Sweet Ride (South Florida Riders #6) - Breezie Bennett
One
Ellie
Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up…
I hold my breath and tiptoe across the carpet, as light and silent as humanly possible. The sun is barely starting to peek in through the gray curtains, and I’m just a few feet from the door. A few freaking feet from slipping out of the apartment of my likely regrettable one-night stand, never to be seen by him again.
Leaving without a trace, in true Elizabeth Vice fashion.
Shit!
I stop in my tracks and go completely still as he—Matt, his name is—stirs in the bed and ruffles the sheets a bit. My heart rate spikes, and I force myself to ignore the broadness of his shoulders and ripped back muscles as he turns over on the pillow.
Cringing, I slowly crouch down and gather my heap of clothes from the floor, trying to ignore the wave of flashbacks to last night when those very clothes were being desperately ripped off and thrown in every direction.
I let out a silent sigh and roll my eyes at myself. No, I’m not usually the type of girl who would attend the formal cocktail party with the NFL team my family just bought and go home with one of the players. That really isn’t me, I swear.
But last night, sparks were flying, champagne was flowing, and the man sleeping in that bed behind me quite literally charmed my pants off. He felt exciting, like an adventure.
And I’ve never been one to turn down a good adventure.
I swallow hard as I reach the bedroom door and grab the metal handle, turning it super slowly and praying it doesn’t clunk or click or rattle. It’s smooth and quiet, and I push the door open and slip out into the living room, sighing with relief and holding my bundled-up cocktail dress and heels under my arm.
I glance down at myself, barefoot and wearing nothing but his stiff blue button-down and my panties.
I’m a walking cliché.
Whatever. Escape now, self-loathe later.
The balls of my feet pad along the wood floor, and I eye the front door, picking up my tiptoe pace as I get closer.
For a fleeting nanosecond, I feel bad. Matt seems…sweet. But, then again, he also seems like he might be a total womanizer jock type who will be completely thrilled that his latest conquest left in the morning without so much as asking for a last name.
I’m gonna go with that.
As I force my feet into my heels, I focus on the plane I’ll be boarding in just over a month to go back to Bangkok, which will begin a five-month stint of Vice Hospitality International PR work in Southeast Asia and the Middle East.
This cringy moment will be long gone once I’m out there, doing what I do best. Traveling, adventuring, exploring…living.
Being free, tied to nothing and no one, and certainly not thinking about the sinfully hot and painfully endearing football player who totally rocked my world last night.
After fumbling for a little too long with the lacy ties on my heels, I opt for the truest form of the walk of shame and stay barefoot.
I grip the door handle and ease it open, practically able to taste the freedom of fleeing…my favorite feeling on earth. Off I go…
“Hey.” A husky, masculine voice breaks the silence of the early morning in this random apartment and makes my heart skip a beat.
Goddammit.
I turn around quickly, feeling my face flush and my stomach drop as I meet his eyes. And his messy hair. And his glorious six-pack.
“Hi,” I manage awkwardly, hugging my dress against me and forcing a smile. “I was just…” I let my voice trail off and glance at the door.
He cocks his head and walks toward me, the glorious package in his plaid sleep pants flooding my mind with steamy images of last night. “You don’t have to just…sneak out.”
His brows furrow in confusion, and his blue eyes glimmer with that familiar mix of dirty, sexy, and sweet that got me into this damn apartment in the first place.
“I wasn’t sneaking out…” I lift a shoulder and chew my bottom lip, wishing with every fiber of my being I could have just slipped out, unnoticed.
He steps in front of me, his solid chest filling the space between me and the door. “Come on.” He nods back toward the kitchen. “At least stay for a cup of coffee.”
Stay? I can’t stay. I don’t stay. The word stay isn’t in my vocabulary.