Page 72 of Wild Card 13

When she finally looked at me again, something had changed.

The city lights reflected in her eyes. The amber glow from the bar softened the sharp edges she'd carried all day. And suddenly she looked less like the woman who kept the Minnesota Frosthawks running.

More like the girl I'd once loved. The girl I had never really stopped loving.

Lucy glanced down at her drink. Then back at me. "Ty?"

I swallowed. "Yeah, Shortcake?"

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Neither of us breathed.

Then she set her glass on the bar. And quietly asked, "Do you want to come up to my room?"

CHAPTER 8

BUZZ

NOW

The key card slid into the lock with a click that sounded too loud in the hallway quiet. The light flashed green, but before she could push the door open, my palm landed flat against the wood beside her head—a sound that made her freeze with the card still half-in, half-out of the slot.

I could smell her. Jasmine and something underneath, something that had been stuck in my head since I was seventeen. My fingers itched to touch her, but I kept my hand on the door. The plastic card trembled in her hand. I hated that she still made me feel like this.

"You sure about this?" My voice came out rough in a way that had nothing to do with the loss tonight—lower, scraped clean of the easy swagger I wore like armor.

She turned her head instead. Just enough. Enough to see the freckles scattered across her nose, the way her brown eyes had gone dark in the dim hallway light, the slight part of her lips like she was holding her breath. She held my gaze for one beat. Two. Then she pushed the door open and stepped inside, leaving the choice to me.

I followed. The door clicked shut behind us, and I locked the deadbolt with a decisive slide of metal, but her thumb found it first—she was already reaching for it, already turning it, as if her body had made the decision before her brain caught up.

The room was cool and still, smelling of starch and old carpet and her own jasmine perfume from earlier. A king bed dominatedthe space, made up tight with white linens, and a single lamp glowed amber on the nightstand. She set it before she left. I didn't want to think about why.

She didn't turn around. I stood behind her, still by the door, and the silence stretched until it felt like something solid between us. Her bag slipped from her shoulder and landed on the carpet with a soft thud.

"Say it," she said, and her voice came out steadier than I expected. "Say whatever you're going to say so we can stop pretending this is complicated."

I stepped closer. One step. Two. The carpet muffled my footfall, but I felt the air shift in front of me, felt the warmth of her waiting. My breath ghosted against the curve of her ear, and she closed her eyes.

"I'm not gonna say anything you don't already know, Lucy." My voice was barely a whisper, rough and low, and the way I said her name—like it hurt me—made my chest tighten. "I'm just gonna do what I've been wanting to do since I saw you at that bar."

My fingers brushed the hair from her shoulder, slow, deliberate, and the touch sent a shiver down her spine that she couldn't hide. I pressed my lips against the bare skin of her neck—soft, testing, a question she had already answered the second she let me through that door.

Her body went still under my lips. A breath caught in her throat, and for a second I thought she was going to tilt her head, give me more skin, let me take this somewhere neither of us could walk back. But then she turned, and the look in her eyes—dark, narrowed, full of everything we'd never said—made me pull back.

"This changes nothing." Her voice was low, clipped, the same flat tone she'd used in the office when I asked her to double-check the schedule just so I could hear her speak. "I still hate you."

She held my stare, and I saw the dare in her brown eyes—the one she didn't say aloud.Prove me wrong.My mouth went dry.

Then her fingers found the hem of her blouse. She unbuttoned it slowly, one button at a time, her gaze never leaving mine, and each small tug of fabric felt like a sentence I wasn't ready to read. The blouse parted, revealing the pale skin of her chest, the lace edge ofher bra. She shrugged the fabric off her shoulders, let it fall to the carpet with a whisper of silk.

I couldn't breathe. I'd seen her body before—a hundred times, a thousand—but that was years ago, when everything was still soft and easy. Now it was different. Her shoulders were sharper. Her collarbone cast a shadow in the amber light. She was harder, leaner, and the sight of her bare arms, the curve of her waist, the way her ribs moved with each breath—it unraveled something in my chest.

Her hand moved to the clasp of her bra. She didn't break eye contact, didn't flinch, and I realized she wasn't just undressing—she was testing me. Seeing if I could handle the truth of her. Seeing if I'd look away first.

I didn't.

The bra fell. Her breasts were full, pale, the nipples already tight from the cool air—or from me, from this.