips as I swing my legs over the side of the bed and the room around me comes into focus. My leggings on the floor. His shorts wet and bunched up in the doorway. One of my shoes by his dresser. A trail of belongings and discarded restraint leading all the way back into the hallway.
I can even see puddles of water that still haven’t dried on the tile of the bedroom floor. A storm tracked all the way through the house because neither of us had the sense, or control, to stop long enough to care.
Yeah, like I’m supposed to forget about this when we didn’t care like that.
I stand slowly, pushing my tangled mess of hair out of my face, and begin gathering my clothes piece by piece, but it becomes apparent rather quickly that it’s all still wet.
My bra is in a small puddle of water. My leggings are inside out and damp.
My underwear . . . well, who needs those to drive home, anyway.
There has to be something else I can wear home. A quick glance at the bed tells me he’s still peacefully asleep.
I spot a stacked of folded shirts on a chair near the dresser and hesitate a beat before moving to them.
Just borrow one. Leave. Then deal with the rest later. That’s the plan.
I reach for the first one on top.
“Not that one.” His sleep-drugged voice slices through the quiet.
I jump so hard, I nearly drop the shirt. Spinning, I clutch it to my chest and find him watching me. He’s on his back now, one arm thrown behind his head, eyes heavy with sleep, and other parts of him very much awake.
My gaze flicks at the sheet and the unmistakable pitch in it. Of course he notices, and if his eyes didn’t give it away, the slow corner of his mouth lifting does.
“Take the red one,” he says. “It’ll look better on you. The white one is a bit see-through and while I sure as hell don’t mind, I’m sure you will on your drive home.”
I stare at him because there are a hundred possible things he could have said—somehow that was worse than all of them.
Considerate. Intimate. Normal. As though women waking up in his bed and stealing his shirts is a thing that just .
. . happens. Almost like last night was just another in a long string of last nights for him.
The thought unsettles me. Especially because I’m in the process of trying to convince myself that none of this mattered.
“Dublin?” He lifts a lone brow.
“I have to go.”
His expression changes slowly. The easy edge dissipates. Then the humor in his eyes. What’s left is unreadable.
“Okay,” he says with a slow nod.
Okay.
That’s it.
No protest.
No question.
No wait.
A cold chill slips into the space between my ribs, and I pick up the red shirt just to have something to do with my hands.
You can’t have it both ways, Dub. You can’t tell yourself and him this is nothing, meant nothing, but then get upset when he implies the same thing.
“I mean it,” I say, more to save face. “I need to leave. Get home. Get to work. And figure out—” I stop myself before I say too much. Before my ramble sounds as panicked as I feel.
When I turn back around, he’s pushed himself up against the headboard, the sheet sliding lower and exposing skin I refuse to look at.
Well, mostly refuse.
“Figure out what?” he asks.
Everything.
How I’m supposed to walk back into my life after this and look my boss in the eye.
How I’m supposed to convince myself that one night with you was worth the professional suicide mission attached to it.
Instead, I say, “What this means.”
His gaze holds mine for a beat too long, before he shrugs and moves the pillow at his side. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
The words are casual, almost kind in their own way, and yet somehow, they feel like a slap.
My laugh is short and humorless as I turn my back toward him to slide the shirt over my head as if I need privacy. As if his hands and mouth hadn’t explored every inch of my body last night.
The shirt smells like him—soft cotton, clean soap, and something darker underneath that makes my pulse misfire in spite of everything.
“Got it.” I choke over the words as I bend down, reaching for my underwear to at least take them with me. “Of course.”
His eyebrows draw together. “That’s not what I meant.”
My hands tremble just enough to make me angry. “Right.”
I let out a sharp breath, dragging my hands through my hair and pulling it up as I pace, needing to abate this overload of emotions.
“Dublin—”
“At least we got it out of our system, right?” There’s an edge to my voice and I hate that I can’t smooth it out.
My comment’s met with silence. I turn around to see he hasn’t moved, still propped against the headboard, still watching me like he hasn’t quite decided what to do with me yet.
He’s too calm and it grates against my nerves already raw with uncertainty.
“Say something,” I snap. “Do something.”
He toggles his head from side to side. “Okay.”
I blink as I wait for more, but none comes. “That’s it?” I ask, incredulously. “That’s all you’re going to give me?”
He shifts, slow and deliberate, pushing himself up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. And when he stands, when the sheet slides off and he walks toward me in all his gorgeous naked glory—
Don’t look. Don’t cave. Eyes. Look at his eyes.
My gaze flicks up just in time to catch the edge of a smirk tugging at his mouth.
Damn him.
He stops a foot in front of me, not touching, but close enough that I can feel him. The awareness. The pull. The memory that this distance didn’t exist between us hours ago.
He’s close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that my body reacts before my brain can catch up.
This. This is exactly the problem.
He reaches out, cups the side of my face, and brushes his thumb over my lips. “Good morning,” he murmurs like I’m not melting down. Then he drops his hand, skimming his fingertips down my arm as he goes.
Chills chase across my skin. They’re impossible to ignore.
I huff.
His smile is soft in response. “Not sure what you want me to say,” he says. “Pretty sure whatever I do say isn’t going to be right.”
“Try anything.” I’m irritated but not with him. “Because right now it feels like I’m the only one in this room who understands the gravity of what happened.”
He tilts his head, muscle pulsing in his jaw. “That so?”
“Yes.” I step closer before I can stop myself and then immediately jump back when his erection bumps my stomach. Eyes wide, cheeks heating and body aching for more, I focus on the only thing that will keep this want at bay—anger.
He fights a smirk and fails miserably. “We’re you saying something?”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?” He blinks innocently.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. What are we needing to be serious about?”
I exhale harshly. “I’m the one who just risked everything for . . .” I gesture between us. “For this.”
He exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s trying not to laugh. “Funny.” A lift of his eyebrows. “Could’ve sworn there were two of us here.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“The point is,” I say, forcing the words through the tension tightening in my chest. It’s like my body’s warring between having a full-blown panic attack and wanting to push him back and repeat last night. Neither is welcome. I take a deep breath to settle myself. “This can’t happen again.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” I repeat. “Can you have any other response besides that?”
“What do you want me to say?” he asks. “You’ve got a whole list of reasons why this shouldn’t have happened. I’ve yet to argue with any of them.”
“That doesn’t mean you weren’t complicit.” Frustration vibrates through my voice. “That doesn’t mean if someone found out they wouldn’t think you were sleeping with me to affect the outcome. That my findings aren’t compromised for agreeing to it. Or do those things not matter to you?”
“You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“Then stop acting like this is nothing.”
“I never said it was nothing,” he replies, quieter now.
I shake my head, pacing, needing space from him and the way he keeps cutting through me without raising his voice.
I don’t even know what I’m trying to justify anymore and the more I do, the more I sound like I’m spiraling.
That’s because you are, Dublin.
Make some sense. Articulate. Be you.
But I’ve never slept with someone I’m investigating. And to be fair, that isn’t his fault or his problem. It’s mine.
But it’s so much easier to project my concerns on him to ease the panic rioting through me.
That makes it a hard, frustrating point when he doesn’t seem to think there is a problem.
“I don’t do this, Cole.”
“I’m going to need more than that.”
“This isn’t a game. This is my life.”
“And you don’t think I know that?” he asks, words biting. “You don’t think my life isn’t tied up, isn’t in your hands too?”
His words startle me and give me pause. I never considered it that way. I never . . .
“I don’t sleep with athletes I’m investigating. I don’t risk my career like that. I don’t jump into bed with someone when it means nothing to them. I don’t—just don’t do this.” Tears burn in my eyes, but I shove them away.
“That’s what you think?”
“Yes. No.” I throw my hands out. “You’re the one acting like this is just some inevitable hookup you can pencil in between practices.”
The muscles in his neck grow taut. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend this meant less just so you can walk away cleaner.”
Oof. Hammer meet nail. Because that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.
“That’s what you want though,” I say, even if I’m not sure I believe it.
He steps closer, voice dropping. “To know what I want, you’d have to ask me, but I think you’re too afraid of the answer to do that.”
I hate that he sees what I’m doing when I don’t. Hate that he’s calling me out. And I loathe that my pride wants him to be wrong.
“I’m not pretending anything.” My voice breaks. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s there.
“You are,” he says quietly.
Silence settles between us.
“If you could take it back,” he says, watching me carefully, “would you?”
My chest tightens. My mind scrambles for answers I should give. The one that protects me and makes sense, but the truth is sitting front and center. In the fact that I’m still standing here.
“I—” I sigh and don’t finish.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Didn’t think so.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Because I wouldn’t.”
His words hang between us and surprise me. “You wouldn’t?”
“No.” His smile is shy, but that lone syllable is resolute.
“Was it the last thing I expected after the night I had? Definitely. But . . .” He drags a hand over the back of his neck and his smile morphs into a grin that lights up his entire face.
“Christ. You know how to make a man forget the bad by making him feel incredible.”
I blink. The argument on my tongue dies. The woman in me nearly whimpers at his words.
He’s not promising forevers and tomorrows—and how creepy would that be if he were after one night together—but he’s also not saying this was nothing to him.
I can live with that. Besides, if the man had regrets, he could have let me sneak out without saying a word—much like Cabo.
But he didn’t.
“You can run, Trouble,” he says. That name. “You’ve got a lot of reasons to.” His eyes dart over my shoulder and then back to mine. “But you haven’t run yet, and I’m not complaining about that.”
Jesus.
He’s right.
I haven’t moved.
Because I don’t want to.
Because if I’m honest with myself, if we were any other two people in the world, I wish he’d ask me to stay.