That One Night: A Pucking Around Prequel Novella (17)

I feel his eyes on me and flash him a soft smile.

He’s casually rubbing my foot, working his thumbs in circles over my arch. “Tell me something else.” He reaches over with one hand, flicking at my robe. The “V” opens a bit more, and he brushes his finger down my chest tattoo. “Tell me about this. What does it mean?”

I huff a laugh, stretching out a bit. “It means I was fifteen and high on shrooms at a music festival and a guy named Hector had a tattoo gun.”

He stills, glancing my way with a raised brow. “Fifteen, huh?”

I shrug. “I had a rather unorthodox upbringing.”

I don’t mention that the festival was Coachella or that my dad’s band was headlining…or that the shrooms were stolen from my dad’s personal stash. What can I say? I was a rebellious teen. Angry and bitter, I was practically a caricature of a rock star’s spoiled rotten kid. It took a while for me to figure out the balance between privilege and purpose. I wasted way too many years thinking everything in life was going to be handed to me because of my last name.

Harrison caught on much quicker. He may have used daddy’s name to secure himself a start in the culinary industry, but he’s built everything he has on hard work and skill. I’ve spent years playing catch-up, fighting tooth and nail to prove I can earn my own way too.

That’s why losing this fellowship hurts so fucking much. I wanted it. I fought for it. I powered though college in two and a half years with a degree in kinesiology. I finished med school in four, specializing in sports medicine.

Now I’m finishing up my second year of residency at one of the best hip and knee centers in the country. It’s an amazing blend of physical therapy and orthopedic injury care, which is perfect for me. I love the balance of using proactive physical therapy to protect against injury, rather than only cleaning up the mess once injuries happen.

The Barkley Fellowship was going to be the thing to launch me fully into the highest level of sports medicine. It pairs doctors with sports teams from the NBA to the NHL. Ten months of hands-on experience working with the best orthopedic specialists and physical therapists in the world, who work on the world’s top performing athletes.

The last three applicants to apply from my program all won. All three now have permanent positions on pro teams. And my mentor said I was a shoe-in. He says he’s never seen a more natural talent. I don’t know what I’m going to say to him. How will I tell him his record is broken, thanks to me?

Fuck, my therapist is going to have a field day with this. My debilitating fear of disappointing authority figures rears her ugly head again.

“Hey…”

I raise my gaze off my knees. He’s looking at me with such tenderness, such open curiosity.

“You wanna talk about it?”

I shrug. Maybe I’ll feel better if I spill my soul. I open my mouth and there’s a sharp knock at the door.

“Room service!”

He smirks. “Saved by the bellhop.”

As I go to get up, he puts a hand on my knee.

“Stay. I’ll get it.” He wiggles out from under my legs, trotting over to the door. He disappears behind the corner, and I hear him talking to the delivery person.

A skinny guy in a hotel polo shirt comes in pushing a cart. “Evening, ma’am. Where do you want it?”





*



In minutes, we’ve got a feast spread across the low glass table—filet mignon, broccoli and loaded potatoes, fresh bread with butter, a sharable salad, a bottle of pinot noir with two glasses, two large bottles of electrolyte water, and two orders of blueberry bread pudding drizzled with caramel sauce. We sit on the floor between the sofa and the table, sharing it all.

For over an hour we talk about everything and nothing. Amy is his only sibling. They had an older brother who died of a rare heart condition before he and Amy were born. Apparently, his best friend has a dog and he wants to steal it. He swears the dog likes him better.

I tell him a bit about Harrison’s wedding. He’s curious about the way we blended in Thai customs to honor Somchai’s family. There was a beautiful making merit ceremony yesterday morning to start the festivities. Nine monks from the downtown Buddhist temple came to chant prayers and offer blessings.

“And don’t get me started on the food,” I say.

He hums, his mouth full of bread pudding. Once he swallows he says, “I assume it was pretty good then?”

I grin, taking my time with my own food. I’m actually cutting my steak. He just inhaled his. “I think the word that comes to mind is orgasmic,” I reply with a wink.

“Oh, don’t play with me,” he groans, setting his fork down. “If you’re about to say your dinner last night was better than the three orgasms I’ve given you tonight, you’re gonna make me cry.”

He lunges, wrapping his arm around me and pulling me into his lap as I laugh, squirming to get away. I mean, I don’t try very hard.

“Is that what you want?” he growls, his hand diving inside the open slit of my robe to cup my breast and tweak my nipple. “Do you want to see a grown man cry into his blueberry pie?”

I giggle, still squirming. “It’s bread pudding—”

“I don’t care what it’s called. It’s fucking delicious. But you taste better,” he adds, nipping at my ear. His other hand slides up my thigh, cupping me between my legs.