Chapter 16
Chiara
I have absolutely no idea how we don’t get caught on the bus.
Seriously.
The second things start getting intense, Noah leans back, lifts my shirt, and—well—he takes his cock in hand, and let’s just say the situation escalates very quickly.
And quietly.
Very quietly.
Which is impressive considering the fact that my brain has essentially short-circuited and my entire body is doing its best impression of fireworks.
A quick cleanup later, a long kiss that is both entirely inappropriate for a team bus and also ridiculously good, and Noah slips out of my compartment like some kind of sexy criminal mastermind.
Leaving me sitting there.
A little sticky.
A lot satisfied.
And more confused than ever.
Because this was supposed to be just a one-time thing. Then we agreed to some more fun times—little meaningless flings—just to burn the tension out of our systems.
Except that clearly isn’t working.
Not for him.
And definitely not for me.
By the time the bus rolls into Texas with the sunrise blazing over the highway, my brain is still doing emotional gymnastics trying to figure out how I’m supposed to survive an entire week on this trip.
A week.
At a tournament.
With the entire team—and the extended Rovers entourage—watching.
At least in Consequence things have been mainly after hours. When we’re alone in the training center.
But now we’re staying at a small roadside motel that Mitchell Knight apparently bought out for the event, which means everyone is scattered across rooms in a chaotic mix of players, staff, and PR people.
Most of the single guys are doubling up.
The married couples have their own rooms.
And me?
I’m the only single female staff member on this trip.
Which means I get my own room.
Privacy.
Peace.
Distance from Noah Walker.
In theory.
After the first day’s warm-up friendly—which ends in a tie that has Coach Dane grumbling all the way back to the motel—I finally peel off from the team after assigning some stretches and handing out a few ice packs.
Then, I head to my room.
My legs are tired.
My brain is fried.
And all I really want is a hot shower and maybe some room service.
I swipe the keycard and push open the door—and stop dead.
Because Noah Walker is already there.
Standing in the middle of my motel room.
Clad in nothing but a towel.
His dark hair is damp and curling across his forehead.
Like he’s just taken a shower.
Like he’s just used my shower.
My brain blanks.
He’s also spreading what appears to be an entire feast of Chinese takeout across the small table near the window.
Containers everywhere.
Fried rice.
Broccoli in some amazing-looking sauce.
Chow fun.
Steamed dumplings.
Sweet and sour something.
Spring rolls.
I stare at him.
He looks up and grins like this is the most normal thing in the world.
“There you are, Love.”
My mouth opens.
Closes.
“W-what are you doing in my room?”
He gestures casually at the food.
“Isn’t it obvious? Now, I know you said you liked it, but I wasn’t sure what exactly you like. So, I got a bit of everything.”
Before I can even form a response, he’s moving. And when Noah Walker moves in nothing but a towel—it’s kinda hard to think.
I’m staring at his abs—probably drooling—when he finishes crossing the room, grabs me by the waist, and kisses me.
Slow.
Warm.
Completely unapologetic.
My brain melts somewhere around the three-second mark.
When he finally pulls back, I blink up at him.
“You broke into my room.”
“Technically,” he says thoughtfully, “the front desk gave me a key.”
“That’s worse.”
He shrugs.
“Probably.”
Then he takes my bag off my shoulder like he belongs here and nudges me toward the table.
“Sit. Eat.”
I glance down at the mountain of Chinese takeout.
Facts: I love Chinese food.
All of it.
Every single delicious, salty, carb-filled bite.
More facts: Noah Walker remembered that from a throwaway comment I made weeks ago.
And the most dangerous fact of all?
I’m starting to suspect I might actually be falling for the team’s hooker.
Which is ridiculous.
Because Noah Walker isn’t just some guy.
He’s a professional athlete with the body of a demigod and a small army of adoring fans who apparently travel from city to city just to watch him destroy people on a rugby field while wearing very little clothing.
Believe me.
I’ve seen them.
Women in the stands holding up signs that say things like SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL HOOKER with his picture printed across them.
Some of them even tape hundred-dollar bills to the poster board with phone numbers.
Classy.
Really classy.
Personally, I find it a little tacky.
But that’s not really the point.
The point is, I’ve been here before.
I dated an athlete once.
Thought I was in love.
Thought he felt the same way.
And that story ended badly.
Mostly for me.
So whatever this thing between Noah and me is?
It’s temporary.
It has to be.
I can’t let myself believe anything else.
And I’m so freaking mad at myself, it’s not funny.
This is exactly the kind of situation I promised myself I would never get pulled into again.
I know I should do the smart thing.
Find my backbone.
Tell him this was a mistake.
Ask him to leave.
Because I absolutely cannot be falling in love with Noah Walker.
“Open,” he says.
I blink.
He’s holding a dumpling up to my mouth like this is the most normal thing in the world.
Without thinking, I open my mouth, and he feeds it to me.
Feeds. It. To. Me.
The dumpling is perfect.
Warm.
Savory.
Dangerously delicious.
I chew slowly while Noah watches me with that infuriatingly soft look in his eyes.
He drops a kiss on my lips.
Licking a drop of dumpling sauce from the corner of my mouth.
“Mm. Try this one, now,” he whispers, holding a bite of something yummy to my mouth.
And I open.
What was I thinking a moment ago?
That I can’t possibly be falling in love with him?
Too late, my heart whispers.