What happened to her?
I asked Gordy if he could link any social media accounts to Mia’s ex, curious if he had finally let her go since moving a few states away. Gordy found two. Mia blocked one, but the other is a fake account tied to one of Shorty’s email addresses. The handle is hattrick69. Mia wouldn’t know it belongs to her ex, but he has liked every post. Every video. Every fucking comment. And there is nothing I can do about it. After sharing his findings, Gordy asked if he should delete the account, but I’m afraid Shorty will only create a new one. Instead, I told Gordy to let it slide but monitor Shorty’s activity. At least he has kept his distance––physically, anyway––since graduating from LAU despite following her online. Hopefully, it stays this way.
The game goes terribly, and we lose. Erika apologized––again––for the sleeping arrangement, and the hotel reimbursed us for our room. I don’t need the money, but I appreciate their determination to make things right.
After spending the rest of the night in the hotel bar, I head upstairs, unable to avoid my room any longer.
The bathroom door is closed when I walk in. The familiar sound of running water confirms Mia is probably taking a shower. After changing into a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, I stare at the stack of extra bedding the hotel delivered to our room in case we changed our minds about sharing the bed, unsure what to do. The idea of sleeping on the floor makes me feel like a bolt of lightning is penetrating my chest, but the idea of sleeping next to Mia is even more precarious.
I should have had another shot.
Tonight might be an inconvenience for my sanity, but it was the lesser of two evils. The idea of Mia sleeping next to Beck or Greer is even worse.
The shower cuts off, and I force myself to move, grabbing the maroon blankets from the stack on the credenza. I spread them on the dark industrial carpet. Shivers climb up my spine at the prospect of sleeping on it for the night, but I ignore them.
I definitely should have had another shot.
I don’t like germs. And hotel floors are covered in them. Thankfully, years of therapy have reined in my obsessive tendencies, making most of them bearable. Usually. Bathrooms are still a trigger, though. Urine. Shit. Vomit. I almost shiver. At least the carpet doesn’t smell.
I’ll be fine.
With the bed separating me from the bathroom, I sprawl on the floor and stare at the ceiling, willing myself to fall asleep and get the next eight hours over with.
Quiet footsteps pad across the room, and Mia calls out, “Professor?”
“Not your professor anymore,” I grumble from the floor.
“Where are––oh.” Her head peeps around the top of the mattress. The bathroom light casts shadows around her nearly naked body. “What are you doing?”
I close my eyes. “Trying to sleep.”
“On the floor?”
“Apparently.”
“Okay. Come on, big boy.” She taps my shoulder and offers her hand, but I don’t take it, too distracted by the towel wrapped around her lithe frame.
“Where are your clothes?” I ask as her hand hangs between us untouched.
“I forgot to take them into the bathroom with me. Now, will you please get in bed like a normal person so I can grab my pajamas and go to sleep?”
Realizing I’m blocking her from reaching her suitcase in the corner of the room, I take her offered hand and stand. My legs feel like rubber, thanks to the alcohol swimming in my veins, but I barely notice. I’m too distracted by the scent of coconut clinging to her damp skin.
Fuck.
She takes a shallow, unsteady breath, and her breasts brush against my chest. The slight caress shoots straight to my groin. Her gaze drops to the ground, and she tiptoes around me. My dick stirs in my sweats, but I step aside.
Dangerous.
The girl is dangerous.
A lamp rests on the nightstand. I flip it on so she can search through her luggage easier.
Her long, lean legs are missing the same ink wrapped around her arm and shoulder. Her long blonde hair is still wet, hanging in thick strands down her back as she rummages through her suitcase, pretending I didn’t feel her nipples against my chest.
The image in front of me is such a stark contrast to the girl I’ve come to know, I’m fucking speechless. Her face is free from her usual dark makeup. That alone makes her look like a stranger. No thick upper lashes. No concealer hiding her freckles. Earrings still adorn the shell of her ears, but otherwise? Nothing. It’s as if the armor she is used to shrouding herself in has finally been removed, giving me a glimpse of a stranger. I’ve seen pictures of her from before her father died. She was a cheerleader. With golden highlights. Natural makeup. And a cheerful personality. After everything went down, she lined her eyes in black, dyed her hair a silvery shade of blonde with black underneath, tattooed her skin, and became obsessed with piercings.
So. Damn. Different.
I don’t prefer one look over the other, but the glimpse of the girl from before her dad’s death is…staggering.
Clutching a white T-shirt and black panties against her chest, she turns around and catches me staring at her. I should turn away. I should pretend the window is suddenly fascinating. I should turn the light off and lay back on the ground so I can sleep the alcohol off. Instead, I hold her gaze, waiting for her to make the next move.
“What are you looking at?” she asks. It isn’t an accusation. It’s genuine curiosity. As if she can’t believe I might be looking at her in her natural state.
My hands itch to grab her. To tangle my fingers in her long hair, wrap it around my fist, and work off my frustration. At Scarlett. At Shorty. At tonight’s loss. At the fucking hotel for screwing up our reservation. I’m so amped up, the voice of reason is long gone, leaving me on the precipice of making a huge mistake. Unclenching my hands at my sides, I force them apart one finger at a time while her eyes hold mine.
“Is there a problem, Boss?” she quips.
“Didn’t know you had freckles.”
“Oh.” Her fingers brush against the bridge of her nose, and she drops her hand back to her side. “You should sleep in the bed. I can stay on the floor.”
“Not going to happen.”
“I’m used to roughing it, Professor. You, on the other hand…” Her brow arches as she scans me up and down.
“Are you always a brat?” I ask, more amused than I should be, but I can’t help it. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but I like the snark. The dry sense of humor. The sharp tongue and the no-bullshit attitude accompanying it.
Her arms fold, pressing her breasts together. My mouth waters.
“Are you always this stubborn?” she returns.
Tearing my attention from her cleavage, I order, “You’re taking the bed, Mia.”
“Fine. You’re taking it with me.”
“Not a good idea.”
“I’m not gonna jump your bones or anything if you’re worried about it. I’m not looking for someone to date. A good fuck, maybe, but I have a feeling you’re too uptight to make me come, so––”
“You think I can’t make you come?” I demand.
She bats her blonde lashes at me. “I’m not your type, remember?”
I catch myself staring at the terry cloth knot tucked between her tits and clear my throat.