Page 24 of Winning Match
A knock sounds and I whip my head toward the hotel room door.
The knock sounds again. “Marlowe!”
Ale? I stand slowly.
“Marlowe, please. I can explain.” Ale’s voice is muffled on the other side of the door.
Frowning, I toss the phone on the bed as I move through the suite. I pull the door wide open, and Ale almost stumbles inside the space.
He manages to hook his fingers on the doorframe to keep from tripping and instead, leans sexily against it like a model posing in a photoshoot.
Green eyes pierce mine, causing me to suck in a breath.
Shit! I didn’t even look in a mirror yet. I have no clue what I look like, but I’d bet my life that I look nowhere as put together, as gorgeous and sultry and perfect, as the man standing in my doorway.
“Marlowe,” he breathes my name like a plea, and it does strange things to me.
My heart flutters, my abdomen clenches, and heat sweeps through my veins like a warning. And a promise.
Oh, God! What is wrong with me? I never react like this to men. Not even Gerard.
Is that really surprising? my conscience snips at me.
If I thought Ale was attractive last night, after heartache and tequila, then I wasn’t seeing clearly. Because even exhausted after a night out of drinking and dancing, the man is the most beautiful person I’ve ever laid eyes on.
His full lips are pressed together, and his eyes drink me in, as if searching for injuries—physical, emotional, psychological—I have no clue. But he looks at me as though he’s peeling back the layers I didn’t realize I painted myself in.
“Are you okay?” he asks, reaching for me. He cups my cheek and gently tilts my head. “You’re crying.”
“It’s nothing,” I say quickly. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t believe me but instead of questioning further, he inclines his head toward the hotel room. “Can I come in?”
I hold the door open wider and he slips inside the suite.
I fold my arms over my chest, feeling vulnerable and overwhelmed.
Why were we in a blog? Why is he here? Why the hell didn’t I look in a mirror the moment I woke up?
Ale glances around the suite, his eyes narrowing on his note and cash left on the desk. He turns back to me.
“The money was just to hold you over until you called your bank.”
I run my fingertips below my eyes, drying my tears. I laugh lightly, touched by his concern, by his thoughtfulness. “I know. It’s not that.”
“What is it?” he whispers, his eyes fearful. “I can explain the social media posts and the blogs.”
I sigh, closing my eyes.
“Will you hear me out? Please, Marli.” His voice cracks.
“Yes, I-I just need a minute.” My eyes dart to the bathroom.
He nods, understanding washing over his expression. “Did you just wake up?”
“A little bit ago.”
“I can come back or…wait.” He juts his chin toward the sofa in the seating area.
