Chapter 7
Josie
The ocean breeze drifts through my open balcony door, but I’m still laying in bed, thinking about Declan’s mouth on mine last night.
I didn't go over there for that. Swear to God, I didn't.
I had a plan to fetch my laptop, turn my back on him, and get out of there as fast as I could.
Now, I've barely slept.
And I've got an important meeting in less than an hour, yet I can't stop thinking about what I said.
I’d never gone down on a guy before that night.
My own confession echoes back at me, humiliating and somehow… freeing.
I let out a shaky breath against my pillow, the memory wrapping around me as tight as the sheet tangled between my legs.
Below, the sunrise yoga class has started.
I set my alarm to get up and continue on my 'New Town. New Me.' goals this morning. The instructor’s voice is floating up on the salt-tinged air, a calm, melodic drone about finding your center and connecting with your breath.
Well, I'm not connecting with my breath just laying in bed.
But I have found my… center.
Because I can't stop thinking about Declan Morrison’s cock in my mouth.
"Oh, god…"
My hand slides under the silky hotel sheet, my fingertips tracing the lace edge of my panties. My body aches in the best way, a deep, hollow throb that reminds me of that night.
I’d been so nervous at Breakers. Putting on a show. Pretending to be the kind of woman who picked up strangers in beach bars, not one who lived a secret life so her mother stopped being disappointed in her.
Then Declan admitted to me last night, as we stood there looking over the ocean at sunset, that it had worked. He did think I was confident.
But when I knelt on this very hotel room floor, right over there, on the plush carpet now covered in my dirty laundry...
There was just heat. And want.
I close my eyes, the instructor’s voice below fading into a distant sound. In my mind, I’m back there. On my knees for him. The taste of salt against my tongue as he slid into my mouth, working me slowly like no man had before.
Fuck.
My fingers dip beneath the lace, finding me already slick.
“Christ… you’re a natural.”
His voice had been a ragged groan, strained and wrecked as I learned how to hold my mouth. I’d looked up at him, my lips stretched around his length, and saw his head thrown back against the door.
His entire body was coiled tight, muscles clenched before my eyes, a sight I'll never forget.
My thumb finds my clit, circling with a pressure that’s almost too much, and a sharp gasp punches from my lungs.
The yoga class is moving into a new pose, and here I am, in my hotel suite, touching myself to the memory of giving a hockey player the best blowjob of his life.
God, I want that again.
My other hand comes up to pinch my nipple through the thin cotton of my sleep shirt, the sharp pleasure mingling with the building heat between my thighs.
I bite my lip, remembering the way he’d finally lost control. The way his hips had stuttered, his grip turning desperate in my hair.
And last night… he kissed me again. He kissed me!
"Oh! Yes…"
A low moan escapes me as I quicken the circles, my back arching off the mattress. The sun is warm on my face, the scent of the sea and my own arousal thick in the air.
My breathing turns ragged, my thighs trembling. The sounds of the yoga class are a bizarre, serene soundtrack to the filthy movie playing behind my eyelids.
I’m so close. Teetering on the edge, my muscles clenching.
"Just a little more—"
My phone explodes with sound.
A full-volume, aggressive, blaring ringtone that shatters the moment like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head.
"NO!" I gasp, my hand freezing between my legs.
The phone keeps ringing, vibrating against the nightstand so violently it's inching toward the edge.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold onto the high, but it's gone. Evaporated. My orgasm retreats like a wave pulling back from shore.
"Are you fucking kidding me?!"
I grab the phone, ready to hurl it off the balcony.
My body is screaming at me to finish, to ignore the call, to chase the release that was seconds away. But my brain has already registered the name on the screen.
Colin Holden.
On a goddamn video call.
I let out a sound that's half groan, half growl, and grab the phone.
"Hello?" I answer, adjusting the sheets around me so he can't see anything.
"Josie! Morning!" Colin's voice booms through the speaker, way too cheerful for someone who just cockblocked me. "Hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."
He squints at the screen and I make sure to readjust.
"Not at all. What's up?"
"Just calling to let you know I need to push our meeting this morning. Came down with something—" He splutters a cough that's so fake it sounds like a dying vacuum cleaner. "I think I've caught this bug that's going around."
I frown, already suspicious. "You're sick?"
"Very sick. Can barely talk." He coughs again. It literally sounds about as convincing as Beck Morrison's 'innocent' face. "Probably shouldn't be on the phone, honestly. Germs and all."
Even if it was convincing, I can see him.
He's sitting in what is unmistakably a golf cart, a pair of clubs visible over his shoulder. He's even wearing a polo shirt so aggressively tropical it looks like a parrot exploded on him.
"Colin."
"Mhmm?"
"You're on a video call."
There's a long pause.
"Shit," he mutters, and I watch his face on the screen go through about five stages of realization in three seconds. "Okay, so here's the thing—"
"Colin, I can see the golf clubs sitting beside you. You're not sick. You're driving a fucking golf buggy!"
He has the audacity to grin. "Look, we can—"
"We had one meeting! About the ticket promotion for this weekend's game," I say, sitting up straighter. "The one that could actually put butts in seats for the first time all year. Remember?!"
"And I'm saying we can figure it out Monday. It's just one weekend, we'll catch the next home game."
"Colin! We don't have time for 'the next game'." I do air-quotes and forget I'm supposed to be gripping the sheets so I don't nip-slip my boss. "I need approval on a buy-one-get-one-free ticket promotion that I cannot execute without your signature!"
He winces. "Okay, when you put it like that—"
I groan loudly. "Where are you?"
"Sunset Golf Course. Hole seven. The view's really nice, actually—"
"I'll email you the approval. I need it by midday to get everything sorted for the media buzz."
I hang up before he can argue, throwing the phone onto the bed, resisting the urge to scream into my pillow.
Not only did Colin just cockblock my orgasm, he also just tanked my entire morning. And now I have to figure out how to save this ticket promo without him. Again.
I drag myself out of bed, thighs still aching, frustration coiling hot and tight in my gut.
"New town. New me," I mutter, heading for the shower. "More like new disasters. Same me."
I grab the first thing I find. A pair of leggings and a Bears polo that says 'I'm on board with this team and I'm going to murder my boss'.
This is not how today was supposed to go.
But at least now I know I will have absolutely no time to think about the way Declan's lips felt against mine last night. Or how badly I want to show him my confidence all over again.
My office overlooks the practice rink below, where I can see the guys running drills. Declan's down there somewhere, probably being annoyingly competent while I'm up here losing my mind over an email signature.
"Come on, Colin," I mutter, refreshing my inbox for the hundredth time. "One email. That's all I'm asking. One goddamn email."
I'm pacing.
Actually pacing. Like some kind of deranged executive trapped in a glass cage.
I've made six calls in the last twenty minutes. Six.
Colin Holden has ignored every single one.
I spin on my heel, glaring at my laptop. The promotion materials are ready. The social media graphics are queued. The local news outlet is standing by for the announcement.
All I need is one digital signature from a man who's probably on his twelfth hole by now.
My body tightens as I stare at the silent phone.
Oh God.
This feels exactly like my first internship at ESPN. I was twenty-two years old, and desperate to prove myself. The guys in the office gave me this 'huge assignment'—an exclusive interview with a college quarterback everyone said was destined for greatness.
I spent three weeks preparing. Research, questions, follow-ups. I even bought a new blazer for the interview.
Turns out, the player didn't exist.
The hierarchy had made him up. Fake stats, fake photos, fake everything. It was all this stupid plan they created just to watch me scramble, to see how long I'd chase a ghost before I figured it out.
The laughter when I finally realized… Yep. Those assholes slapped each other on the back like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Fuck.
My hands are shaking now.
What if Colin's doing the same thing? What if this whole job is some elaborate setup to watch me fail?
My phone buzzes.
I lunge for it.
Colin: Sorry! Cart ran out of battery. Approval sent.
I stare at the screen, squeezing so hard the screen nearly cracks.
"Cart ran out of battery," I repeat slowly, my voice deadly calm. "The CART. Ran out. Of BATTERY!!!"
I exhale through my nose, clicking over to my email as my fingers fly across the keyboard. I start uploading everything before Colin changes his mind or decides the nineteenth hole needs his immediate attention.
I click send. There it is. The approval. Sent at 12:47 PM.
Forty-seven minutes past my deadline.
Then, a knock at the door makes me jump.
"Lunch break?"
I look up to find Darcy leaning against the doorframe, holding two Goldie's cups like she's just saved my life.
Her sleek hair is perfect as always, her expression somewhere between amused and concerned as she takes in my feral-admin-on-the-edge-of-a-breakdown energy.
"I brought you a honey latte," she says, stepping inside. "And possibly an intervention if you need it."
"Thank God." I grab the cup. "Let's get out of here before I do something I'll regret."