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Mostly because I don’t have a headache and exhaustion pulling at every cell like our first night in Ace’s childhood bedroom. I’m also not exhausted from far more physical activity than I’m used to (both the football game, such as my part of it was, and the punch), not to mention a little buzzed from Joan’s delicious three-course food and wine combo.

Tonight…I’m ready for bed after a full day of work stuff, punctuated by Ambrose stuff, book-ended by Ambrose wedding stuff.

But I’m not exhausted and ready to pass out the moment I hit the pillows.

Which is a problem.

Because Ace is in the bathroom, doing whatever it is he does in the evening to keep him looking gorgeous—something that’s definitely not a fourteen-step process like I have, and more likely is just brushing his teeth, splashing some water on his face, and calling it good.

So, I don’t have long to decide how to handle this.

The knob turns and the door opens, Ace strolling into the bedroom, looking gorgeous as always.

Right.

I don’t have any time to decide how to handle this.

And what I’m realizing is how I should have handled it—and that is putting my stuff away, cramming my body onto my half of the bed, and pretending to be asleep.

Failing that…

I’m now dealing with all that is Ace Ambrose, hair mussed and expression unreadable as he comes and sits on the edge of the bed. Then he tugs off his tee and tosses it to the side.

Fucking hockey players.

I swear they’re allergic to shirts.

But I’m only cursing him so, one, I can ignore the fact that the man has a perfect body, and, two, so I don’t think about all the crap that’s been winding through my insides and upsetting my carefully curated disinterest.

I don’t like hockey players. They’re my clients and nothing more.

Ergo, I don’t like Ace. He’s a client and nothing more.

Except, even the most cynical of all disliking-hockey-player-women—this being me—has to admit that I might have misjudged him.

Slightly.

He shifts and leans back against the pillows, folding one arm behind his head.

And that right there should be the pose that Maison Étoile uses in their ad campaign.

I guarantee that every man will want to be him, and every woman with a man will buy the scent, hoping the man in her life will channel some of Ace’s sex appeal.

“Something about the call you had earlier today upset you,” he says, eyes flicking to mine.

Okay, maybe I misjudged him a bit more than slightly.

I scowl.

He grins.

“What?” I snap, closing my laptop and setting it on the nightstand—of which there’s only one and Ace gave it to me so I have the space to put my computer there instead of leaving it on the floor. Same as there’s space to plug in my phone and watch, for my bottle of water and hand cream…and my bag with my medication.

Meanwhile, his stuff is on the floor, shoved back against the baseboard so he doesn’t trip on the cords.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

Don’t know what to do with a lot of this shit churning its way through my insides.