Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
In a non-relationship way, of course. I just mean I’m fascinated by him and I enjoy spending time with him between the sheets, and thus I am still quite agreeable to this no-strings thing we’ve got going on.
That’s all it is.
I swear.
We take the elevator to the tenth floor, and Dominik steers me to a room on the end with a gold plaque to the side of the door proclaiming it to be the Presidential Suite.
“Wow,” I drawl as he opens the door. “Fancy schmancy.”
Dominik snorts, ushering me inside with his hand on my back. He strolls over to a wet bar flanking a large living area while peeling off his suit jacket, which he tosses over a chair. Rattling off the room’s stats, he uncorks a bottle of wine. “Almost twenty-five-hundred-square-feet, two bedrooms, two baths. You can’t see it now because it’s dark and rainy, but you and I will enjoy our breakfast in the morning with a sweeping view of Puget Sound, Elliot Bay, and the Olympic Mountains. You can’t beat the trifecta of scenery this one hotel room offers.”
“I’m almost afraid to know how much this set you back,” I say as he hands me a glass of wine.
“Only $6900 a night,” he replies with a wink. “But I can assure you, that amount does not set me back at all.”
Laughing, I meander through the living area, taking a quick peek at the luxurious master suite. My back is to him when I remark, “I can’t even comprehend the type of wealth you have.”
Suddenly, he’s right behind me, lips at my ear. “Why does my wealth bother you so much?”
I turn around to face him, noting he carries a glass of amber liquid. “It doesn’t bother me. Just boggles my mind.”
“Do you think this is frivolous?” he asks, sweeping his free hand out to indicate the luxurious accommodations.
“A little,” I admit before taking a sip of the wine.
“Then the next away game, we’ll stay in a motel,” he says magnanimously. “Promise.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “Let’s not get carried away now.”
Dominik grins, takes my hand, and leads me into the bedroom. My pulse quickens, knowing what’s coming and wondering if he’ll always make me feel this way.
Wait.
Always?
There can’t be an always, Willow. You need to get rid of those thoughts.
He releases my hand, kicks off his shoes, and climbs onto the bed. Positioning himself against the headboard without spilling a drop of his drink, he grins and pats the mattress. “Come tell me all about your trip to Ottawa.”
For a moment, I feel the panic zing through me. As many dirty things as he’s done to my body, he’s done nothing as intimate as requesting I come lay in bed with him while we enjoy drinks and talk.
He sees it on my face, too. “Relax, Willow,” he drawls. “I just want to have a drink with you and we can either stare at each other in silence, or we can talk. Ottawa seems pretty easy stuff to discuss, right?”
I blow out a breath, a nervous laugh following. Climbing onto the bed, I balance my glass of red wine without bothering to kick off my shoes the way he had. He looks so perfectly yummy stretched out there in his fancy suit, wet hair, and tie hanging lopsided because of the angle he’s reclining. Contrasted to my oversized jersey, ripped jeans, and hair in a sloppy ponytail, I’m not quite sure what he sees in me, but I don’t ponder it much. I’ve never been one to obsess on whether my looks are good enough for anyone. A man either wants me or he doesn’t. If he doesn’t, it’s his loss, not mine.
At least, that’s my attitude these days.
“So… Ottawa,” Dominik prompts.
I drag my fingertip across the rim of the wineglass, mulling over my last four days there. “It was fine. Nothing overly exciting happened unless you count the fact that some of the kids threw tomatoes at the Ottawa police and promptly got arrested.”
Dominik laughs. “Ever do anything like that when you were in college?”
“What makes you think I went to college?” I ask.
“Don’t play mysterious with me,” he counters with a stern expression. “I know you went to Michigan State. What was your degree in?”
No clue how he knows that. Maybe social media, maybe my brother, or hell… maybe my parents spilled it at some point in one of the few times they’d met him. Not really important.
“Photojournalism,” I say, then add. “And of course I did crazy stuff in college. Didn’t you?”
“I never finished college,” he says, which absolutely shocks me. How did I not know this about him?
“You’re kidding me?” My jaw hangs slightly open, and I clamp it shut. “I mean… is that common knowledge?”
Dominik shrugs. “It’s no secret. I mean, the press made a big deal about it when I first bought the Quakes, but it’s not such hot news these days.”