Meanwhile, he wears the relaxed smile of a sexually satisfied guy who got a better night’s sleep than I did. “That’s why I pack ahead of time.”
“Pack?”
“For my road trip.” He points at his suitcase near the door.
“Right. Road trip,” I echo. “Don’t you need to put a suit on?” Preferably immediately?
“Yup. Car comes in fifteen. You finished in the bathroom?”
Finished. Bathroom. Nnngh. When I’d brushed my teeth a few minutes ago, I could swear the air had still been scented with my conditioner.
I swallow hard. “All finished.”
“Cool.” Neil reaches out to stretch his hamstrings one more time, before hopping up to get ready to leave. “Make yourself at home, doll.”
“Neil,” I argue reflexively. “We agreed you wouldn’t call me that.”
“I was teasing, wifey. But I still need a good nickname for you, don’t you think?”
“Not really,” I grumble, too tired to play along.
“We’ll workshop it. Have a great game on Friday, if I don’t catch you beforehand. Flights out of Chicago tend to get delayed.”
“Have a great trip,” I manage.
“Thanks!” On his way out of the room he stops, pulls me into a quick, hard hug and then walks off, nonchalant.
I let out a shuddery breath and wonder what the hell is wrong with me.
With Neil gone, life gets a little easier. Staying alone in this apartment makes me feel like a queen. The first night I play some music on Neil’s kickass sound system while I eat leftover Turkish food on a comfortable stool at the kitchen counter.
Afterwards, I retreat to Neil’s bed, propping myself against a decadent pile of dove-gray pillows, and turn on his TV. I tune into his game against Minnesota to check the score.
And there he is, charging after the puck, passing back and forth to Castro. Deep in the first period, the score is 1-0 in Brooklyn’s favor.
Neil is a talented winger who averages just under one point a game. Last year there’d been an article describing his skill as a sniper, giving him the nickname “magic hands.” His teammates had teased him about it for days.
He’s a dedicated player. Almost as dedicated as I am. It’s the one thing we have in common.
There’s an offsides call in the game, and play is stopped. The camera zooms in on Neil’s face as he gets into position for a faceoff. His expression is earnest and watchful, his eyes clear.
And sexy.
He’s also sweaty.
Fuck.
I’ve spent the whole day trying not to think about last night, how devastating Neil is when he’s turned on. And now I’m watching his game in his bed thinking lustful thoughts about him.
Who’s the creeper now? Me. That’s who.
I change the channel. In fact, I change it several times. But it’s hard to concentrate on a police drama or a singing competition when there’s a hockey game on.
My phone lights up with the Bombshells’ group chat.
Fiona: OMG Neil! Great goal! His wife must be so proud!
I groan, but I’m already grabbing the remote and turning back to the game so I can catch the replay.
It really was a great goal—he’d shot it from a wicked distance at a tricky angle. I watch the play in slo-mo and listen to the commentators chattering about Neil’s speed and form.
Yup. Great form. Unfortunately, I know more about his form than I ever have before. And I’m a big fan.
On the screen, his teammates pat him on the butt and congratulate him. Giving up the pretense of watching something else, I settle in to watch the game. Brooklyn hangs onto their 2-0 lead until they give one up in the third period. But a win is a win.
There are only seconds left on the buzzer when I hear the chime of a different buzzer. It’s the doorman, calling upstairs. That’s odd. I pause the TV to get up and answer it.
“Sorry for the late interruption, Mrs. Drake,” Miguel says.
My brain hops the tracks for a moment, because I can’t believe he’s referring to me. “It’s Higgins,” I insist. “I’m not… changing my name.” The correction comes out sounding a little sharp. But I can’t have people referring to me as Mrs. Drake. That’s just crazy talk.
“Apologies, Ms. Higgins,” Miguel says carefully. “But there is a messenger here with documents for Mr. Drake. Can I send him up? He needs a signature.”
“Yes, of course,” I say quickly. “And thank you again for your help yesterday. You saved my butt.”
“It’s my pleasure,” he says smoothly before disconnecting.
I grab Neil’s bathrobe off the back of the bathroom door and throw it on as I head for the foyer. I open the door for the messenger, and he barely spares me a glance. “Sign here, please.”
When I hand back the pen, he waits a beat. I realize that he’s waiting for a tip. But I do not have any cash. Like none. I’d spent the last of my cash tips on groceries earlier. I’m broke until payday tomorrow, and even then, I won’t be able to make a withdrawal until my deposit clears.
After an awkward moment, the guy pockets his pen and turns away, miffed.
I get it. This is a luxury building. At nine thirty on a Wednesday night, a typical resident would eagerly hand over a fat tip to receive… whatever is in this thick envelope.
What is in this thing, anyway?
I carry it back to bed with me, tucking myself in while still wearing Neil’s bathrobe.
It smells like his aftershave, and I should probably take it off. I have got to stop thinking about how good Neil smells and how hot he is. Lustful thoughts are like a deep crevice—if I fall in, it will be tricky to claw my way out.
I pick up my phone to text my husband. First of all congrats on that fab goal! Very exciting. IDK if you were expecting any deliveries but a messenger just showed up with a fat envelope for you. Let me know if I should do anything with it.
I toss down the phone and get ready for bed, having done my wifely duty. I don’t expect an answer, because the Bruisers will be busy celebrating their win.
The phone rings when I’m tucking myself in again.
“Hi, babycakes,” he says right into my ear. It sounds weirdly intimate, but maybe that’s because I’m in his bed.
“Babycakes?” I ask with more snark than I really feel. His voice is sexy. It just is.
“I’m still trying out nicknames,” he explains. “I can’t keep calling you ‘wifey.’”
“No, you really can’t. Nice goal, by the way.”
“You watched my game, huh?”
My cheeks heat. “I’ve already seen everything on Netflix. I thought this envelope that was delivered might be important. There’s no name on it, just an address.” I reel off the street number on Park Avenue.
“Eh. That’s from the Drake Foundation. Probably a list of the charities my uncle wants to fund.”
“Do you need me to open it? Why would they send you something when you’re out of town?”
“They sent it because I’m out of town.” There’s more bitterness in Neil’s voice than I’ve ever heard before. “It’s just more politics.”
“You need me to do anything?”