Everyone who works within the New York Warriors organization knows that star player August Fletcher refuses to talk to most people...and especially team reporters. All except Quinn Castle, that is.
Quinn doesn't know why the broody football player...
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MY PILLOW WAS as hard as a rock.
It was also hot to the touch, and I couldn't flip it over to get the cold side.
In fact, I had a feeling that it didn't have a cold side. I had a feeling that both sides were hot and hard, so very, very hot and hard.
Because my pillow was a man. And if my fuzzy memory was any help, he wasn't just any man.
He was August Fletcher.
Which meant–oh shit.
A weird strangled noise flew from my lips as I rolled over, away from my makeshift pillow in the shape of the NFL's biggest star. The same one who held my career in the palm of his hands.
His very large, capable hands which had just swooped in around my waist, hoisting me back into the bed.
I cried out in protest, hoping that some of the noises leaving my mouth were words, but I couldn't be sure. To my own ears, I sounded garbled and water-logged. And it felt like something was growing on my tongue.
"Relax, Castle." August's rough voice had an odd, soothing effect, and my body immediately did as he commanded. "You were about to fall off the goddamn bed and straight into your puke bucket."
Puke bucket?
Oh my God.
No wonder my mouth tasted like shit.
His hand vanished a moment later after I'd been deposited next to him again. I looked up at his handsome face through blurry vision, and reality came crashing down as the sun blinded me, streaming in through the windows.
"I'm in your bed," I breathed.
"You're in my bed," he agreed.
Even though I had said it, and he had said it, my brain was still struggling to put the pieces together.
"You said you had more than one bed," I said.
I didn't remember everything from last night, but I sure as hell remembered that.
"I do have more than one bed," he said, nodding. Those smokey eyes studied me, shining with slight amusement as I slid the covers higher over my body. Maybe if I could just disappear, we could forget that this happened.
"And, what, you just didn't want to get the sheets dirty on the other one?"
His eyes rolled up. "You needed supervising."
"Look, I know I'm younger than you, but I'm not a child."
He leaned back against the headboard, assessing me. "I'm well aware you're not a child. But you were a very drunk twenty-six-year-old last night."
