Right Man, Right Time (The Vancouver Agitators, #3)(15)

Maybe I need it, though.

Because is this really how low I’ve stooped?

Is this rock bottom?

For my own sake, I truly hope so. I don’t think I could go any lower than this.

I glance at the clock and swear under my breath. If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late, and I don’t want to be a dick since she’s expecting me—and her stupid sandwich and pickle. So on a groan, I slip my hat on, glasses, and hood over my hat—can’t be too careful—then take my bag of food in one hand and head toward the entrance of her dorm, where security personnel man the door.

“Post Mates delivery?” he asks as I approach.

Sure . . . why not.

“Yup,” I say. “Suite 305. She asked me to bring it up.”

The door buzzes, and I’m let in. Okay, that seemed too easy.

I spot the elevators and press the button for the third floor. When the doors close, a nervous energy bounces in me as I ride to Ollie’s floor. When the doors part, I’m surprised by the wide, bright hallways and the common space full of couches, chairs, and tables. Not that bad.

I follow signs for her apartment and spot it at the end.

Fuck, what if she has roommates?

Would she invite me over if she has roommates? No, right?

Jesus, I hope not. If she does, I’m dropping this food off and bolting. No thirty-one-year-old man should be in a dorm room full of women . . . ever.

Palms sweating, I knock on her door and stand there, waiting for her to open up. It takes a few seconds, but when she does, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep in the inappropriate sound that wants to escape. Standing in the doorway, wearing a crop top with her nipples erect, is Ollie. Her sweatpants hang low on her hips, her toned stomach is on full display, and she looks so comfortably hot that it’s almost painful.

Jesus.

Is this something she wears on the daily?

And where’s her bra? I can see nearly her whole nipple against the sheer fabric of her shirt.

“Between the way you’re inconspicuously dressed and the full-on once-over you just gave me, your vibe is screaming pervert looking for his next prey.”

And then there’s that snappy wit of hers. How could I possibly forget?

“Just let me in,” I say, irritated that she’s right.

She pushes the door open even more and lets me into a quaint studio suite. With a kitchen on the right of the wall, bathroom on the left, the room parts open into a space just big enough for a desk, double bed, and dresser.

So . . . no roommates. Thank fuck.

The bag of sandwiches is taken from my hand and set on the counter. “Make yourself comfortable, and when I say that, I mean get rid of the hood, glasses, and hat. You look ridiculous.”

“I didn’t want anyone to recognize me.”

“You are giving your stardom too much credit. I don’t even think that many people like hockey.”

I nearly choke on my own saliva. Is she kidding? We’re the most successful team in the league, and we live in Canada. Hockey is in the blood of every Canadian.

“You realize you live in Vancouver, right? Everywhere you look, someone is wearing something branded by the Agitators logo.”

She just shrugs her shoulders. “Never noticed, I guess. Oh, is this pastrami? Yes, please.”

The pastrami was for me, but that’s just fucking fine.

“What do you want? Plain ham? You seem like a ham guy.” She slips the sandwich on a plate and turns toward me to hand it over when she notices I haven’t disrobed. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

She sets the sandwiches down on her bed, then steps up to me and tears my hood and hat off in one fell swoop. Then she removes my glasses.

“There, now take a seat and eat.”

“Where?” I ask as I pat down my hair. “There’s no dining table.”

“Dining table. God, could you be any more of a snob? It’s a dorm room, jackass. There’s my bed and my desk chair. Take your pick. Unless you want to have a picnic on the floor, those are your choices.”

I think I’m still too hungover for this conversation.

“I’ll take the desk chair.” There is no way I’m getting on that bed. It looks far too comfortable, and I can see myself falling asleep.

“Then I’ll take my bed.” She hops up and then brings her plate close to her. She lifts the sandwich and takes a large bite before leaning back and moaning.

Jesus, that sound. It has the blood in my body pumping harder.

“Did you go to Tony’s around the corner?”

“No, the Brooklyn Pickle.” I walk over to her fridge to look for a drink. When I see nothing but hot sauce, I glance over at her. “Anything to drink?”

“Glasses are above the sink. Water is great. Thanks.”

Okay. I grab two glasses and fill them up with sink water. I give one to her and then set one on the desk for me before grabbing my plate from the bed and taking a seat.

“Aren’t you hot in that sweatshirt?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Then take it off. God, I can’t watch you eat in that.”

I set my plate down again, grab my hoodie from over my head, and pull it until it’s completely off. I adjust my shirt that rose, and then I fold the sweatshirt and put it on the desk.

“You know, if you don’t want to get recognized, maybe don’t wear an Agitators sweatshirt.”