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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I storm into Connor's lavish building like a woman on a mission.
I've been here enough for the staff to remember me. Pete, the doorman tips his hat and allows me to pass, oblivious to the steam I feel coming out of my ears. Polly at the front desk buzzes me through to the elevator, and I jab the button to his floor so hard I fear my thumb might break.
What a doofus. I've called him that a thousand times in the months we've gotten to know each other, but this is the first time I've meant it. Why would he even think of risking his injury for me, of all people? I've been ignoring his calls and texts, so it's partly my fault, but he knows his career is one of the most important things to him. Recovery is imperative to get him back out on the ice, and with his team losing the past two games, he's no doubt carrying the weight of those losses on his shoulders.
I shift from one foot to another while the levels tick by, trying not to imagine when he had me shoved up against a very similar elevator from his private entrance in the parking garage. His hands dragged through my hair, and his lips burned a path of blistering heat down my neck.
No.
Connor and his stupid dimples and sexy body will not let me forget why I'm here. I'm mad at him for being so reckless. Mad that I was such a coward and ran away at the first opportunity. Mad that he's the only thing on my damn mind, even if I'm pissed as hell at him.
When the doors open, I do everything in my power for my confidence not to falter, my heeled boots clicking against the fancy floors of his home.
Am I furious at him? Yes.
Did I make sure to prepare for makeup sex? Also yes.
I changed into a pair of tight jeans and a cropped pink sweater, and with the help of Esme, my hair is freshly braided into a tight set of box braids. Back when we were in middle school, she heard me complain about French braids not being enough for my hair texture. Other girls would do each other's hair in study hall or gym, so Esme took it upon herself to learn all types of braids just for me. Soon enough, she was a pro and loved doing my hair.
My heart swells at the memory and how grateful I am that we're reconciling things and mending our friendship back to where it was.
I haven't worn my hair naturally since my sister passed.
Until today.
I freeze in the doorway of Connor's bedroom, where I find him. He's on his bed with an ice pack placed over his eyes and forehead, and when the floorboards creak beneath me, he doesn't bother checking to see who it is. He groans, and the sound of him hurting... The way he looks so vulnerable and helpless? Tears prick the backs of my eyes all over again.
Dammit.
I just did my makeup.
"Levi, I swear to fucking shit if you're here to lecture me again I'll—"
