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Her smile is small, but it’s there. “I wish I had just an ounce of your confidence.”
She rises and walks away from the bed. I elevate on my elbows to watch her go, admiring the gentle curve of her back leading down to her hard, round ass.
“Stop staring at me,” she demands without turning around as she disappears into the bathroom. I can hear the humor in her voice.
“It’ll never happen,” I promise, collapsing back on the bed again.
I lie there for a moment, thinking about her art, before grabbing my phone from the side table. I click on my social media page, something I never do. I have over five hundred thousand followers even though I’m rarely on the site. The PR team maintains it, posting periodic pictures and reels of me working out or traveling with the team to keep fan interest up. I’ve never been into it, and I can’t remember the last time I posted something myself.
But that’s going to change tonight.
CHAPTER THIRTY
EMERSON
I study the picture taped to the bottom of my easel and compare it to the images on the canvas. I move forward to add more shading to the water and take some steps back to look more objectively from afar. The tip of the brush handle sits between my teeth as I squint, trying to concentrate on the piece in front of me.
I glance at the clock. Again. Ten fifteen.
Sam left for his auction “date” at seven. I’ve been trying not to think about him at dinner. But the image of the beautiful specimen from the other night with the paddle, bidding twenty-five thousand dollars for a few hours with the hockey forward, burns in my brain. She was wearing a black halter dress that clung to her slender body. The skirt was short, showcasing her long, shapely legs and sky-high heels. Her hair was silky and flowing down her back. Her neck was draped in diamonds. She was gorgeous, obviously rich, and she wanted Sam enough to drop a major amount of dough to secure a few hours of his time. I should be thrilled that he raised that amount of money for the cancer charity.
I should be.
But instead, all I can picture is how hot he looked in his suit when he left for a date with another woman. How much I wanted to take it off him before he left, enticing him to stay. He wore that spicy cologne that I love, the one that his bed sheets smell like. She’s smelling it right now. She’s probably laughing at something funny he said while experiencing firsthand how charming he can be. She’s reaching over, placing her hand on top of his. She’s watching him beneath hooded eyelids. His fingers are collapsing around hers. He’s paying the bill, and they’re walking to the exit together. He offers to take her home.
I pace over to the dark window and peer out, unable to see much beyond the glare of the art room lights.
Dinner should be over by now. I mean, how long does it take to eat an appetizer, an entrée, and dessert? Or maybe they saved dessert for later. Maybe they’re having it right now at a more private location. After all, that’s what the beautiful people do, right? They eat food and then go home together to have naked time and enjoy each other’s perfect bodies. They probably went back to her place because he couldn’t bring her here. I’m here. And we’re … undefined. We’ve slept together once. Well, twice, if you count the next morning. But that’s nothing to a guy like Sam, where sex is sport. Meaningless. And women are interchangeable.
I wrap my arms around my body when my mind flashes with images of her and him together, like an accident that I can’t look away from. Jealousy burns through my veins like venomous poison. Sam’s lips are on hers. He’s stripping her clothes before removing his own. He’s whispering in her ear all the dirty things he’s planning to do to her. And then he’s doing them. His hands are on her body, in her hair, holding her face. He’s touching her the way he was touching me just the other night. And she loves it because it’s so good. Every experienced stroke sends her soaring the same way it sent me over the edge in a way Eliott never could.
Sex with Sam was more than fireworks. It was an explosion. And it ripped me to shreds in the process.
My mind keeps running through scenarios, each one worse than the last. I’m spiraling, but I can’t seem to stop it. My phone rings and I answer it without glancing at the screen.
“Hello.”
“Emerson,” Eve growls. “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”
I sigh, wishing I had peeked at the caller id before answering. I don’t know if I can handle a conversation with my sister right now. “I’ve been busy, Eve. What’s up?”
“What’s up?” She laughs without an ounce of humor. “Why don’t you tell me? What are you doing, going to the Hawks games and hanging around the team all the sudden?” Eve always felt like the athletes were her territory. I guess some things never change.
“How do you know I am?” I move closer to the window and look absently at the city below.
“I’ve asked around, Em. Since you won’t tell me anything, I went to other sources. And I saw a picture of you at some fancy party surrounded by the team.”
I glance up at the ceiling and exhale loudly. “I’m working for them,” I finally admit.
“Working for the Hawks? Doing what exactly?”
“I’m helping Mads with some PR stuff,” I reply evasively while watching the headlights of cars disappearing down the street below.
“PR,” she repeats, the two letters laced with suspicion. “Since when are you doing PR work?”
“Since now,” I say defensively, not liking her tone.
“For the team, or for Sam.”
