Page 65 of The Puck Contract

Eventually, he lifts his head, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at me. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in all directions from my hands. His lips are swollen, a flush high on his cheekbones. He looks wrecked in the best possible way.

"So," he says eventually. "That was..."

"If you say 'nice,' I might have to hit you," I warn, earning a startled laugh.

"I was going to say 'fucking incredible,' actually," he corrects. "But I was also going to ask if you're okay."

I take stock—physically satisfied in a way I've never experienced. Mentally trying to process the seismic shift that just occurred. Emotionally... complicated.

"Yeah," I say, surprised to find it's true. "I'm good. You?"

A slow smile spreads across his face. "Better than good."

He rolls to the side, disappearing briefly into the adjoining bathroom. He returns with a warm washcloth, cleaning me up with surprising tenderness before tossing it in the direction of the hamper.

"Stay," he says, settling back on the bed beside me. It's not a question, but I hear the unspoken option to refuse.

I think about my apartment, about the texts from my father still unanswered, about the contract and the arrangement and all the complications waiting in the real world. Then I look at Groover—at Ansel—watching me with those warm brown eyes, and find I don't want to be anywhere else.

"Okay," I say, and the smile that breaks across his face is worth any complications tomorrow might bring.

He pulls me against his chest, one arm wrapping around my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck. The solid heat of him at my back is new but undeniably right, like a puzzle piece I didn't know was missing until it clicked into place.

"Ansel?" I whisper, his real name rolling off my tongue with satisfying ease.

"Mmm?" His voice is already thick with approaching sleep.

I have a thousand questions. What does this mean? Where do we go from here? Is this still part of our arrangement, or something else entirely? But they're all too big, too complicated for this moment.

"Nothing," I say instead. "Just... this was good."

His arm tightens around me, lips pressing a soft kiss to the nape of my neck. "Yeah, it was."

As I drift toward sleep, my phone buzzes from the floor where my jeans landed. Another text from my father, no doubt, another reminder of the real world waiting beyond this bedroom door. But for now, wrapped in Groover's arms, I let myself exist in this moment, in this discovery, in this connection I never saw coming.

Tomorrow is for questions. Tonight is just for this.

CHAPTER 19

GROOVER

SUNLIGHT CREEPS THROUGH the gap in my curtains like an unwelcome houseguest, landing right across my eyes because the universe hates sleep and loves irony. I groan and turn my face into the pillow, hoping to salvage at least a few more minutes of unconsciousness.

That's when I register the warm weight pressed against my side, the unfamiliar rhythm of someone else's breathing, and the events of last night come flooding back in vivid, X-rated detail.

He stayed.

I crack one eye open, confirming that yes, this is really happening. Mateo Rossi, my fake-boyfriend-turned-something-else, is indeed sprawled across my California king, one arm flung over my chest, his face smooshed against my shoulder, dark hair sticking up at impossible angles.

Something tight and warm expands in my chest at the sight, and I quickly slam the lid on whatever that feeling might be. Too early. Way too early for... that.

For several minutes, I just watch him sleep, cataloging details I haven't had permission to study before. The fan of his eyelashes against casting shadows on his cheeks. The small scar at the edge of his left eyebrow. The slight pout of his lower lip. Christ, I'm turning into a creeper straight out of a Twilight movie.

He stirs, mumbling something incomprehensible, then his eyes flutter open. Awareness filters in gradually—first confusion, then recognition, then a flash of what might be panic before settling into cautious warmth.

"Hey," he says, voice rough with sleep.

"Morning." I aim for casual but end up somewhere closer to reverent. Smooth, Williams.

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