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“I don’t know, man. I wouldn’t mind it,” Hayes says with a grin.
Maverick punches him in the arm.
“Fuck, dude. That hurt,” the blond attackman says with a laugh.
“Good.”
“Hey, Britt?—”
Before Colby can even get the rest out, I shake my head. I see where this is going from a mile away and want no part of it.
“Absolutely not.”
“It would solve the problem,” he cajoles, jerking a thumb at his three teammates. “They can share a room, and I’ll shack up with you.”
“There’s only a king,” I tell him. “And we’re not sleeping in the same bed.”
Mr. Helpful behind the counter types away while staring at the computer screen. “Actually, that room comes with a pullout couch.”
I glare. “Thanks for sharing.”
He beams, clearly not comprehending sarcasm when he hears it. “No problem. It’s important that all our guests are happy.”
“Then you’ve failed miserably,” I grumble.
Colby steeples his hands before giving me sad puppy dog eyes. “Please, Britt. I’ll sleep on the couch and stay out of your way. You won’t even know I’m there.”
Ha!
“That’s doubtful.”
All he has to do is enter a room and I’m hyperaware of his presence.
It’s a problem.
“Listen,” Maverick cuts in, jerking a thumb in his teammate’s direction. “If you don’t want to bunk with this guy, I’ll sleep on your couch.”
Colby shoots him a death glare as a hard edge creeps into his tone. It’s not one I’ve heard from him before. “Wanna bet, McKinnon?”
Juliette’s brother flashes a grin as his expression turns downright giddy. “Actually, I think the decision is up to Britt. Not you.”
When Colby narrows his eyes and takes a step toward the younger player, I slap my palm against his chest to hold him at bay. A shiver of awareness slides through me at the steely muscles that bunch beneath his sweatshirt.
“Fine,” I mutter. “You can stay in my room.”
Deep down inside, I know it’s a decision I’ll end up regretting.
Hell, it’s only been thirty seconds and I already wish I’d kept my mouth shut.
The thick tension vibrating off him in suffocating waves dissipates as his gaze shifts to mine. “Are you sure?”
Nope. Not even a little.
“Is there really a choice in the matter?” I fire back.
One side of his mouth quirks. “Of course there is. You can do anything other than share a room with one of these guys.”
Instead of responding, I turn to the clerk who had been assisting me. “Can I get another keycard for the room, please?”
“Absolutely,” she says.
“And I’ll have a bottle of our best champagne brought up for your trouble,” the man helping the guys adds as if that will make the situation better.
“Great.”
After everyone in our group is checked in, we pile into the elevators to our assigned floors. None of them are the same—some are even in different towers. We agree to meet downstairs in two hours to grab dinner and enjoy the nightlife.
As soon as we step inside the room, Colby releases a low whistle.
All right…so maybe it’s not just a room. More of a king suite with eight hundred square feet of living space.
His gaze bounces around the beautifully decorated interior. “Damn…this is really nice.”
“It was the only thing available when we booked,” I mumble.
“Must have cost a pretty penny.” He slants a speculative look in my direction as he strolls further inside the suite. “I have to admit—I’m having a tough time figuring you out, Britt.”
The nonchalant comment has a boulder the size of Rhode Island taking up residence at the bottom of my belly. It’s the last thing I want him to do.
I gravitate toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the Strip. At night, it’ll be a million-dollar view of the city spread out before us.
“There’s nothing to figure out.” It takes effort to keep the quiver from my voice.
Air gets clogged in my lungs as I hold my breath, waiting to see if he’ll press the issue and dig for answers.
“You mind if I jump in the shower? I feel gross after that plane ride.”
Relief floods through me, nearly weakening my knees. Even though I’d been thinking the same thing, I have no problem waiting if it means putting an end to this uncomfortable convo.
“Be my guest.”
It’s the whisper of shed clothing that has me whipping around to find a bare-chested Colby standing in front of me. As much as I don’t want to stare, my gaze roves over him, dipping to his chiseled pecs.
Holy hell.
The man looks more like he was carved from marble than is made up of flesh and bone. I’ve been with my fair share of male models as well as professional athletes over the years, and he puts them all to shame.
It’s so tempting to close the distance between us and stroke my hands over all those rigidly held muscles.
And his abs…
If I’m counting correctly, he has an eight pack.
