6. Daddy Wilson

I was an asshole. Groaning at my reflection, I ran my hand over my damp hair. The second Wren had wrapped her arms around me in what was nothing more than a congratulatory hug, my body had ignited. It had burned with want, with desperation, with frustration.

And I needed an outlet.

I stretched my fingers and snapped them back into tight fists. This frustrating limbo was unfamiliar to me. When I wanted something, I created a plan and I went after it. All I ever needed was patience and a solid strategy. Thus far, I’d found that with enough work, I’d get what I wanted.

Except for Wren. There wasn’t a plan in the world that would get me where I wanted to be when it came to her. Every moment in the last year that I’d spent with Wren pushed me to want more. Denying myself the opportunity to hear her voice or make her smile or touch her felt more and more impossible by the day. Like trying to free myself from quicksand, the more I fought, the deeper I sank. Was it so awful to want something for me? The man, not the coach not the father. But Tom.

Was it wrong of me to want someone for myself?

Desire once again burned through me. I could almost see myself sliding my hands up her body as I slipped inside her.

The images flashed through my head, and my dick twitched to life.

I gritted my teeth. I was not fourteen. I had control. It was the mantra that I’d repeated while I’d taken a cold shower, attempting to snap myself out of this mood. Because I was not fucking my hand in the shower because I was horny.

The buzz of my phone on the dresser had me pushing off my bed. Leo’s name popped up once, then again. Although I wasn’t in the mood, I swiped over to my best friend’s message.

Leo: Poker. My place.

Leo: Wifey is doing book club and she dropped the kids at the in-laws. I’m a free man for the next four hours.

I chuckled. The asshole had no interest in being a free man. He was just a fucking drama king.

Me: In NYC, bro.

Leo: No shit? Work or play?

I couldn’t claim I was here for work, because if he was texting me, then he was texting Collin, my assistant coach, for poker too.

Me: Play

Leo: Niiice. Hopefully she can pull that stick out of your ass.

Me: GIF of the middle finger

Leo: Haha. Enjoy your date. The storm is supposed to be pretty intense. Maybe you’ll get to stay and spend another day in bed. Wink emoj i

I swallowed, willing the image of Wren above me to disappear. It was no use, and it was soon accompanied by another. This time of her below me, my hands running along her body, my dick sliding between her gorgeous thighs. My cock thickened, throbbing at the idea.

My phone buzzed again, snapping me out of it. With a harsh breath in, I forced myself to focus on Leo’s message.

Leo: Heath just got here. He says have fun on your sex weekend.

I winced. Jesus. If he had any idea who I was with, he’d be singing a completely different tune. But wait. A moment of rational thought managed to get through my sex haze, even if I wasn’t here with Wren…

Me: Those words did not come out of his mouth.

Leo: Haha. Yeah, I can’t see it either.

Leo: Funny story, tho. He says Wren is there too. Some work trip. He’s worried she’s gonna get snowed in.

A message from Heath appeared at the top of the screen, and I clicked over.

Heath: You in the city?

I swallowed. There was no way to count the number of times the Jacobses had helped me over the years. Baseball seasons were long, and Avery had spent countless weekends and holidays with her best friend. Not once had Heath given me shit about it. He was happy to help my daughter. As I should be to help his.

Me: Leo told me. I’ll text her.

Heath: Thanks, man. Sorry to interrupt your weekend.

Me: No worries.

Regardless of those words, guilt clawed up my throat. Wren was stuck here with me. It was snowy, she was alone, and I was being a douche bag.

Sighing, I snagged a T-shirt from the top drawer of the dresser and pulled on the jeans I’d worn while we traveled.

I’d eaten close to a hundred meals with Wren over the last five years. She’d come over with Avery for Saturday dinners. I’d taken them out to eat. Avery and I had even spent holidays with the Jacobses. So hiding in my room like this was a major asshole move.

I opened the door, and when the lock popped, I winced. I didn’t remember locking the knob, but I could only imagine how ridiculous I’d looked as I stormed in here earlier. Hopefully she hadn’t heard me do it.

Expecting Wren to be sitting in the main room, I was shocked to find myself alone. Fuck, I really was an asshole if I thought she’d be out here waiting for me. An idiot too, because she was not the type of woman who let someone walk all over her.

She’d been miffed when I’d acted like an ass to Kline. But the easy conversation between the two of them had put me on edge. Here I was, almost fifty, yet I was acting like a jealous teenager.

I locked my jaw. I’d probably need to apologize about that too. Hands on my hips, I scanned the empty room and the kitchen.

The door to her bedroom was open, so I knocked on the frame.

“Wren?”

When she didn’t respond, I peered inside, but she wasn’t there either. Her bag was still sitting on the floor by her bed and her purse was on the dresser, so she hadn’t left the city to spite me for being an asshole.

What the hell?

I surveyed the room, then wandered out to the main area again. Nothing was out of place. It didn’t even look like she’d been in here. Every pillow sat exactly in its place on the sofa. The magazines were spread on the coffee table evenly, undisturbed since the cleaning staff had arranged them .

The only thing out of place was the notepad set haphazardly on the counter. Brow cocked, I picked it up.

Next door grabbing dinner with Kline. If you change your mind and want something, text me, and I’ll grab it for you.

Wren

Oh, hell no.

Jealousy bubbled in my gut.

Next door? What was next door? And why hadn’t she told me before she left?

That was an easy answer. Because I had ignored her. I’d wanted her to go away, and that’s exactly what she’d done. She’d behaved exactly like any professional should have. Yet at the idea of it, anger ripped through my chest.

I turned to the door and stormed out. It wasn’t until it clicked shut behind me that I realized I wasn’t wearing shoes. Hell, I didn’t even have socks on.

Shit.

I shoved the balled-up note into one pocket and dug in the other for my wallet, where I’d stashed the key card to the room.

But my pocket was empty. Shit.

My wallet was on my dresser.

My phone too.

This was the kind of shit I never let happen. I kept tight control over every aspect of my life to avoid this kind of scenario.

And now I was barefoot in the hall and locked out of my fucking room.

I hit the button for the elevator, and when the doors didn’t immediately open, I glared at them. I gave it thirty seconds before I hit the button several times in rapid succession.

The stupid elevator was slow as hell.

Finally the light above it lit, and with a ding, the doors slipped open. Inside, I hit the lobby button, followed immediately by the one labeled close door . All I could do now was head to the front desk and hope like hell they’d let me back in.

The problem? I didn’t have my ID. Even if I did, it still wouldn’t do me any good. Not when the fucking room was in the auction house’s name.

By the time I got down to the lobby, I was steaming.

“Excuse me, sir,” a man called. “We ask that our guests wear shoes when leaving their rooms.”

Of course they did. What kind of a jackass walked around barefoot in the lobby of New York’s most prestigious hotel? Apparently, my kind of jackass.

I ignored him, heading straight to the desk.

The young concierge’s eyes widened as he took me in from my head down to my bare feet.

“I’m locked out of my room.” I gritted out the words before he, too, could give me shit about my lack of proper footwear.

Swallowing audibly, he scanned my face, and recognition tingled in his expression. Twenty years ago, everyone recognized me. Between my popularity as the starting pitcher for Boston and many endorsement deals, I couldn’t walk down the street without being stopped every twenty feet for an autograph and even sometimes a photo. These days, though, I could move through life undetected most of the time. Die-hard baseball fans would still stop me, and now that everyone had a cell phone equipped with a camera, requests for pictures had become more common. Now, the last thing I wanted was to commemorate this moment with photographic proof.

Remember the time the forbidden woman you were obsessed with was on a date with another guy and you lost it and locked yourself out of your room? Yeah, I’d much rather forget this.

But the young man didn’t remark about my shoes or my identity. “Room number?”

“It’s 2401,” I gritted out, my hands balled into fists at my sides.

He looked from the screen to my face, his lips pressed into a tight line. “Is Ms. Jacobs in the room?”

Seriously? Did he think I’d be standing here if she was ?

“She’s next door.” I turned toward the windows, where the snow swirled, turning the dark night into more of a gray haze. No way could I go out there like this.

He peeked over the counter and pointedly looked at my feet, a brow arched in judgment.

“I’m going to have to call her.”

That was fucking great.