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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WHEN I WOKE the next morning in the guest bedroom of August's beach house, I nearly threw the covers off and raced to hopefully find my favorite retired football player still in bed so I could join him in it.
But then I sat up and stared straight into my reflection, thanks to the mirror on the wall opposite the bed. And that was when I realized that I absolutely could not jump into bed with August. Not when I looked this bad.
A shower. I should take a shower. I should shave every inch of my body and lather myself in good-smelling soaps. I should make myself look presentable before I burst into August Fletcher's bedroom with the intent of letting him keep me there all day.
A shiver wracked my body at the thought of feeling him again. Of having his hands on me, feeling my curves, and dipping between my legs.
I slipped out of bed on shaky feet, already feeling the effect of August's heat running through my veins. Padding across the bedroom, I made my way to the bathroom and slipped inside, only to spend the next forty-five minutes scrubbing and shaving every inch of my body.
Once I was clean, I threw on my Warriors T-shirt with August's name on the back–because he seemed to like it that first day I wore it–and nothing else.
The house was quiet when I emerged from the guest room. Since it was a bit later than when I first woke up, I checked the kitchen and the living room. When he wasn't anywhere to be found on the first floor, and I doubted he'd be on the second floor when he never seemed to go up there, I waltzed toward his bedroom, hesitating only when I reached the semi-closed door.
I'd been pretty bold yesterday, and while I didn't regret anything that happened in the moment, now we weren't in the moment. Could I still summon that same energy and jump right back into bed with him?
I inhaled shakily, feeling jittery with nerves–a combination of anticipation and a touch of anxiety. But God, I wanted him. And that feeling of want was one I didn't know how to shake.
Nudging the door, I called August's name softly. When he didn't reply, I repeated myself a little louder.
Nothing.
In fact, the house was eerily quiet.
With a frown, I pushed the door open further and–
The bed was empty.
My frown deepened as I did a quick turn around his room, noting that his bathroom door was open, revealing a bathroom just as vacant as his bedroom.
Where was he? Did he leave?
My stomach sank, and my anxiety quickly overrode anything else I'd been feeling when I woke this morning.
Retracing my steps to the kitchen, I searched for a note or anything indicating that August might have stepped out of the house this morning. When I didn't see anything, I made my way to large windows overlooking the ocean. Maybe August was drinking his coffee on the deck. I'd noticed that anytime he could be outside, he was.
