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A doorman opens the door to the lobby, and he asks me where I’m headed.
“Desiree Dixon,” I say. I glance at my phone. “Apartment 2503.”
“Your name?” he asks.
“Asher Nash.”
He narrows his eyes at me. He rounds the desk, and the narrowed eyes deepen into a glare. “Mm, yes. Youareone of the Nash brothers, but I’m afraid I can’t let you into my building.”
Why the fuck not?
It’s what I want to say, but I keep the words in my head rather than blurting them.
Did she tell him not to let me up? It would figure since she didn’t seem too excited to send me her address. But I’ve come bearing gifts—not light gifts, by the way, currently held up in the large box the grocery store gave me to carry all this shit inside.
“Oh, uh…can you ask her again?” I ask politely.
He grins. “Ah, kid, I’m just messing with you.” He presses the button to call the elevator. “I’m a big fan of the Storm, and your brother is killing it this season out there. Had to rib you a little, anyway.” The elevator doors open. “Go on up, and, hey, take it easy on my Storm when you play here next weekend, yeah?”
I offer a laugh. “No promises.”
“I didn’t think so, but it was worth a shot.”
His laughter follows me up the elevator, and I land on the twenty-fifth floor.
I make my way to apartment 2503, and I knock lightly on the door. It takes a minute, but eventually the door opens, and I find Desiree.
She’s wearing a sweatsuit, and her red hair is tied up on top of her head in one of those messy knot things women do that are so goddamn hot. Her face is pale. She isn’t wearing any makeup, and circles darken the pigment beneath her eyes, but she’s still as gorgeous as I’ve ever seen her.
I feel a sense of relief that we’re in the same room together again.
“Hi,” she says.
I gesture to the box I’m holding in my hands. “I brought you some things to help you feel better.”
“No thanks,” she says, and she moves to shut the door.
“Des, please,” I beg.
Her eyes lift to mine, and she looks angry even through the illness she’s dealing with.
I don’t blame her. I broke up with her because I got scared. I realize now how fucking stupid that was.
I’m here to right that wrong. I’m here to try to fix things.
I’m here to get her back, and it starts by taking care of her. “I’m sorry. I never should’ve walked away, and I will do anything to prove that to you.”
“What changed?” she asks, still holding the door partially closed.
“Nothing. I guess when I had time away from the game, from the locker room, from my teammates, from…well, everyone, something snapped. I had time to think it through and realize how wrong I was to walk away.” I hear the begging in my own tone, but I don’t care. I’m not leaving without laying it all on the line.
She studies me for a long time before she finally sighs and relents a bit, walking away from the door so she’s not blocking my way in. It’s as good as an invitation, and I walk in and kick the door shut behind me.
I follow her toward the kitchen, and I set the box on the counter. She peers into it and finds all sorts of supplies, from cans of soup to crackers and vegetables to Powerade. Some of the good stuff is hidden underneath the blanket I picked up, but she picks up a little electronic slot machine game I added to my list at the last minute and raises her brows.
“To remind you of home,” I say, meaning Vegas.
She gestures to the view out her window. “Iamhome.”
