8. Sinclaire

Trick is towering over me, a glare on his face and my underwear in his hands.

"I can explain," I whisper.

He shoves the panties at me. "Put these on first."

Oh God.

My hand shaking, I take them from him, and he turns around.

I slide off the windowsill and shove the underwear onto my body. "Should I put on my?—"

"You can leave the jersey on." He rolls his big shoulders, his muscles bulging, then hangs his head and turns around. "Start explaining."

"I thought you'd be out all night." I tell him about the party in the room I was staying in.

"Why aren't you in a room of your own?"

"I didn't know how hard it would be to find one! My dad has always booked me a room before."

He covers his face with his hands. "All right. You can stay here. Let me grab some stuff and?—"

"No!" I launch myself at him, grabbing at his arms. "God, please don't give me your room and leave. That's mortifying. Just let me?—"

A knock at the door, followed by a muted "Room service" completes my utter embarrassment.

"That was fast," Trick says, confused.

"I, uh, ordered something," I admit.

He gives me a look of disbelief. "Jesus, Sin, just make yourself at home."

"That was the plan," I mutter.

He answers the door, signs for my food, and brings the tray in, setting it down on the bed with a clatter.

"I was going to say, let me eat and then I'll get out of your hair," I say mulishly.

"I'm not letting you run around the hotel. Sit your ass down and we'll figure out where I can go."

"I told you, I'm not letting you?—"

"Which one of us is the adult here?" he snaps.

My mouth falls open and silence falls between us. I can feel my cheeks turning red.

"That's not what I meant."

"Weird. It's what you said."

"I know you're a grown up now. But you can't— You're still a girl—I won't fucking apologize for wanting to keep you safe!"

I cross my arms over my chest. "You weren't even supposed to be here!"

"You didn't think that a forty-two-year-old man might be fucking tired after all that?"

"You told me to leave because the party was going to get wild!"

"I told you to leave because I didn't want anyone else looking at you."

Silence falls again.

He groans. "Fuck, Sinclaire. I shouldn't look at you, either."

"What?" The word slides out of me in a shocked, confused whisper.

"Forget I said that."

"Forget? Oh, no, Trick Lowry. That one's going in the spank bank." I spin around, furious now. I need more clothes than I'm currently wearing. I need more clothes than I packed.

He doesn't want to look at me? He doesn't want anyone to look at me?

My first and only crush would rather I be invisible. What cruel irony that right now, I'm very much not.

He sinks into the armchair by the window and yanks off his tie. "You shouldn't joke like that with someone like me."

I swipe my skirt and tank top off the floor. Where is my bra? "What do you mean, someone like you? You just said you shouldn't even look at me, so I'm pretty sure if I crack another dirty joke, you'll melt or something."

"You shouldn't joke like that with anyone. Better?"

"No. Worse." I decide to get dressed without a bra, which I'm sure will send this man child into a complete meltdown.

"I am not a man you can trust, Sinclaire. Do you understand me?"

"No." I throw my hands in the air, my skirt and shirt going flying. "I don't understand you at all. But more to the point, you don't understand me. Sorry for thinking that your room might be the only safe place for me in this entire hotel. Thanks for making it crystal clear that it is not."

"Fuck." He gives me a tortured look. "It is. This room is safe for you."

"Nope. You think I'm a kid, Trick. And I'm not. Sure, there's a part of me that's still that girl who has a stupid crush on you, but I promise you, I'm a grown up who can rid myself of fantasies. I will shake that off just as soon as I can get to the airport."

"Whoa." He holds up his hand. "Slow down." He glances at the room service train. "Sit. Eat something."

"I don't want it anymore. You have it. You—" I burst into tears. "Oh, fuck. You won the World Series tonight and I'm yelling at you. Trick, you should be out celebrating."

"I don't want to be anywhere else but here. Come on." He pushes out of the chair and crosses to me, wrapping one arm around my shoulders and turning me to the bed. "Let's start over. Grown up to grown up. You got me vegetarian pizza, huh?"

I huff a watery laugh. "Sorry it's not a burger."

Another knock sounds at the door. "Room service."

Trick's hand falls away from my back. "See? I've got the burger covered."

I swipe my face as he goes to the door, and by the time he returns, I'm sitting at the top of the bed with the heavy tray balanced over my legs.

He takes a bowl of ice cream off his own tray and puts it in the mini fridge, then glances at my set up. "That comfortable?"

Not really. "It's fine."

"Gimme that." He lifts the pizza plate up, hands it to me, then whisks away the tray.

I eat a piece of pizza as he shrugs out of his suit jacket and carefully hangs it up. He also takes off his tie and undoes the first button on his shirt, but that's as far as he undresses before he joins me on the bed with his own plate.

He stretches his long legs out front of him and leans back against the padded headboard. He checks his watch, then says, "Want to talk more, or could I put on the TV?"

I flash a glance at his watch too. "Will you watch the recap of the game?"

"I don't need to if you'd rather talk."

I shake my head. "Turn it on."

We watch the sports news as we eat silently. They show all of Trick's at-bats for the game, and each of his home runs over the playoffs.

He watches himself dispassionately, almost clinically, and as the broadcast goes on, I eat less and less, absorbed in observing him.

"You're staring," he finally says.

"Sorry."

He grunts. "Didn't say I didn't like it. You can stare all you want. I told you, this is a safe space for you."

"I don't understand you."

"Good."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I don't want you to understand me. Some things should stay private, and I'm trying to be whatever you need while not exposing you to…" He pushes off the bed and puts his empty plate on his tray.

A third knock at the door makes me laugh.

"Let me guess," I say at the same time as the person on the other side says, "Room service!"

He stalks to the door and yanks it open less politely than the last two times. "I didn't order?—"

"This is a gift from another guest, sir. There is a note."

He grunts again, and I wonder if that low, guttural sound makes the room service delivery person squirm in the same way it does me.

When he strides back into view, he's holding a bottle of chilled champagne, condensation rolling down the outside, and two flutes. He gives me a dark look. "A gift from your father."

My mouth goes dry.

His glower intensifies as he adds, "Apparently, this is for me to share with the friend whose panties he saw on the floor before I shoved him out of here."

Oh shit. "You aren't going to tell him, are you?"

"That his daughter got naked in my hotel room? No. I'm going to keep that secret to myself."

I open my mouth to thank him, and then I hear exactly what he said. Got naked. Keep that secret.

And I rewind more. I am not a man you can trust. And then the first one, the line that I got lippy about. I shouldn't look at you.

"I can keep secrets, too," I say quietly. I roll to the side and put my plate on the night table. "Why don't you open that bottle and we can toast your win?"

He goes still, his gaze locked on my legs. Higher, really, and a tingle races over my skin as I feel his attention burn at the apex of my thighs.

I tug his jersey down, but at this angle, it doesn't cover my panties, and I can't pretend to be sad about that.

"Where'd you get the jersey?" His voice is thick again. I like it like that.

"Pour me a glass of champagne and I'll tell you." If he won't let me toast to him, then I'm not going to share my secrets.

He crosses to the bed and stares down at me, looking seven feet fall and very, very stern. "Are we negotiating now?"

"No?" I smile around my nerves. "Come on, Trick. Just open the wine and I'll tell you why I'm wearing your jersey."

He leans over and sets the champagne next to my discarded pizza. The glasses go next to it. Then he braces one hand on the bed and leans the rest of the way down, bringing his mouth close to my ear. "I know why you're wearing my jersey, little mouse. And you aren't the only one who's filing things away in a spank bank."