When Aria Monroe lands her dream job as the new photographer for Los Angeles's professional hockey team, the last thing she expects is to work with the cocky, arrogant center Connor Holden who rocked her world five years ago during a one-night stand...
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The following morning, I'm reminded why I don't drink whiskey anymore.
My head has its own pulse, throbbing relentlessly as I wince from the blinding lights of the hotel window. I grab a pillow and shove it over my face, blocking the sun, but it only seems to stifle my senses more, bringing on a wave of nausea.
Fucking hell.
I wish I had been drunk enough to black out last night, but unfortunately, I remember everything about Connor's attentiveness while I was shitfaced. He was sweet and the perfect gentleman and I kicked him out because of a nickname he knows nothing about.
It's not like he used it against me like Brian did. Brian was aware of what it would do to me when he used it, but Connor had no clue when he uttered the nickname what sort of effect it would have on me. I self-sabotaged myself last night completely, and I can't be mad if the man decides to never speak to me again. I wouldn't. He took care of me, bought me food, practically fed me, and I kicked him out like he was nothing.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Knocks sound off on the hotel room door, and I groan when my head pounds in response, throwing off the comforter and fully prepared to cuss out whoever the hell is on the other side.
But it's Connor in athletic shorts and a hoodie that looks all too cozy, his curls messy and unruly. He's holding...food and a drink tray with coffee. "Can I come in?" He asks. The bags under his eyes make me wonder if it was me and my stupid decision to tell him to leave last night that kept him up, and with the guilt that brings, I move to the side, opening up the door wider for him to pass.
I'm still in just one of my t-shirts that barely grazes my upper thighs, and I can only imagine what my hair and makeup look like, but Connor doesn't seem to care about any of that. He sits down on the bed, passing me one of the cups in the drink tray. "I didn't know what you'd prefer," he says. "Most girls like a caramel macchiato, so that's what I bought."
I arch a brow. "Just how many caramel macchiatos have you purchased, Connor?"
He winces. "Okay, that came out wrong. My sister normally gets that, so...yeah. I bought it as a peace offering, and I got an arrangement of things from the bakery next door for you to eat." Holding up the bag, he hands it over to me. "I wanted to apologize again for whatever I said last night to offend you. We slept together in the Maldives, but that didn't mean I had the right to say we would kiss again. You were drunk, saying things you didn't mean, and I let my overly-inflated ego assume—"
"Connor." Taking a long sip of caffeine, I almost moan with delight, but there's a more important task at hand. "You didn't say anything wrong. Knowing you want our next kiss to be special is..." I decide to ponder that later, changing the subject. "I just don't like the nickname Ari, okay? The only person who called me that was my...sister. When you said it, I just...locked up. I don't know. If anyone should be apologizing, it's me. You didn't deserve the way I treated you last night."
