Princess and the Player (Strangers in Love)

Adrenaline hits as the door opens a few inches. “Francesca. There you are,” I murmur to a sliver of her face.

“What do you want?” she asks tartly.

I dip my head and see one dainty foot, the toenails painted black. Of course she’d paint them black. She’s no milk-and-honey girl; she’s bold and brazen. Mysterious.

“To talk,” I say. My smile is all sunshine and charming. Fake.

The crack opens more, and I see the elegant shape of a dark eyebrow, one high cheekbone, a wisp of midnight hair. “Did Herman tell you which apartment I lived in?”

“Nah, Darden lives on your floor, and he knows everyone. He speaks highly of you, by the way. I had to promise him I meant you no harm.”

“That traitor.” She pokes her head out and yells, “You can shut your door now, Mr. Darden.”

I glance over, and his door is indeed partly open.

His rough voice replies, “I was just checking to be sure he found you. Also, I found a job for you since you can’t seem to do it yourself. I expect to see you at breakfast at nine a.m. to discuss. Bring a copy of the Times when you come over.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

“And tell Cece I know she filched one of my crystal paperweights on game night,” he grouses. “And she better stop looking at my Fabergé collection.”

Francesca turns to someone over her shoulder—Cece, I assume—muttering words like “Klepto” and “Why do you tease him?” and then “‘Papa Don’t Preach’? Really?”

Francesca turns back. “She’ll bring it over tomorrow, Mr. Darden.”

He harrumphs. “I’d like waffles for breakfast. With strawberries. It’s not like you have anything else to do since you’re jobless.”

“You’re a belligerent, cantankerous old man,” she replies sweetly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He shuts his door, then opens it again. “There’s an all-night clinic down the street, Miss Lane. Get that cold checked.”

“Go to bed, Mr. Darden.”

“I was in bed!” He slams his door.

“That’s an interesting relationship,” I murmur.

She shrugs. “We’ve bonded. Neither of us have blood relatives.”

“Really? You know he owns most of this building.”

“He also plays a mean game of checkers. If I lose, I cook dinner. If I win, he gets carryout but insists I watch the nature channel. Do you know how long a snail can sleep?”

I arch a brow.

“Three years. Do you know what happens to female ferrets if they don’t mate?”

“They get angry?”

“They die. Something about their hormones going crazy. Anyway. I like him.”

My eyes skim her face, the stark widow’s peak on her forehead. “Fascinating. May I come in?”

She chews on her bottom lip. “Um, we’re kinda in the middle of something.”

“We?”

“Me and my roomies, Cece and Brogan. You met Cece at the door. Don’t trust anything she says.”

“Ah. You live with a guy too?”

“Last time I checked, yes.” She glares at me. “Problem?”

“Nah. Just trying to keep it all straight. Who was the man who left with his tail between his legs?”

“My ex. His name is Edward. Is this twenty questions?”

Oh, babe, I have a shit ton of questions.

I shift on my feet. “Why is he your ex? What happened?”

“He cheated, Officer. I’m guilty of falling for a dick. Am I under arrest?”

“So rude.”

She sticks her wrists out. “Wanna cuff me and take me downtown?”

“No, but will you step out here in the hall so we can talk? Just five minutes?”

“I’m, like, super busy. You have no idea. Sorry.”

I lean in. “But, Francesca, I want to see you. Your whole person. Without you and Mr. Darden yelling back and forth. Without the toboggan and glasses you had on at Café Lazzo.” My voice lowers. “And without the mask, Princess Bride.”

Her eyes widen as air escapes her lips. “I, um, didn’t think you recognized me.”

“And I’d imagined you sweeter. You ran off.”

“Too bad you missed me saying goodbye. Get over it.”

I wave that off. “I didn’t know it was you at first.” The alley was dark outside Café Lazzo, but I knew I liked her fire. And when she got under my umbrella, I couldn’t stop staring at her blue-green irises, that unmistakable mouth. “It didn’t hit me until you were leaving. I came here to confirm . . .”

I’ve looked for her in other places. Petite girls with a widow’s peak and rosebud lips.

No one fit. Until now.

But I don’t really know who she is.

She opens the door completely, steps out in the hall, and does a twirl with her arms out as she clutches a box of Triscuits in one hand. “Happy?”

“Hmm.” I drink her in like a thirsty man. Extravagant black lashes frame steely ocean irises. Her nose is perfectly dainty, and one might assume she is, too, but my gut says she’s anything but. Her skin is flawless, even without makeup. Her cropped T-shirt reveals a silver belly button ring that I don’t recall.

“Show me your tattoo,” I ask.

“As proof?” Her nose wrinkles. “No. You saw my wings already.”

I laugh—out of relief or fear, I don’t know.

It’s really her.

“What? Disappointed?”

“No, it’s just, after you bumped into me, Jasper bet me I couldn’t . . .”

Her brow arches. “Fuck me?”

“No—I mean, yeah, we did fuck, but it’s just getting a girl, you know, interested . . .” I halt as her arms cross. “I’m tanking this. It’s not how it sounds.”

“What did you win?”

I run my gaze over her again. She may not be my type, but she’s drop-dead gorgeous with her heart-shaped face and snarky attitude. And her scent. It coils around me, thick and rich.

“A buck.”

“You just pick out a girl you aren’t attracted to and get her interested just to win a dollar? Douche move. Whatever. You wanted me pretty bad—four times.”

“When did you know it was me?” Or did you always know?

“It was the cuff that gave it away—while you were kissing your girlfriend.”

I wince, not about Courtney but about the scars. She saw them that night. She kissed them. She probably has ideas about them. That I tried to hurt myself—but she’d be wrong.

“Courtney isn’t my girlfriend, but we go back.”

“I don’t really care.”

“Not sweet at all. See, I recall a girl who sat in my lap and fed me birthday cake. She said I slayed the pantyhose dragon. She was perfect.”

“I was drunk, and perfect girls don’t exist.”

My eyes linger on her belly ring. There are two stones in the ring, green and yellow. “New?”

She blows out a breath. “I got it the week after we, um, met. Momentary lapse of reason. Pretend it doesn’t exist.”

“Huh. Is that a story that involves me? Us?”

She groans. “Fine. I might have gotten it to remember your eyes. Emerald green—with those little yellow fireworks.”

Satisfaction fills my chest.

“Don’t get excited,” she says. “I’m over it. You’ve seen me. Anything else?”

Oh yes, you fascinating creature.

I’m intrigued by you, but I need to know why there are so many coincidences between us.

“Don’t you think it’s odd, us being at Decadence, living in the same building, then seeing you at Café Lazzo?”

She leans against the wall in the hallway, her aquamarine eyes hardening. “Oh, I get it now. You think I knew who you were at Decadence. That I somehow set you up. But how on earth would I have orchestrated our meeting at Café Lazzo?”

I lift my shoulders. “It’s happened before. Women will go through a lot of trouble to run into me. You could have followed me and my friends to the club. Maybe you recognized me there, sought me out, bumped into me—”

“Wow. Stop right there. First, I don’t follow men; they follow me. That guy that left a few minutes ago? He’s been stalking my balcony, not to mention giving me heart eyes at work when his new girl isn’t looking. Second, you had half a mask on your face, your hair was long, and you had a beard. I thought you were a carpenter! Even better, maybe a fireman. Third, I do recall calling you a pervert—”

“Not a perv.”

“Fourth, you are so not my type. Like at all. I like artistic men.” She smiles tightly. “The way I see it, we never have to see each other again. Just stay out of the lobby and the main elevators. Voilà, your little stalking problem is solved.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

“Do that,” she says with a huff.

I take a step closer, my voice lowering. “Francesca . . .”

“Stop saying my name like that,” she grouses.

“But it’s so beautiful. Look, there’s a bar I like a couple of blocks away. It’s called the Baller, and you need a membership to get in. Lots of privacy. Want to join me? We can discuss how to avoid each other, perhaps?”

“Do you always run this hot and cold? Besides, there’s another NFL player on my list to stalk. Tell Jasper I’m coming for him. He’s more fun anyway.”

A spike of possessiveness rises. “No Jasper for you.”

“Scared for him?”

“I just can’t see you with a guy who calls his dick Cupid.” I press my palm against the wall as I dip down to her. “Tomorrow, then?”

“No.”

“The next? Just one drink. We can go to my penthouse. We can sit in front of the fireplace . . . and talk.” I trace a finger around the neckline of her shirt.

Her cheeks flush a pretty pink. “Not a good idea.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

I chuckle. “You need to work on your stalking, sweetheart.”

“Was that some kind of test?”

I shrug, not answering. No, not really. It’s clear she isn’t like Lollipop, or she’d be all over me, but there’s still a vulnerable part of me that wonders at the odds of us running into each other again.

Her eyes flash. “Maybe it was just fate that we live at the same place.”

“I don’t believe in fate. Random events happen, and it means nothing—or it was planned.” I tug at her ponytail, and it falls. I card my fingers through her hair, arranging it around her shoulders. “So pretty.”

She swallows. “Tuck . . .”

I run my nose up her throat, inhaling. “I want to fuck you again—that’s the truth. I want to spread you out and taste that delicious pussy. Again. I want those rosebud lips around my cock. Again.” My teeth nip at her lobe, and she gasps as she arches her neck. My lips trace over her cheekbone. I touch the edge of her mouth—

She pulls my face to hers, and our eyes lock as little puffs of air come from her chest.

“Your eyes are dilated.” My whole hand covers her cheek as I cup her face.

She leans into my palm—

Ping! The elevator opens, and an older, well-dressed woman steps off and heads our way. She arches her brow at us as she passes.

“Dammit. The widow Carnes,” Francesca whispers as she dips below my arm and escapes. “She’ll tell the whole book club circle Tuck Avery was at my door by tomorrow.” She leans against her door and rubs her forehead.

“I don’t care who sees us.”

She exhales. “Never mind that. Look. We wanted fun that night. One night, no strings. You asked for that.”

I pause. I didn’t want strings because I never expected Decadence to be the place to meet someone real. “I changed my mind.”

“Tuck, I—I don’t want . . .” A frown puckers her forehead.

“What?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know. My life is at a crossroads right now, and dammit, I didn’t mean to say that—ugh, but no, I can’t have a drink with you or whatever.” She rubs her eyes with the heels of her palms. “It’s been a really crazy day, okay? I’ve got things to figure out, and it’s not a good time for this, and I kind of need to pee.”

She steps inside her apartment.

“Francesca. Wait—”

The door slams in my face.

I stand there, exhilaration rushing through my veins.

Fuck if I don’t love a good chase.

Game on, little princess.

I didn’t last fourteen years in the NFL without being a competitor. Once I have a goal . . .

I’m already dialing my agent’s number as I stalk down the hall.

“Yo, Tuck. It’s late. What’s going on?” Ben says as he answers.

“There’s this girl.”

He chuckles. “I thought you’d want to go over the game.”

“Later. This girl. Can you look into her?”

“I don’t usually do those types of things.”

“But you know people who do. The thing is I only date women I know, and I don’t know this one. The way we met is sorta weird.”

“You could get to know her. That’s how normal people do it.”

“I’m not normal people. I’m one of your top clients, and I’ve been burned before, remember?”

He lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Is this about the stripper?”

I exhale. Lollipop, or Mary Fordham, messed me up. She sent threatening letters, stalked me, stalked Courtney, showed up at my mom’s living facility. Thank God security didn’t allow her inside. The last time was when she showed up with a knife. It was night, and I was coming from dinner with friends when I walked around the corner of Wickham to go inside. She had been waiting on a bench across the street and ran for me. I managed to catch her wrist before she stabbed me. It’s not something you forget.

Francesca isn’t Lollipop. She’s not a stalker.

She lives here. Darden and Herman adore her.

But there’s still a tingle of unease . . .

I rub my neck, trying to loosen the muscles there as I circle back to the coincidences that have brought us together. I don’t believe there’s some magical force in the sky watching us, moving us around like chess pieces to put us in the right place at the right time.

Fate is bullshit. Stars don’t align.

I can’t believe in it because if it’s real, then it means I was meant to be the cause of my father’s death, that I was meant to be everything my mother says. Just like him. Like her. My nose flares. Everything I have, I got on my own, not because destiny decreed it.

“Tuck? You there?” Ben asks.

“Yeah.” I step into the elevator and tap the pass code to get to the penthouse. “Just some red flags popped up. Do you have someone you can trust to take care of it?”

“We have investigators, sure. What’s her name?”

“Francesca Lane at Wickham, apartment 20E. She used to work at a place called East Coast Ink & Gallery. Age is unknown, maybe late twenties. Petite, dark hair, nice ass, big eyes—”

He chuckles. “That’s good; we can get the rest. How did you meet?”

“NDA.”

A pause. “Okay, I’ll get a guy on it and let you know. Back to the Tampa game. Don’t beat yourself up about the loss. We can—”

My jaw flexes. “I dropped two passes and fumbled in the end zone. My contract is up at the end of the season, and it’s not looking good.” I stare down at the last Super Bowl ring on my finger. It’s been downhill ever since Ronan left our team.

“Maybe you need a fresh start. Tennessee is looking for a wide receiver—”

“This is home.” I lean against the wall in the hallway outside the penthouse. “I can’t figure out what’s wrong, but we’ve lost three games in a row . . .” I rub my face.

“Ankle?”

“Scans are fine.”

“Your forty-yard-dash time?”

“Four point four was my latest. Good as hell. I’m beating the boys fresh out of the draft.”

“Mental?”

“Still in therapy.” My coach demanded I attend sessions after I punched a player last season. The doctor’s diagnosis? I’m experiencing “open aggression” and anxiety because I feel out of control.

He sighs. “When Ronan was quarterback, you two were on fire. Jasper—”

“Is talented. It’s me.”

“Don’t stress. Come in, and we’ll brainstorm—”

My phone beeps, and my body tightens as I see the name on the ID. “Gotta go. Thanks for the help. Get on that investigation. Later, Ben.”

I click over to the next call. “Nella? What’s wrong?” The director of Greenwood, a state-of-the-art private facility for people with mental illness, Nella chats with me weekly but never at night.

“Tuck. We had a small incident.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

She sighs. “Yesterday she skipped her tennis lessons, which isn’t a big deal, but she’s supposed to call ahead. Then, this afternoon, she missed her group sessions. We searched the grounds and found her in the fountain. She was naked and dancing to a ballet she’d written.”

Mother was never a ballerina, but she could make a person believe she was.

I sigh as I picture the fountain in the manicured gardens, a large statue of an urn pouring out water into a large pool. I imagine her there, blonde hair shining, eyes bright.

Nella continues. “She hit one of the attendings, nothing serious, but I felt this deserved a phone call. She appears to be in a manic phase. I’ve scheduled her to meet with her doctor tomorrow.”

“Where were your people? Why didn’t you check in on her when she missed her tennis lesson?”

“Tuck, she has choices, and we’re just here to help her make good ones. We aren’t an institution—we’re a residential facility.”

I sigh. “I know. I just don’t want anything to happen to her. I saw her a month ago, and she was fine.”

But was she? Wasn’t she talking faster than usual? Wasn’t she jumping from topic to topic? I was just happy she asked to see me. Maybe that feeling felt so good I ignored the euphoric gleam in her eye.

“Your mother is a charismatic woman, manic or not. Sometimes medications stop working, or it’s possible she’s decided not to take them. She’s settled now, so I don’t want you to worry.”

“All right, let me know how it goes. Has she asked for me?”

“I’m sorry—she hasn’t.” Her voice softens.

When Mom showed up at my doorstep five years ago, she chose to live at Greenwood, but on her terms. She only sees me when she wants.

My throat tightens as past hurts coil around me.

“Yeah. Okay.” I inhale. “Just thought I would check.”

I click off with Nella and lean against the wall.

A dad with anger issues and a bipolar mom. It was a spectacular childhood.

I was thirteen the first time she frightened me. Dad was out of town, and she stayed awake for days claiming demons were hiding in the walls. She drew pentagrams to banish them. The housekeeper called Dad, and he came home—and they fought.

Once she picked me up at school in a bathrobe, took me to a bar, and left me in the car for hours. Dad showed up and dragged her out. A half-dressed man followed them and fought with my dad in the parking lot. As our chauffeur drove us home, I watched my father fist his hands over and over, spewing cruel words toward her. Whore, slut, bitch, psycho. His fists would hit her later that night as I pounded on the door for him to let me inside their bedroom.

My mom wasn’t any of those awful words he called her.

She told fantastical stories.

She called me her sunshine.

She played the cello with such emotion people wept.

She was heartbreakingly beautiful.

My father loved her. And hated her.

She loved him. And hated him.

With those turbulent emotions boiling, they barely noticed me.

I grunt as a pain slices through my chest, lingers for several seconds, and then subsides. My heart pounds, heavy and thick, as if I’ve finished a ten-mile run. I slide down the wall to the floor and hold my head in my hands.

I’ve had my heart checked regularly. It’s fine.

Is this fear that I’m going to turn into him—or her?

Or is it more self-centered?

My career is dying, and the idea of being useless to my team—I clench my hands at the thought—is like carving my skin off with a dull knife. You know how everyone has one thing, that one thing they’re great at, that thing that keeps them centered and happy? Maybe it’s a spouse, a friend, or a home you love. For me, it’s the exhilaration of catching that pigskin and taking it to the end zone. If football is gone, if I lose the one thing that’s kept me sane for all these years, what will happen to me?

Will I lash out like my dad?

Will mental issues like my mom’s rear up?

I bang my head on the wall.

I need sex, a good, hard, rough fucking. It’s been months since Decadence, and I—

“Yo. You all right?”

My thoughts cut off as Jasper appears at the door of the penthouse. I glance up, stuffing down the turmoil. I compose my face quickly and rise to my feet. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

He nods. “Is this about practice? You seemed off—”

“I wasn’t,” I say sharply. “I caught your throws, didn’t I?”

He holds his hands up. “Cool, cool. So, um, is this about me getting cheese-puff dust on your couch? It might have gotten on one of the loungers too—but it’s not bad. I sprayed some cleaner, and it sorta got worse.”

My temper stirs as I follow him inside. “You ate puffs on my couch?”

“It was Cherry’s fault,” he adds. “She jumped in my lap, and I spilled the bag . . .” He trails off as he gives me a sheepish look. “She loves them, Tuck, and it’s almost like real cheese.”

I pinch my nose. “She has her own treats, special ones I order. Your diet is fucked up. Don’t screw with hers.”

Wearing his plaid pajama pants, he slaps his bare stomach. “I have needs, Tuck. Sweet and salty needs. Donuts and bacon. Cheese puffs and Snickers.”

I take in the mess in the living room: pillows on the floor, sports magazines spread out, soda cans, candy wrappers on the coffee table.

My eyes laser in on the orange-smeared arm of the couch. I’m not OCD, but Jasper could test a monk.

“I’m going to straighten up before bed,” he assures me.

“Fine. Where’s Courtney?”

“Bed, thank God.” He changes his voice to a falsetto and dips his wrist. “I need fresh towels, Jasper; I need sparkling water, Jasper; I need soft toilet paper, Jasper; I want to watch HGTV, Jasper.”

A ghost of a smile crosses my face. “You’re damn close to her voice.”

He groans. “Just curious, how long will she be here?”

“Oh, this is fun. My two houseguests don’t like each other.”

“She’s a spoiled brat and treats me like the help.” He raises his arms. “I’m not her maid. I can barely get my own towels.”

“She just showed up today, so cut her some slack. She broke up with her boyfriend and has nowhere to go.”

“Come on—she’s got model friends around town. She comes running to you every time they have a spat. She wants to be your girlfriend.”

“Hmm.” Courtney and I dated, broke up for a while, and then dated again. Plus, Courtney was with me the night Lollipop brandished a knife. I can’t just cut her off because she can be annoying. She’s a friend. I don’t have many.

“Speaking of roommates, any timeline on your apartment being ready?” He bought three apartments below mine and is having them renovated into one.

“Can’t wait for me to leave, huh?”

“You’re an annoying fuck.”

He bats his lashes. “I know. I’m so great.”

“I repeat, you’re an annoying fuck.”

“I love you, and you love me. We have a bromance. Not sure if bromance is still a thing, but I can make a thing a thing again, am I right? I was reading this article about men’s friendships, and we need nicknames—besides you calling me asshole and squatter. I’m gonna call you Big T. What do you wanna call me? Come on—tell me whatcha got . . .” He rubs his hands together and grins, but there’s a serious glint in his eyes.

“Jay Bird because you like to walk around naked after a shower. Put a towel around your junk. This isn’t the locker room.”

He claps. “All right. Jay Bird and Big T. I like it. We should hug more. It’s good for bonding. It might help our game. Cohesive. We move as one, ya know? Yin and yang, peas and carrots. I-throw-the-ball-and-you-sense-it kind of thing? Telepathy football.”

I plop down on a stool. “Dude . . .”

“Come on—give me some love, Big T . . .” He hugs me from the back, and I shove him off as I chuckle.

“Jesus, find a girlfriend.”

He pouts. “I guess it’s not a good idea to tell you that I ordered us matching man bracelets, tungsten and black leather. Very cool and badass. I know you wear one already, so I figured you liked them.”

“No.” I only wear the cuff to hide the scars on my wrist.

“Maybe Deacon will want one.” He sniffs as he wipes a pretend tear.

I throw my hands up and laugh. “Fucking hell. Fine.”

He gives me a blinding grin and holds his fist out for me to bump.

Cherry, my toy papillon, comes flying around the corner, her big brown ears waving in the air. I sweep her up in my arms and rub our noses together. “Baby girl, my sweet Cherry, whatcha doing, hmm? Whatcha doing? Don’t let the ugly man give you cheese puffs, never, ever, ever.” I arch a brow at him. “For real. Don’t make my dog a food junkie. It’s not good for her belly.”

“I guess this means no more Oreos—”

“What the fuck. She can’t—!”

“Kidding, Big T. God as my witness, I swear.”

My ire settles as I cuddle her in the crook of my arm while Jasper heads to my kitchen and pulls a beer out of the fridge. “Beer?”

I nod. “Hell yeah.”

“Ah, guess the meet-cute with your princess didn’t pan out?”

I sit down on one of the leather loungers in the den with Cherry. “I’m working on it. Pretty sure her roommate is Snow White. Cece. She has another roommate, too, a guy. His name is—shit, I can’t remember.”

“I knew Francesca looked familiar.” He hands me my bottle, then plops down in the chair next to me. “So let’s focus on football. It was a tough loss. You wanna talk about the game?”

My gut clenches. “Not right now.”

His fingers drum the arm of his chair as he shoots me a glance. “You know, if you, um, want to talk anything else, you know, besides football, I’m here. It’s what bros do: help shoulder the burden and all that shit.”

I used to talk to Ronan. But . . .

“Nah, I’m good. Next week we’ll play better, yeah?”

He nods and clicks on a game. I lean back and sip on my beer, my head running in circles. I think about Mom in a manic phase, and it stings that those are the moments when she usually needs me the most, but she hasn’t called.

The worst thing is part of me still wants to be her “sunshine,” to have her approval. I tap my fingers on my leg. I could hop in my car and be at Greenwood in half an hour. Just to check in. I exhale. No. It’s late. She doesn’t want me there. It’s cool. Fine. Whatever.

Later, I head upstairs to my gym on the third floor. It’s two thousand square feet of floor-to-ceiling mirrors, mats, a punching bag, three different styles of treadmills, a training bench, dumbbells, barbells, kettlebells, stationary bikes, a rowing machine, and a yoga area that overlooks the lights of Manhattan. It’s my temple where I work out my issues.

I blast music on the speakers and pick up one of the jump ropes. Rolling my neck, I inhale a deep breath and start. By the end of my fifth set, my heart thuds, and my body drips in sweat. I shake off the exhaustion and do one more set, just one more until the frustration in my body disappears.

Afterward, I hit the shower and click on the steam feature for my muscles. Hot water sluices down my frame, loosening some of the tension. Pressing my hands against the tile, I shove thoughts in my head away—about football, about my mom, about my career.

Later, I’m in bed, flipping through the channels, when Courtney eases in.

I sit up straighter, trying to not rouse Cherry. “Um, Court . . .”

She walks toward me in a black see-through teddy. My eyebrows raise at the tight silver chains that crisscross around her waist and breasts.

“Does that hurt?”

She shrugs. “Who cares? It’s pretty. I picked it up at a shoot last month. Jasper is a total meathead, by the way. You should toss him out.”

“Are you sure that isn’t cutting off your circulation?”

Her jaw tightens as she waves her hands. “That’s what you’re going with? This is sexy as hell. I put it on for you.”

And this is what I get for returning her kiss outside Café Lazzo. Shit. I scrub my face. My heart wasn’t in it, and my head tumbled with why the girl in the toboggan felt familiar.

She stops at my nightstand. “You’re tense. Let me make it better.”

“We shouldn’t have kissed. It was a mistake.”

Her lips brush against mine. “I like mistakes. Don’t you want to do it again?”

My body tenses, my cock thickening. Yeah, I’m craving to thrust into someone, to push this anxiety away, but it isn’t with Courtney. Only one person will satisfy.

“You’re lashing out at Mark. He hurt you, and you want revenge.” She found texts on his phone from a girl he works with.

“Mark isn’t here—you are. Only you’re all into chasing some stranger on the street. Jasper told me you thought she was the girl you met at Decadence.”

I nod. “It’s her, and she isn’t really a stranger. That night puts her in a different category.”

Her lips tighten. “Something feels off about the whole thing.”

I shrug.

“Okay, well, I’m here for you. For anything.” Her hands caress my cheek. “We can be here for each other. It doesn’t have to be serious.”

I toss the covers back and get up to grab her a T-shirt from my chest of drawers.

Everything with Courtney is serious when it comes to me. We broke up twice because I didn’t want a white picket fence. She’s been in the modeling industry since she was twelve, and when we met, she was ready to give it up and settle down. She wants marriage. Kids.

I don’t. Not with the shit way I grew up. Not with my flawed genes.

Fear ripples over me, and my stomach pitches at the idea of a family.

I can’t be responsible for people who depend on me every day.

“We don’t work as a couple—or as friends with benefits. I don’t want to hurt you, Court.” I toss the shirt at her.

“Prick. Why do you have to be so noble?” she says without heat as she catches it, then glances down at her outfit and pouts. “This piece of torture really does hurt.”

“The blood flow has definitely stopped going to your tits.”

She sighs. “I should have worn the red teddy. That would have gotten you good.”

I huff out a laugh. Doubtful.

“My feelings are hurt, darling.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. I’ll make it up to you. We’ll go to lunch soon, yes? That Italian place you like?”

“Coletta’s, yes!” She throws her arms around my neck and kisses my lips.

“Courtney, no—”

“Um, Big T—” Jasper’s voice cuts off as he opens the door. He’s stark naked, uncaring. His eyes pop at Courtney, who still hasn’t put the shirt on. “Oops. I didn’t know you two were getting it on . . .” He trails off. “Jesus, does that hurt, Courtney?”

“Go to hell, Jasper,” she snips as she clutches the T-shirt to her chest. “How about you forget you ever saw this fabulous body, okay? And put some clothes on. Your turtle dick is not attractive.”

He rears back and looks down at his junk. “What’s a turtle dick?”

I groan. “Jesus. We just had this conversation, Jasper. Wrap it up with a towel after you shower!”

“Okay, I’ll try, but what’s a turtle dick?”

I look at the ceiling, then him. “Do you really not know?”

He shakes his head. “I grew up in a conservative family in Utah and was a virgin till I was twenty-one.”

“Boy, does that explain a lot,” Courtney mutters. “Immature asshole who doesn’t know a thing about women.”

“I’m a maniac with the ladies, so shut your face,” he tells her, then looks at me. “So, what’s a turtle dick? I don’t want to have to get my phone out.”

I sigh. “It’s when your dick retracts. All you have are nuts right now.”

“Just two hairy balls,” Courtney says with a smirk.

“Because of you,” he grouses as he points at Courtney. “Who wants to see chains around boobs, huh? Nobody but freaks.”

She glares at him. “Unbelievable! You’re the one who goes to a sex club and talks and talks about how awesome it is! You can’t find a real woman.”

He pumps his hips. “You’re itching to take a ride on Cupid.”

“Your dick is not the most glorious thing in the world,” Courtney snaps. “No one in this room wants to look at it but you.”

“Babe, your eyes are glued to my junk. Remove them, please. This is not for you.” He cups his groin.

I throw my hands up, then point to the hallway outside. “Please, Jesus, get the fuck out of my room. Both of you. Leave. Now.”

Cherry barks her agreement. Poor baby was huddling under the covers at their raised voices.

Courtney sniffs. “Night, Tuck. Fuck off, Jasper.”

Jasper smirks as she walks past him with her nose in the air.

Finally the door closes, and I plop back on my bed and beg for sleep.