Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(51)

“Alex. Time to wake up.” A hand pats my upper arm.

Someone is trying to wake me, but I’m not having it. I screw my eyes more tightly closed and press my face into the pillow.

“Alex, we’ve landed.”

“No.” Whatever the man is saying, I really don’t care. My bed is comfortable, and my body is heavy with exhaustion.

“The car is on the tarmac.”

Tell someone who cares.

“Alex.” Soft lips meet my cheek. And then a big, solid body fills in all the empty spaces around me. His knees tuck against mine, his arm reaches around to hug me. “Come on, honey. It’s time to move. And I know you don’t like it when I pick you up and carry you.”

Sometimes I do, my subconscious prods. I like it a lot. Especially against the door…

That thought brings me suddenly to wakefulness. And to my crushing disappointment, we’re not in the hotel suite bed. We’re not even in Hawaii. The jet has landed in New York. I may or may not still be bleeding. And my life is just as messy as it was when I got onto this plane a few days ago.

Probably even more.

With a groan, I brace a hand on the bed and push myself into a vertical position.

Eric sits up as well, giving me a smug look. “Good nap?”

“Yes,” I admit. “Don’t smirk.” Although I like that smirk, damn it. I like it too much. And it’s no longer mine to admire.

Eric helps me to my feet. We’re alone on the jet, and the door is already open. I glance around for my luggage. “It’s already in the car,” Eric says.

“Oh.” I blink, disoriented. “So this is it.” I feel like I’m still caught in a dream state. Hawaii was like one long, tropical dream. And the tarmac at La Guardia is what you get when you wake up.

“You okay?” He runs a hand over my hair, which is probably a mess.

“Absolutely,” I lie. “Let’s go.”

Eric doesn’t let go of my hand as we walk slowly down the stairs, leaving the jet behind. But I feel a little more awake with each step. The summer heat and the smell of asphalt hit me with a slap of reality.

“Look,” Eric says when we reach the ground. “Can I come by tomorrow to see how you’re doing?”

I look up, catching the warmth in his gray eyes, and noticing the way his thick hair is tousled by the wind. And more of Eric’s company sounds fantastic.

Except it really wouldn’t be. We’re not a couple. We’re never going to be a couple. And I need to own that fact right now, while I still can. “Tomorrow isn’t a great idea. I…” I clear my throat. “It’s been fun, but now it’s back to real life. For both of us, no?”

“We’re home early.” He frowns. “And I’m still on vacation for another couple weeks.”

“Well, I’m not.” I hate the cold sound of my own voice. But I know what will happen if he comes over tomorrow. Either I’ll end up in his arms. Or I’ll wish I were there. Either way, it’s not what either of us needs. “Eric, the truth is that I have a few precious months to launch a project, bribe or blackmail my sperm donor, and gestate a baby. I can’t afford distractions.”

“Of the naked variety,” he clarifies.

“Of any variety.” I can see the driver of my car tapping the steering wheel impatiently. “It was fun, but it was only a few days. You said so yourself.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “But you have to let me know that you and the baby are okay. And we said we’d stay friends.”

My heart crumples. “I don’t think I can do that.” I mean it literally, but it comes out cold, as if I have somewhere more important to be.

His eyes narrow, he opens his mouth to argue with me. Then he shuts it again and takes both my hands instead. “Well, if that’s how you want it to go, you take care of yourself.” His voice is gruff.

“You, too.” I give him a weak smile, hoping he’ll release me.

Instead, he leans in and gives me a single soft kiss. Just a peck, really. And it’s over way too soon.





18





Mid August





Eric





There’s one minute left in the scrimmage, and I just won the faceoff.

One minute is plenty of time if you have A) the puck B) Trevi on one side and C) Campeau on the other.

A rookie with crazy eyes launches my way, hell bent on stripping me. So I drag the puck away on the edge of my stick, like a worm on a fishhook. Trevi is nearly open. I wait as long as I possibly can and then flick the puck right past Crazy Eyes’ stick.

And, bam. Right onto the shooting surface of Trevi’s.

My muscles scream, and my knee whimpers as I accelerate out of Crazy Eyes’ way. But it’s worth it. I get open again. I push my stick forward as if waiting for the pass.

But it’s all for show. Because Campeau is also open, and I already know Trevi will pass to him instead.

He does. And then anyone who blinked probably missed Campeau’s wrister toward the net. Including the goalie. Because the puck goes in and Campeau laughs out loud as the lamp lights.

“Fucking beautiful!” I bellow as the buzzer sounds. Nothing is better than the last period of a hockey game when my teammates and I are on fire. Nothing.