A Secret for a Secret (All In #3)(9)

Maybe my dad was right about the dress not being the best idea. Most of these guys are wearing some kind of casual pants and T-shirts. A few wear jeans. Ryan has on a pair of gray casual pants and a white polo. I try to keep my breathing even and a smile plastered on my face as I hand him a folder. We make eye contact. My nipples harden further. Thank God I’m wearing a padded bra.

His lips part and his tongue peeks out to wet the bottom one. I remember, very, very vividly, how it felt to have that tongue circling my bare nipple, among other places. Some kind of sound, halfway between a groan and a sigh, slips out of my mouth.

His eyes widen and his cheeks flush. I’m still holding the folder, and he’s trying to free it from my hand. All of this takes place over a few short seconds, but I feel like there’s a spotlight on us and that every single person can read the thoughts in my head.

His deep, rich voice feels like a caress between my thighs when he murmurs thank you. I’m about to step away when his fingers wrap around my wrist to stop me from moving on. His hand is just as big, warm, and rough as I remember. I don’t expect the contact, so I jolt and nearly lose my hold on a few of the folders.

He releases my wrist. “You dropped something.” He leans down and picks up a piece of paper. I have no idea what I could’ve possibly dropped, since all I’m holding are folders. He slips the fallen piece of paper into my hand and mumbles something about needing to talk. I give him a strained smile before I move to the next table.

He’s certainly right about the talking part, but there’s no way it’s going to happen in a roomful of his teammates with my dad watching.

During the meeting—which lasts a good two hours—I find out my hookup’s last name is Kingston and he’s the team goalie. That certainly explains his incredible flexibility. It would be fantastic if I could stop thinking about the time we spent together while naked.

After the meeting there’s a team workout led by the coach, Alex Waters. He appears to be younger than my dad, by five years or so if I had to guess. He’s built the same as the hockey players and looks like he should be an underwear model or something.

I don’t have a chance to check the piece of paper Ryan gave me—or “King,” as everyone else seems to call him, including my father—because I’m too busy trying to decipher the players’ barely legible handwriting. Except for Ryan’s, which is ridiculously neat.

I don’t even have time to look Ryan up on social media because I’m too busy transcribing notes, making copies, and getting my father coffee. By five I’ve decided I need to wean him down to fewer than six cups a day, or at least alternate between decaf and caffeinated since he drinks so much of it. And I’m going to try to switch out the cream for milk to save his poor arteries.

I set the one-sugar, one-cream coffee on his desk. “Can I get you anything else?”

He peers over the frames of his reading glasses—they’re new, and he hates them. “I think I’m good for now. You did a great job today, Queenie. You should be proud of yourself.”

I feel like a glorified lackey in a pretty dress, but I appreciate his trying to make me feel good with the compliment. “Thanks, Dad.”

He smiles and taps the end of his pen on the desk. “I’ve got another hour or so of paperwork to finish up, but you can head out if you want.”

“I can wait; it’s not a big deal.” I’ll just internet stalk my hookup.

“No point in you hanging around for nothing. You can take an Uber, and I’ll meet you at home.”

“Sure. Okay. That sounds good.”

I leave my dad to his paperwork, quickly tidy my desk, order an Uber, and head for the front doors of the arena. It’s quiet in the building, the team workout long over, and most of the administrative staff have already left.

The car is already waiting for me, so I slip into the back seat. Uber Man is super chatty. I Mm-hmm and make other affirmative sounds while he regales me with his plan to open up his street-taco shop. At least he has a dream and a plan to go after it. By the time he drops me off at the house, I’m craving tacos.

I walk around the side of the house and down the short path to the guesthouse, which is a one-bedroom miniature bungalow—it’s three times as big as my previous apartment and much, much nicer. Not that I need the space, or the luxury. In fact, I’d trade it in a heartbeat if it meant I’d be more self-sufficient and would have a real direction in life. At least my dad is understanding, and he likes having me around.

As soon as I’m inside my apartment, I flip open my planner and retrieve the piece of paper Ryan gave me this morning. It’s actually a grocery receipt. I get caught up in scanning the items he purchased. Four gallons of milk? Geez, he must really love dairy.

I flip it over and scan the rushed but neat writing on the back. Receipt paper is notorious for smudging, and my hands were clammy when I took this from him, so the ink is smeared across the white paper, making it difficult to read. I think it says Please call me, and there’s a phone number, but I can’t tell if the second number is a three or a six or a nine, or what.

I drop down on the couch and squint at the receipt some more. I definitely need to figure out how to handle this. The last thing I want is my dad finding out I messed around with one of these guys, when he specifically asked me not to.

I exhale a long breath and watch the ceiling fan spin for a minute. How the hell am I going to see this guy every single day and not think about all the amazing things he did to my body?