You’re going to need my real name for that.
Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.
I roll out of bed with a sigh, stretching my arms above my head until my joints pop, then pad barefoot toward the ensuite bathroom. I’m still in my sleep shorts and a cropped tank top. The mirror greets me with a sleepy, puffy-eyed version of myself that looks like she’s been through war. Or in my case—a frat party hosted by an NHL captain who happens to be my brother.
I grab my toothbrush and start brushing, staring at myself as guilt slowly creeps into my reflection.
That man from last night floods my thoughts again. His voice, his face, his energy that made my skin flush like I’d stepped too close to a bonfire—it all comes back. Every time he spoke, my insides did this stupid flip thing, like I was in eighth grade andhe’d just smiled at me during recess. And the only other person who affects me like this is a man I’m too scared to see in person.
I rinse my mouth, spitting out my guilt with the toothpaste, but it clings to the back of my throat anyway. I wipe my mouth with the towel and head out.
I don’t even know who Ghost really is. He could be a 45-year-old guy with six kids and a neckbeard. But I know he isn’t. And I do know him. I know his thoughts. His humor. His pain. I know everything that isn’t visible on the outside or written on the dotted line on his birth certificate.
And yet, the man from the party invades my brain again. Mr. Abs McSmirky.
But the thing is... it wasn’t just the way he looked. It was the energy he carried. Cocky, flirty, sharp and teasing. It’s all a little too similar to Ghost’s, if I’m being honest.
But he’s not Ghost. Ghost is... words, wit, and late-night confessions. And this guy? That man looks like he’s never had a thought in his life unless it involved bench pressing or blow jobs. He looks like his deepest thought was probably whether protein pancakes count as a personality trait.
Still... my body had some thoughts about him last night. And they weren’t exactly rated PG.
I can’t think about this right now. I need coffee.
I open the bedroom door and step out into the hallway, the scent of fresh coffee instantly reaching me.
“Can you make me one too, Dom?” I shout as I hear the coffee machine finish.
There’s no answer, but I hear the hiss and hum of the espresso machine kicking on again.
“Thanks!” I call as I head toward the stairs, feet bare, the tile cool under my skin.
I move slow, stretching one arm over my head, yawning as I descend the first few steps. The house is spotless, with no sign of yesterday’s party. I know Dom has a cleaning crew, but I didn’t think they’d be this fast.
I round the corner, still sleep-heavy and nipple-forward, hoping Dom doesn’t have to leave for practice too early. I’ve missed my brother, so being able to have coffee with him before—
I freeze.
Dominic is outside. Through the glass doors, I can see him by the pool, phone to his ear, pacing in that I’m talking to a lawyer or the President way he does.
I furrow my brows.
Wait, then who the hell…?
My eyes shift to the kitchen where they land on him.
The man from the party is standing at the espresso machine—unbuttoned white shirt, abs out, tattoos like warpaint down both arms and his chest, hair a mess in the most intentional way possible.
And he’s smirking at me over the rim of a coffee cup as he makes the coffee I just very loudly demanded from upstairs. He’s watching me like he definitely just saw everything jiggling under this top. His gaze drags from my bare legs to the hem of my tank top, my lack of a bra very, very obvious.
I go still, my entire body locked. My brain does a hard reset.
“...You’re not my brother,” I say dumbly.
His mouth curves into a slow, filthy grin.
“Thank God.” He chuckles, his gaze unapologetically trailing down my legs, over my shorts, lingering a little too long at my chest before meeting my eyes again. “That would make the thoughts I’ve had in the past five seconds illegal in forty-nine states.”
My stomach does that thing again as he holds a coffee cup out to me.
