Down and Dirty (Hot Jocks #5)(9)

“What? I always sleep on the left side,” she says, tucking the blankets around herself. “Not that I’m sleeping here or anything.”

“O . . . kay,” I say. “Should I grab the room service menu?”

Aubree nods while reaching for the remote.

By the time I make it back to the room, she’s changed the sports highlights show I was watching to some ghost-hunter documentary, complete with cheesy narration and poorly executed special effects.

“Here’s the menu. Dinner starts on page six, unless you want breakfast, which they apparently serve until eleven p.m.”

She scrunches her nose. “I hate breakfast food.”

“How can you hate breakfast?”

She shrugs, flips open the menu, and trails one slim finger along as she reads. I park myself at the end of the bed, watching her lips move as she reads. It’s kind of endearing.

Seeing the ring on her finger is a shock to my system. I’m the one who put it there, with promises of a future on my lips.

Last night, I meant every word. Today, though? I feel more uncertain than ever—about everything, but mostly about my sanity. But I can’t deny the strange bolt of satisfaction when I see the impressive diamond on her delicate finger.

“Do you want to talk about last night?” My voice is soft and a little strained.

“Nope. Not even a little bit,” she says without bothering to look up.

I sigh, running one hand over the back of my neck.

Jesus Christ. Maybe it would have helped if I had more experience in the female department. I’ve never even had a serious girlfriend, unless you count Tessa Hayworth my freshman year at Michigan, which I really don’t. After six months of dating, she told me that she loved me, and I told her that I needed to focus more of my attention on hockey.

Spoiler alert: We broke up that day.

And now I’m supposed to know how to navigate having an insta-wife? Not fucking likely.

Hooking up with hockey groupies is the extent of my experience with women, but even those encounters I only let go so far before pulling the plug. I wouldn’t let anything distract me from my goal. And yet here I am—in way the fuck over my head.

Last night, Aubree and I flirted and danced and kissed. Now, there’s nothing but awkward silences and barely concealed hostility between us.

“Listen, things got kinda crazy last night, but that doesn’t mean we didn’t have a connection,” I say, trying again. But Aubree continues looking down, her pink mouth moving as she silently reads the menu, or at least pretends to. “Say something,” I order.

“Having a connection doesn’t mean you should marry the person after flirting for three hours.” Her voice is tense, and a couple of awkward seconds of silence tick past before she meets my eyes and takes a fortifying breath. “We should just go back to being friends,” she says almost sadly.

She wants to pretend last night never happened—go back to being friends?

As far as I’m concerned, our friendship was effectively ruined the moment I found out how good she tastes, and learned I loved the sound of her soft pants when I touched her. It’s fucking crazy, but she’s my wife, and for better or worse, I’m not ready to just let that go.

“Did you decide on dinner?” I ask, softening my tone and deciding to avoid the topic of her wanting to go back to being just friends.

“Would it be too much if I ordered both the filet mignon and the lobster fettuccine?” she asks, a smile teasing her lips for the first time tonight.

“Of course not. Better tack on dessert too.”

“New York cheesecake or—oh, chocolate lava cake with caramel ice cream.”

“Both.”

Aubree’s smile widens. “Excellent idea.”

I pick up the phone and place our order, tacking on a $300 bottle of wine as one last fuck-you-very-much to Teddy.

As I stand at the edge of the bed, wrapping up the call, I feel Aubree’s gaze lingering on my torso. The fitted T-shirt I’m wearing stretches taut across my chest, and the sleeves hug my biceps. My shorts hang loose on my hips, but the definition of muscle in my thighs is undeniable. When her gaze wanders up to mine, I lift one eyebrow and Aubree blushes, quickly looking away.

I toss the phone onto the foot of the bed. “Do you want anything from the mini-bar? I’m going to grab a beer.”

“Ginger ale, if they have it. If not, lemonade.”

After getting our drinks, I pause in the doorway watching her and can’t help the inappropriate thoughts that skate through my brain. My wife is spectacular to look at. Trim waist. Small but perky breasts. But if I’m honest, I really enjoy her mouth. Lush and fiery and smart.

She’s propped up against the pillows stacked along the headboard, her eyes focused on the TV, but when I enter the room carrying her soft drink, her gaze swings to me.

“Oh, thank you,” she says, reaching for the can of ginger ale.

I settle in next to her and twist the cap off my beer. “Cheers.”

“To?” she asks.

“To us, I suppose.”

Aubree’s eyes widen, and she pauses with her drink halfway to her lips. I can practically feel the panic rolling off her in waves.

“We don’t have to decide anything tonight, okay? Let’s just enjoy our dinner and this kickass suite.”