Down and Dirty (Hot Jocks #5)(3)

“Truer words,” she says with a chuckle.

I’m about to turn the question around on her, ask about her type, but the words stick in my throat. I don’t want to hear her describe any man here who isn’t me. My ego isn’t secure enough for that tonight. Sad but true.

Aubree’s got perfect tits and a nice curvy heinie—God, that word really is atrocious—and I can’t not make a play for her. At this point, what do I have to lose?

“You want to get out of here?” I ask, adjusting my watch, feigning a casual posture.

Her lips twitch with a smile. “And go where?”

I shrug, trying to play it cool, but my heart is hammering. “Anywhere. Someplace we can talk.”

She considers this, weighing my offer as those expressive amber eyes flash on mine again. “Talking is good.”

So is kissing.

“Sure,” she says at last.

I settle our tab and rise to my feet, grateful that the night is taking an unexpected turn.





2




* * *





Mistakes Were Made





Aubree



The rays of sunlight shining through the hotel curtains feel like a flashlight shining directly in my eyeballs. No, not a flashlight. Laser beams. A hundred laser beams, all pointed directly into my corneas.

Hell hath no fury like a hangover when you’re thirty years old.

With an exhausted groan, I roll to the edge of the bed, feeling around the side table for my phone, which kindly informs me that it’s almost eleven in the morning. Jeez. If it were any other Saturday, I’d already be home from yoga and hopping in the shower by now.

But I’m not at home in Seattle, I’m in Las Vegas, and at the moment, just the thought of yoga makes my stomach turn. The only downward dog I’ll be doing today will be directly over the toilet. That is, if I can force myself out of bed.

Last night, I was throwing back vodka sodas like I was still twenty-one, back when hangovers were a mythical thing that only happened to real adults who just couldn’t keep up.

Let the record show that I, Aubree Derrick, can’t keep up. My head is pounding, and there’s a churning in my stomach that I’m not even sure throwing up would fix. So, yeah, those real adults? I guess I’m officially one of them.

Since I’m not particularly excited about the idea of leaving this bed, I open my texts, looking for clues as to what exactly went down last night. By some miracle, I find no evidence of drunk texting any exes. Or if I did, my drunk self had the wherewithal to delete the evidence so Sober Me didn’t have to be embarrassed. Thank you, Drunk Self, for being a true friend.

But I’m not in the clear yet. I still need to check my camera roll.

I tap the icon with my thumb, holding my breath as I swipe through photos of me and the girls, Owen and Becca posing at dinner, and a goofy selfie Elise must have snapped when I wasn’t paying attention. I’ll be sure to save that as ammo for a future birthday post for her. But that’s it.

A slow, relieved breath leaves my lungs. Thank the good Lord above, because other than the hangover from hell, I actually got away scot-free.

Until I hear the rustling of sheets coming from the other side of the bed.

Oh no. I spoke too soon.

Slowly sucking in a deep breath, I count down from ten, promising myself that by the time I reach one, I’ll have worked up enough courage to face whoever I brought back to my hotel room last night.

Three.

Two.

Two and a half.

Two and a quarter.

One.

At first, I don’t recognize the mess of dark hair and tanned skin lying next to me. My bedmate is facing away from me, giving me a delicious view of his muscular back. Faint red lines run down the sculpted muscles between his shoulders, definitely the work of my fingernails.

Wait a second. I know that back. It’s one I’m used to seeing draped in a jersey.

Number 94, a.k.a. Landon freaking Covington, the Ice Hawks rookie, is asleep in my bed. Shirtless. And although the sheets are pulled above his trim waist, the pile of clothes on the floor is a pretty good indication that he’s naked below the waist too.

It doesn’t take a detective to tell you what that means. Shit got real last night. My heart takes off like a race car, thumping so loudly that I’m sure it’s going to wake him up.

Okay, Aubree. Deep breaths. It’s a hookup. People do this all the time. It’s no biggie.

And then I catch a glimpse of my left hand. Staring back at me is a beautiful halo-cut ring with a huge diamond that is most definitely a biggie. Literally and figuratively.

My gaze pings between my left hand and the sexy man sleeping next to me, trying to fill in the gaps in my memory. Slowly, it starts coming back to me—the feel of his strong arms wrapped around me, him whispering something in my ear that made me laugh like a hyena. Us stumbling down the Vegas strip together, hand in hand.

But after that, things start to get a little foggy between midnight and now, when there’s a naked man in my bed and an enormous diamond ring on my left hand. You do the math.

I peel back the covers and tiptoe as softly as humanly possible to grab a sleep shirt from my suitcase. I don’t need Landon waking up to the sight of me wearing only a thong, scouring the room for proof that we used a condom last night.