Page 106 of Well That Happened

“We got two larges,” Caleb announces. “Pepperoni and mushroom and then veggie because I panicked.”

“Power move,” I say.

Grayson returns a few minutes later, damp hair curling slightly at the ends, clean T-shirt clinging to his still-wet chest. He moves quieter than the rest, but his eyes meet mine as he walks back into the room.

Then he hands me a cold bottle of water without a word and sits beside me on the bed.

I crack it open, take a long sip to cool down what the shower clearly didn’t.

The four of us sprawl across the two beds, pizza boxes open between us, as the TV plays a rerun ofJeopardy!.

Caleb feeds me a bite of pepperoni and mushroom from his slice.

“I can feed myself,” I protest.

“But why would you?” he says, popping a pepperoni into his own mouth.

Hunter mumbles an answer to one of the trivia questions before the contestant does, then smirks when he gets it right. “You’re all useless.”

“Who is Joan of Arc?” I guess, just to piss him off. It’s wrong.

Hunter growls low under his breath.

Grayson doesn’t say much. He’s quiet, as usual. But every time I glance his way, his eyes are already on me.

Watching. Calm and warm and impossible to read.

And something about it makes my skin feel too tight in the best way.

For a moment, in this weird little hotel room with bad lighting, lukewarm pizza, and a show from 2014 blaring in the background—it almost feels like a family road trip.

If families were hot, dangerous, and deeply inappropriate.

Getting ready for bed in a hotel room shared with three giant hockey players is… an experience.

There’s only one bathroom.

Which leads to chaos.

“Who the hell packs two skincare serums and zero toothpaste?” Caleb mutters, digging through his dopp kit like it personally betrayed him.

“Borrow mine,” I offer, already brushing. He tries to take it mid-rinse and I slap his hand away. “Not yet. Wait your turn.”

Grayson holds up a travel-sized floss like it’s a peace treaty. “Anyone need?”

“Me!” I say, mouth full of foam. “Toss it.”

He does. I fumble. It lands in the sink.

“Five-second rule?” Caleb offers, grinning.

“Absolutely not,” I say, rinsing it.

Hunter leans in the bathroom doorway, arms crossed. “You all good in here, or should I reserve another room so you can braid each other’s hair too?”

“Aw,” I coo. “Is grumpy captain mad he has to share a room with feelings?”

He walks off muttering something about rooming with toddlers.

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