* CURRENTLY EDITING.*
Luke Madden is a NHL superstar. But when an injury sidelines him, he's required to undergo physical therapy. With a stable family and girlfriend, Luke has all the resources he needs. Or so he thinks. As it turns out, there are...
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Rosalina
On Monday, I'm doing my best to hide a hangover. Last night, I went out with Emyln and Hainsey. Along with their friends, they drank me under the table. I should've stopped after two shots of tequila and three margaritas, but I fell down the rabbit hole, thinking I could handle the alcohol as well as they can.
Being in your mid-twenties... Let's just say you're not a teenager anymore.
As the headache rings through my cranium, I take the elevator up to Luke's floor. He's the first patient on my docket this morning. Mondays are the typical check-up days for my patients. The rest of the week is committed to exercises and strength training or guiding patients to their appointments with the doctor.
Just as the doors to the elevator are about to close, a hand comes in between. The doors shudder, then part again. Adrian stands before me, a coffee in his hand. He holds it out to me. "You're in dire need of one, Rosa. Looking a little hellish this morning."
I release a sigh of relief. "Christ, thank you, Adrian." After a sip, I cock an eyebrow. "Because I'm not wearing makeup?"
His lips pull to one side. "No. You don't need makeup to look beautiful. I say that because your skin has a green tinge to it. Rough night?"
The next sip scalds my tongue. "Too much tequila."
He loosens a low whistle. "Goddamn. Good luck getting through today."
The teasing tone earns him a middle finger. Adrian drops his hand and gives me a double thumbs up. "Good luck up there."
As soon as the doors close, my back hits the wall and I close my eyes, groaning. I want to convince myself I made a mistake not calling in sick today. However, under a rational mindset, I know I made the mistakes last night. And, honestly, I'm a little irked that I didn't hook up with someone amid them. At least I could've expelled some of this pent-up sexual tension. Even the toys aren't working.
If I'm gonna fuck around, it's go big or go home.
The elevator dings and I open my eyes, staring down the hallway. It looks elongated and narrow, like something in a horror movie where the point of view warps and twists. After a few rapid blinks, I step out of the elevator and head down to Luke's room.
To my surprise, his door is open. He, however, is not sitting on the bed or at the small table. His breakfast tray sits with empty dishes in the middle, remnants of sticky strawberry jam lingering on the plate. I make a tutting noise with my tongue. My suggestion to become more social and part of the community hasn't worked. It's hard to bypass the sliver of disappointment I feel.
Setting my clipboard down, I call out his name, "Luke?"
"In here!" His head whips around the entryway to the bathroom.
The first thing I notice is his clean-shaved jawline. With the limited amount of stubble, it looks ten times sharper, like it could cut glass. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, feeling a sudden wave of physical attraction. Luke looks fucking desirable with facial hair, but holy fuck. He's like a God with the shadow of stubble.
