Page 34 of The Player I Can’t Pick

His touch immediately lightens. “Tell me if it hurts.”

“It doesn’t.”

When he’s finished, he tosses the washcloth toward the bathroom and pulls back the covers.

I watch him. “What are you doing?”

He climbs into the bed next to me and pulls me against his chest. “Holding you.”

My heart literally feels like it skips a beat.

My head rests over his heart, and I slide one of my legs between his. His fingers move slowly through my hair. “Do you need water?”

“I’m good right now.”

“Food?”

I laugh softly. “You just fed me.”

“That was hours ago.”

“It was not.”

His arm tightens around me. “I’ll get you whatever you need.”

I go quiet.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

He looks down at me. “You can tell me anything. What is it?”

I trace my fingertips across his chest, trying to figure out how to explain what I’m thinking. “I don’t know. You’re nothing like I expected.”

His hand stills in my hair. Everything I thought I knew about Guy came from gossip magazines, interviews, social media, and photographs of him with women who look nothing like me. None of it prepared me for this man.

He holds me tighter. “Truth? I don’t feel like the same man when I’m with you. You make me want to be better. You bring out a side of me I didn’t even know was there.”

I lean up and kiss his chest. Guy presses his lips to the top of my head and holds me tighter.

I close my eyes and let myself relax against him. I know we can’t stay here forever. But right now, I really wish we could.

CHAPTER 13

GUY

This doesn’t feel right. I’m driving Nicole back to her hotel, and she’s been quiet the whole way. I reach across the console and wrap my hand around hers. “Hey. What are you thinking?”

Her eyes are wide when she looks at me. “I’m not going to be all clingy or anything.”

My forehead creases wondering where the hell that came from. Before I can say anything, she pulls her hand from mine and turns toward the passenger window. “I mean, I just don’t want you to worry. I’m not going to be clingy or expect anything after last night. It was fun, and we had a good time, but I have no illusions about what it really was and⁠—”

She stops talking when I pull onto the shoulder and put my truck into park. I turn to face her, but she keeps staring through the windshield. “What are you doing?”

I squeeze the steering wheel. “Setting things straight.”

She lifts one shoulder. “What does that even mean?”