Page 56 of The Pucking Date
The door clicks shut behind me, and I drop my luggage inside, ignoring it as I flop onto the bed with a low groan.
The room’s nice—neutral tones, five-star everything, mountain views, and overpriced bottled water—but none of it registers.
Because all I can think about is what’s right on the other side of that wall.
Jessica Novak.
Two steps to the left. Maybe three. Same floor. Same hall. Same damn gravitational pull I’ve been white-knuckling for months.
Next. Fucking. Door.
I drag a hand over my face, then through my hair, like that’ll do anything to settle the storm under my skin.
This trip was supposed to be clean. Press, sponsors, deals. All eyes on me. And I’ve been doing the work—PR-safe interviews, sponsor-ready charm, staying out of headlines and away from temptation.
But the universe apparently thinks it’s hilarious.
Because now Jessica’s near enough that I can hear the low rumble of her suitcase wheels. The quiet knock of her heels across hardwood. The sound of her voice through the wall if I listen hard enough.
And I’m supposed to stay focused?
Yeah. Right.
Having her next door is torture. A test of every ounce of self-control I’ve ever possessed. Because I want her—not just for a night, not just for the thrill. I want her in ways that should terrify me.
I sigh again, the kind that scrapes out of my chest, and finally push myself upright.
Unpack. Distract. Do something useful.
I drag the suitcase over and unzip it, barely paying attention. But the second I flip the lid open, I realize something.
This isn’t mine.
Because the first thing staring up at me?
A scrap of red lace so delicate, so sinfully precise, it could pass for ribbon—if it weren’t so clearly designed to be slipped off with intent.
I reach for it before my brain catches up, fingers tangling in the delicate fabric. That’s when I actually look at the suitcase, really look. It’s obviously the wrong one. Subtle at first, different folds, a glint of rose gold hardware on the inside zipper.
But I can’t help myself. I nudge the panty aside and examine the rest.
There’s a black bra—sleek, sheer. Structured to seduce, designed to hold nothing back. Next to it, a silk camisole in soft ivory, edged in lace so exquisite it looks hand-spun. Nestled in the corner, a bottle of perfume—clean lines, amber glass, minimalist and expensive. I uncap it. Onebreath, and I’m gone. It’s her. That scent. Haunting the hallway. Lingering on the plane. Etched into my fucking nervous system.
This is Jessica’s suitcase.
I glance down again.
There’s a folded navy suit—tailored, sharp, pure Novak. Beneath it, a cream blouse still holding its press and a sleek jewelry case tucked beside a zippered bag of cosmetics. But it’s what’s underneath that stops me cold.
My number seventeen T-shirt. Heather gray, soft from wear. The one she wore on Fire Island like a challenge, like her bare legs and that cocky smirk weren’t already undoing me. The one she never returned.
She packed it. Which means she sleeps in it—my number, my scent, wrapped around her skin in the dark. The thought of her curled up in something that belongs to me makes my chest tight and my blood burn.
And just as I try to pull it together?—
I spot what’s tucked beneath it.
Matte black. Sleek. Compact.
