Page 10 of Off-Limits as Puck

But I’m lying.

I wait until his breathing evens out, then slip from his arms. Three a.m. shadows make him look younger, softer. Vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache. I find a pen on the nightstand and, in a moment of weakness, write my name and number on his forearm where he’ll see it when he wakes.

My dress is wrinkled, my hair a disaster, but the walk of shame through a Vegas hotel is practically a rite of passage. I make it back to my hotel by calling an Uber. Then I reach my room and slide into my hotel bed as the sun threatens the horizon.

“How was it?” Mia mumbles from the other bed.

“We had sex,” I whisper back.

She laughs, still drunk. “Oh, Vegas.”

I think about strong hands and stronger chemistry, about the way he looked on top of me, about how this empty feeling is the reason I don’t hook up with anyone. I feel gutted.

“It was a big mistake,” I admit.

But I won’t repeat it. Tomorrow I’ll fly home, accept a job that will make my father proud, and forget about the stranger who made me feel alive. It was just one night.

Just Vegas being Vegas.

It meant nothing.

6

I’ve woken up in worse conditions before but never feeling this hollow.

Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows and onto this empty bed. The sheets beside me are cold, like my dream woman has been gone for hours. I sit up, running a hand through my hair, and scan the room for any sign of her. A note, her clothes, anything to indicate last night actually happened.

Nothing.

“Fuck.” My voice comes out rough.

I sit up, head pounding in rhythm with my pulse, and that’s when I see the smudged ink on my forearm. A name? Numbers, maybe? I squint, trying to make sense of the blurred letters and digits, but they’re already fading, victims of sweat and sleep.

Christ, I can’t even read her name. Chelsea? Charlie? Something with a C. Her friends had been shrieking her PhD at the bar, but I’d been too focused on the way she moved, all confidence andattitude, to pay attention to details like names.

I trace what’s left of the numbers, trying to reconstruct them through sheer force of will. A 3 maybe? Or an 8? A 0 or a 6? The harder I look, the less sense it makes, like trying to remember a dream that’s slipping away with consciousness.

Shit.

I grab my phone and try different combinations, but each attempt goes straight to voicemail or some random person that definitely isn’t her. After the fifth failed attempt, I throw the phone down on the bed in frustration.

She’s gone. Really gone. And I have no way to find her.

The knock on my door comes at exactly eight AM, followed by someone’s voice booming through the hallway. “Hendrix! Get your ass up! Team breakfast in twenty!”

I drag myself to the shower, trying to wash away the disappointment and the lingering scent of her perfume. But I’m careful not to remove the smudged name and number. I need to keep trying these combinations.

By the time I’m dressed and heading down to meet the team, I’ve almost convinced myself that last night was just a really vivid dream.

Almost.

“Well, well, well,” Tony Ricci grins as I slide into the booth next to him in the hotel restaurant.

I reach for the coffee pot while they watch me.

“Late night?” Marcus asks, wiggling his eyebrows. “You finally get laid, and you don’t look too happy.”

“Did she disappear before you woke up?” Tony laughs.

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