Chapter 8

It's been four days since Felicity took off down the street from the bar in the SUV I arranged for her and her friend.

It was a foreign feeling leaving on my own. I'd been on my absolute best behavior, only flirting with her here and there, because it quickly became very clear that Felicity isn't like any other woman I've met. Sure, I've spent nights with plenty of gorgeous, smart, and self-respecting women, but Felicity? She's on another level entirely, the complete package, a goddess—from the way she looks to how she carries herself. She's totally out of my league, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm a bit intimidated, and I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing.

All I know for sure is I want to be around her; I want to impress her, and I want her to give me a shot at taking her out. When Jemma wrapped herself around me in the bar on Friday night and Felicity turned to leave, I couldn't unravel myself quickly enough. Jemma is a supermodel and a handful in bed—every guy's dream. But she nearly wrecked my chance with Felicity, and that thought alone left me regretting my past playboy behaviors even more.

We've been on an away series in New Orleans for three days now. Last night we secured our third win of the season, taking the game five to two. I played okay but there's no doubting my mind has been elsewhere, trying to figure out how to see her again. Right now, I should be throwing on a pair of jeans and a shirt, ready to head out with my team to sink a few beers. Instead, I'm lying on my hotel bed, staring at Felicity's number on my phone. I haven't contacted her yet, but that doesn't mean I haven't been desperate to. It seems crazy to miss someone I've only spent a handful of hours with, but that doesn't stop the feeling, and I want to talk with her.

So, without thinking any more about it, I click on her contact and type out a message.

Me

Hope your week is going good.

Keeping it simple, I set my phone down on the nightstand and reach for the TV remote, hoping she doesn't keep me hanging. A few minutes later, my phone lights up, and I imagine it's a bit like the look on my face—because it's her.

Angel

Hey, yeah, all good here in Seattle. Work's busy, but I'm heading to the gym to blow off some steam. Saw your game last night, played well :)

She watched my game, even when it wasn't at home; does that mean she's been thinking about me? At the thought, a shot of excitement thrums through my body.

Gym, eh? Perhaps we should bench press together sometime ;)

I can't help a little flirtation and almost immediately a reply comes through.

Ha! Yeah, bench pressing isn't my forte, I'm more of a spin class and yoga girl myself.

Interesting. I decide to take it up a notch.

Spinning? I do that as part of my conditioning. I have a full home gym, the works. Maybe you could come check it out sometime, and we could see who's got the superior stamina?

It takes several minutes to receive a reply, so I'm fucking relieved when I see her contact flash up on my screen.

Are you asking me to be your gym buddy, Mr. Morgan?

You bet I am.

Well, I see no harm in that.

Fucking hell, I'm hard just at the thought of Felicity in her workout gear.

My fingers fly over the keyboard as I hurriedly type out a response.

Is this a date?

I'm back in Seattle late Thursday. What about Friday?

Or the minute the plane wheels touch the ground.

I realize this is the first time I've invited a girl over to my place; it's rule number one in my need to stay private. But when it comes to Felicity, I've torn out the page and set it alight. I want to show her my life, show her all of me, and goddammit, I need to know more about her too.

This week has been full-on. Mark has wanted me in every client meeting he's taken on top of my everyday responsibilities, and I am a whole new level of exhausted. At least Darcy has settled well in Oxford. My phone is filled with pictures of her and her friends all making up for lost time. I knew it was the right decision for her and honestly, seeing her happy at least takes off some of the mum guilt that racks through me daily.

I'm due over at Jon's in an hour. For a spin class. I can't believe I said yes to him. Being alone in a man's home without properly getting to know him, and then there's the fact I'm going to willingly reduce myself to a sweaty mess right in front of him. Why did I agree to this? Oh yes, because I have no self-control and have apparently lost my mind.

My phone buzzes.

Kate

I want a detailed report when you get home, missy (I assume you will be returning home tonight!) Don't forget to wear your gift!

I might have lost my mind, but Kate turned certifiably insane this afternoon at work when I received a special delivery, right to my desk. Finishing up an email to one of Mark's clients, Margo, our receptionist slid a beautifully wrapped box to me. "This just came for you, Felicity."

I stared down at it, certain there had been a mix-up, since my birthday isn't for months.

"It's definitely for you—look at the tag."

I thought we could sync our sessions.

There will be a car at your place at six.

See you tonight,

J x

Jon sent me the latest Apple watch complete with a gorgeous emerald strap.I wondered how he knew where I worked but then I remembered mentioning Preston Preston to him at the cocktail bar. He really doesn't miss a detail.

Kate immediately lost her shit and now wants to know when the wedding is. I can't deny it's such a sweet gesture, but the cautious side of me questions his motives. Is this his way of getting into my knickers? Is this all just a challenge for him? He never dates women, so why would I be any different? I try to bury my niggling doubts, but beyond Jon's motives, I'm really not sure what mine are either. I'm not looking for another relationship. Since Elliott and I separated, I've been enjoying time by myself. I want to make the most of being independent. All I've ever known is a controlling marriage, and there's no way I'm allowing another man to dictate my life again.

Five to six, and I'm ready to go. I opted for a pair of black crop leggings and a white sports bra with a sky-blue cami on top, my usual workout attire.

The buzzer goes, indicating the driver has arrived. I grab my water bottle, shove my feet into my trainers, zip up my hoodie, and check I'm wearing my new watch. My stomach feels like an electric mixer, with a healthy dose of anxiety and excitement churning around.

On sight of the car parked outside my building, I realize it's not your usual cab company and the driver looks sort of familiar. "Good evening, Ms. Thompson. Mr. Morgan has asked me to pick you up and take you straight to his apartment. It's not a long drive, about fifteen minutes away."

"You picked me up that night from the cocktail bar?" I ask, suddenly realizing how Jon knows my address.

The driver smiles. "I'm Jon's private driver, Gerard."

Private driver. Wow.

En route, I reply to Kate's earlier text and assure her I will be returning home tonight, but the jury's out on whether I provide all the details.

Pulling up to Jon's building, I get out of the black SUV and approach the doorman. Apparently, he's expecting me and pushes the door open. "Please take the elevator on the left, Ms. Thompson," he explains.

"Thank you, to what floor?" I ask.

The doorman smiles. "Oh, this elevator only goes to the penthouse, so it will take you directly to the apartment."

He hands me a card with a code and wishes me an enjoyable evening. This really is another world away from my tiny one-bed. I tap the code in and clutch my tote bag to my side as the elevator ascends. Time seems to go by in slow motion as eventually it dings and comes to a stop.

Jesus.

As the doors open, I'm greeted with spectacular gray marble floors and crisp white walls adorned with print after print of what must be Jon's family. There are also some action shots from the NHL, although I don't think any of them are of Jon himself.

Looking up, there are two black chandeliers, sleek and modern in appearance but exuding expense. I think this is his foyer, but it would easily swallow my entire apartment. Up ahead, I spot his kitchen, so I go to kick off my shoes and head in that direction.

"No need to take them off, Angel. But by all means, make yourself at home."

I turn to the right and find Jon standing in an archway to a large room with an enormous stone fireplace roaring behind him. He's dressed in low-slung gray sweatpants and a black wet-look gym tank that hugs every single groove of his torso. I look down at his feet to find them bare, ankles crossed and hands in his pockets. He looks magnificent, his wavy dark hair is tousled and effortlessly perfect, and when he smiles, his dimples pop.

Lord, have mercy.

Taking in his splendor, I feel like I've already completed a three-hour workout.

"Like what you see, Ms. Thompson?"

I don't ask how he found out my last name. I certainly didn't tell him on Friday, but I assume it wasn't hard for him to work out since a quick search on my workplace's website would reveal all.

"Just admiring your sweatpants," I reply with a surprisingly steady tone.

Wait, admiring his sweatpants? Just tell him you were staring at his crotch next time.

Jon pushes off the wall and moves in my direction. I take a step back and bump into a side table I only just realized was behind me.

Holding my gaze as he towers over me, he whispers, "I've missed you."

He's missed me? I'm taken aback by his candidness, but I'd be lying if I said I hadn't missed him too.

Before I can muster up my usual sassy response, he juts his head down the hall. "My gym is this way. Do you need a drink?"

Yes, about three bottles of wine and half a dozen shots.

"No, I'm fine thanks. I've got everything I need." I lift the strap on my bag, indicating I came prepared.

Jon slips on his socks and white Nike trainers, and I follow him through his apartment in silence, the tension between us palpable. I can almost hear the crackles of electricity bouncing off us. We walk through his kitchen first, and it"s beautiful with a butcher's-block countertop teamed with stylish light-gray cabinets. Leaving the kitchen, he leads me down another hallway decorated in a similar style to his foyer. There are several doors leading off it, and I wonder if his bedroom lies behind one of them.

"My bedroom is the first on the left," Jon smirks over his shoulder as if reading my mind.

Am I that transparent?

We come to a stop before a thick, wooden door. The room must be soundproofed because as soon as he pushes it open, I'm met with blaring music. "Is that the Spice Girls?"

"I thought it would make you feel more at home."

Joker.

"Well, it's a kind thought, but I'm more of a Marilyn Manson girl myself."

His eyes widen in surprise. "Really?"

Dumping my bag down, I root through the front pocket for my air pods. Popping the lid on the case, I begin putting them in my ears. "Yep, he's my go-to for workouts. "Personal Jesus" is probably my favorite."

Jon props his hands on his hips, shaking his head as he looks down. "I don't think we can be friends anymore."

I mirror his stance. "Why? Don't you like a bit of heavy rock, petal?"

With that, he picks up his phone and swipes the screen a couple of times before Miley Cyrus's "Party in the USA" begins playing through the surround sound.

I can't help but laugh. "Now you're joking, Mr. Morgan."

Jon's already on his way to the exercise bikes and shaking his head. "One thing to note about me, Angel. I never joke about Miley."