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Did it matter if he saw it?
Did I even want him to?
I didn’t know. I just felt like it was the right thing to do after the time we’d spent together.
I set the pen beside the pad and peeked into the bedroom, where he was soundlessly sleeping in the middle of the bed. His arm was gripping a pillow, and his leg was bent and extended toward the side I’d been on.
Both had, at one point, been wrapped around me.
And, oh God, had they felt good.
“Goodbye,” I whispered.
I quietly went to the door and shut it behind me. I looked both ways down the hallway before I headed to the elevator.
When I was safely inside a taxi, a realization hit me.
It came on like the waves of my orgasm, but these were far more turbulent, causing a feeling in my stomach like seasickness.
I would never see Brady again.
But that was only half of it.
There was another side. A side that was just as agonizing.
A side that shook me so hard I had to roll down the window.
Will David find out?
FIVE
Six Months Later
Brady
“What time does the game start?” Macon inquired while we were getting into the stretched SUV that had been hired to take us to Van Nuys Airport, where the Daltons’ private jet was waiting.
“Are you really asking that question?” I shot back, taking a seat toward the center.
Macon sat across from me, his polo bright, his hair spiked in the front. The only thing he was missing was a goddamn lei.
“Yeah. Why?” he countered.
I looked at my middle brother, Cooper, who had just sat next to me, watching his thumbs quickly tap his phone. I knew who he was texting; I didn’t even have to ask. This was the first time he’d be away overnight since his daughter, Rayner, had been born. I was sure his girl, Rowan, was holding shit down at home, but I could tell by his expression that the distance was going to challenge him. That just meant I needed to get him extra fucked up tonight.
“Because every man who follows hockey knows what time the games start,” I said to Macon. “What time dinner is—now, that’s a different story. What time a concert starts—same deal. But sports? Come on, Macon. You’re better than that. It’s ingrained in our heads.”
Macon flicked the air like I was a fly. “Will you just answer the question already?”
“Seven,” I told him. “Like most NHL games on the East Coast.”
As the rest of the guys climbed in, Macon looked at his watch. “And how long is the flight to Tampa?”
“Jesus Christ,” I groaned. “What am I, your fucking travel agent?”
Macon smiled. “Such a dick.”
Dominick had taken a seat along the back, and he replied, “Four and a half hours, give or take.” He grabbed the bottle of whiskey that was on the floor in front of his brother Jenner, unscrewed the top, and took a swig. “I’m assuming your next question is going to be, How much time do we have between landing and the game? Am I right?” He chuckled while he handed the bottle to Jenner.
