Page 69 of Wild Card 13

“Only when I’m awake.”

“That must be exhausting.”

“You moonlighting as a therapist now?”

“No.” Her smile was small. “Just asking.”

I forced a grin because that was easier than answering honestly. “Careful, Watson. People will start thinking you care.”

“I care about good quotes.”

“Cold.”

“Accurate.”

I tapped two fingers against the edge of her microphone in farewell, then turned before she could ask anything else I did not want to answer.

The rest of the night blurred from there.

By the time we arrived back at the hotel, my body wanted a shower, food, and twelve uninterrupted hours of unconsciousness.

I should have gone straight to my room.

I was tired.

I was still pissed about the game.

I was more pissed that I could still feel the ghost of Lucy’s hip against the back of my hand from earlier that day.

I wanted sleep.

I wanted distance.

I wanted to stop wanting things that had Lucy Thomas attached to them.

Then I saw her.

The hotel bar sat just off the lobby, tucked beneath a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking downtown.

At this hour, the city looked expensive.

Glass towers glowed against the dark sky. Headlights streamed through the streets below like ribbons of white and red. Somewhere behind me, a piano version of a song I couldn't quite place drifted through hidden speakers.

Most of the Frosthawks crew had disappeared hours ago.

The loss was bitter. Most were not in the mood for anything other than counting sheep and drooling on a pillow.

Lucy sat alone at the far end of the bar with one elbow resting on polished black stone and a half-finished Old Fashioned in front of her.

Her blazer was gone. The sleeves of her white button-down were rolled to her elbows. Dark hair spilled over one shoulder. The ice cubes in her glass shifted as she rotated it slowly between her hands.

She looked exhausted. The kind of tired that settled somewhere deeper. The kind that didn't go away with sleep.

I hesitated for exactly two seconds. Then I headed straight for her. Because apparently I had learned absolutely nothing over the last eight years.

The empty stool beside her scraped softly across the floor as I sat down.

She didn't look surprised.