Hot Shot (American Royalty Book 3)

by Robin Bielman

  I press in the code for the elevator and the doors open. It’s still surreal taking the private lift to the penthouse suite. If not for the unusual situation I’m in with Drew, I could never afford to stay in a hotel like this. His generosity is above and beyond and somehow I’ll figure out a way to repay him. When I get to our room, I open the door slowly so as not to wake him if he’s already asleep. Not that he’d hear me if I was loud since the suite is bigger than my entire house.

  My house. I miss it. And I’m worried about it since there is a lot to repair. All the flooring has to be pulled up and replaced. The baseboards, too. Everything in the bathroom is being ripped out. New drywall is necessary in some places. New paint. New fixtures. Thankfully, Gabby doesn’t start her film job until the end of the summer so she’s picking everything out that we need. She enjoys designing much more than I do, and more importantly she’s excellent at bossing people around. We’ve been told renovations will take several weeks.

  “Hey, how was it?” Drew asks, bringing my attention back to right now. He’s sitting in the dark on the couch watching television.

  I think he waited up for me.

  Santo moly.

  It’s been almost a year since I’ve felt this kind of protectiveness. Don’t give it too much consideration, Alejandra. You don’t know if he actually waited for you.

  I round the couch and plop down on the adjacent love seat. Once again, I have to move a book from underneath my butt. I put it on the driftwood coffee table. “It was terrible.”

  He flashes me his matchless smile, lit by the glow from the TV, but then he catches himself, my solemn opinion registering, and he drops the happy expression. He changes position so his body faces mine. He’s still in his classic dress pants and his dress shirt is loose and rolled up at the sleeves. “Tell me about it,” he says.

  So, I do. I slip off my scarf, slide off my shoes and relax. He’s easy to talk to and it feels like I’ve known him for years rather than months.

  “I was in the mood for a meatball sandwich so I went to this little Italian place off Fifth Street that recently opened. It was crowded, but I snagged the last table by the window.”

  “Sounds awful so far,” he teases.

  “I’m getting to that part. My waiter turned out to be one of Landon’s friends. He’s an aspiring actor and flirt, and he likes to talk a lot. So, he’s telling me about his latest audition when a girl storms into the restaurant, walks straight up to him, and throws her iced coffee in his face. He shouts, ‘What the fuck?’ She yells something about finding out he can’t keep it in his pants, and then she looks at me and says, ‘Is this the bitch you’ve been cheating on me with?’

  “I’m still wiping off the coffee that splashed in my face when I look up. The girl is glaring daggers at me and what does the apparent cheater do? He says, ‘What does it matter if she is?’ So I tell her, ‘No! He’s only my waiter.’ She’s thankfully satisfied with that, and then she knees him in the balls and walks out. He bowls over in pain before turning to go place my order and clean himself up.”

  “Wow.”

  “Right?”

  “How was the meatball sandwich?”

  “Promise not to laugh?”

  “Promise.”

  “There was a hair in it,” I say with a straight face.

  He keeps his expression blank too, until he can’t hold it any longer and cracks up. It is pretty funny. Now. Telling him the whole story and hearing him laugh is exactly what I needed. I join in the laughter.

  “Please tell me the movie was better,” he says once we’ve quieted.

  “Nope. I thought it was a romance and then the hero died near the end.”

  “Damn. Well, the good news is you can officially cross it off your list.” He sounds proud of me, which is another unfamiliar gift as of late, and the awful parts of my evening are forgotten. This, right here, is what I’ll remember.

  “True.” I look more closely at the television screen for the first time since I sat down. A baseball game is playing, the volume barely audible. “Who’s winning?”

  Drew goes back to watching the screen. “The Landsharks. Eight to two. Finn hit a three-run homer in the fifth.”

  “That means there were two players already on base, right?” I move to the other couch so I can watch without craning my neck. I keep a respectable distance between us as I get comfortable with my legs crossed in my lap.

  He gives me a quick side look. “Right.”

  “Do you watch all of your brother’s games?”

  “I try to.” He shifts, putting his feet on the coffee table and settling deeper into the very comfortable couch cushions.

  “Did you play growing up?” I ask.

  “I did. Started when I was five and played through high school. I so badly wanted to be as good as Finn, but I didn’t come even close. It was awesome watching him stand out and get scouted, though. And I played the younger brother card countless times to up my cool factor.”

  “What? You weren’t cool as a kid? I find that hard to believe.”

  “Believe it. I was a total nerd. Wore ties and preppy sweaters to school. Talked business like I understood it. Which I did for the most part, but no one else cared. I was also small. Didn’t have a growth spurt until my freshman year of college.”

  “So, no high school sweetheart?” I ask lightly. I bet there were still plenty of girls interested in him.

  “Not a one. I made up for it later, though,” he says with a cheeky grin. “What about you?”

  “Matthew was my high school sweetheart.”

  “Oh. Okay. How long were you two together, then?”

  “Seven years. We broke up amicably almost a year ago because he took a job in New Zealand.”

  A pained expression comes over Drew’s face, but it vanishes quickly, leaving me to wonder if I imagined it. “I understand the complication a little better now.”

  “There’s a little more to it.” I bring my leg up and wrap my arms around my knee. “He’s coming back. Next month.”

  Drew’s jaw visibly clenches. “What does that mean?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know.”

  He considers my words, never breaking eye contact. I wish I could read his mind. I wish he could read mine and help me sort through my jumbled feelings.

  “And Gabriela? She’s older, right?” he asks, returning to the safer topic of family. I’m relieved, but also oddly not.

  “We’re twins, actually. Although, you’re right. She is older by a couple of minutes. Which she loves to lord over my head.”

  He’s quiet for a minute then, “Do you have any other family nearby?”

  “Our older brother, Diego, lives in Orange County. He’s a teacher and overall great human being. Our parents died in a hurricane in Puerto Rico. Gabby and I were five. Diego was ten. We came to California immediately after that to live with our grandparents. They raised us and you already know they passed away. We don’t have any other family.”

  “That’s rough. I’m sorry. Do you remember much about your parents?” His soft, compassionate tone is potent. Maybe even more than the sexy, confident voice that filled my stomach with butterflies the first time I heard it in a crowded bar.

  “Not very much, no. I remember my mom brushing my hair and reading to me, and my dad running beside me while I rode a red tricycle. I remember my parents’ unending affection for each other.” I look out the floor-to-ceiling window, into the darkness, grasping at the edge of another memory. “And my dad bringing my mom flor de maga all the time.”

  “Flor de maga?” Drew asks. He’s completely ignored the baseball game playing on the television and listened attentively to me.

  “It’s Puerto Rico’s national flower. It looks similar to a hibiscus. I think it must have been my mom’s favorite.”

  “Those are good memories to have.”

  “They are,” I agree.

  “I know it can’t really compare to losing a parent, but my grandfather passed
away when I was young.”

  “I’m sorry. Was this Rosemary’s husband?”

  “Yes. He went into cardiac arrest and was pronounced dead at the scene.”

  “That’s awful. Although in some ways, I think losing someone quickly is easier than watching them suffer through a long illness.”

  “I think so, too,” he says and a bond of understanding connects us further.

  By silent agreement we resume watching the game. The timing is perfect—it’s the top of the ninth and Finn is at bat. Drew puts his feet on the floor and his elbows on his knees, leaning a little closer to the television, like maybe his proximity will help his brother in some way. “Come on, Finney,” he says.

  The first pitch is a ball. The second a strike. Ball. Strike. Ball. “Full count,” Drew tells me, tension rolling off him. It’s cute, how into the game he is. Finn swings on the next pitch, makes contact, but it flies foul. This happens two more times before he strikes out. “Damn it,” Drew breathes out, falling back against the couch in defeat. He’s obviously a huge fan of his brother’s.

  “It was a good at bat,” I offer, drawing a smile from my couch mate.

  “You’re right, Al. It was.”

  Al? No one ever really calls me that. Not that I mind. I like it. I look away to settle down my wild thoughts. Nicknames are not a big deal.

  “I meant to ask you what else is on your list.” He twists, slipping one leg under the other and resting his arm along the top of the couch. His fingers almost reach my shoulder. “If you don’t mind me knowing.”

  I turn, too, but casually scoot away until my back hits the arm of the couch. It gives me a few more inches between us. “I don’t mind. Let’s see… Train for a half marathon.”

  “Only a half?”

  “Yes, I hate running.”

  He laughs. “Then why do it?”

  “To prove to myself I can, and keep my heart healthy.”

  “Good reasons. What else?”

  “Read a book a week.” I cover a yawn with the back of my hand.

  “I’d say you’re accomplishing that one.” He glances at the books on the coffee table.

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I have this habit of leaving books around. That way I always have one handy. And they bring me comfort.”

  He sits a little taller. “You’re not comfortable here?”

  “Oh, no. I am. It just feels even more like home now.”

  The room is dark, the glow from the TV the only light, but I think his eyes are sparkling. He likes that answer. “Sleep under the stars is also on the list. And teach myself an instrument.”

  “What instrument?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Tent or no tent for sleeping under the stars?”

  “No tent. I don’t want anything blocking my view of the sky. I want it to be just me, a pillow, a blanket or sleeping bag, and a thermos of hot chocolate.”

  “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

  “That’s me. Always thinking before I do something. So, that’s on my list, too.”

  “Thinking?” he teases. He looks right into my eyes when he talks to me and it makes me feel important. All of a sudden I’m not the least bit tired and wouldn’t mind staying up all night learning things about each other.

  “Ha-ha. What I mean is, I want to jump into things with both feet more often. Have adventures and do things outside my comfort zone, maybe even something dangerous.” I tilt my head and keep my eyes locked on his.

  “You’re talking an activity like bungee jumping?”

  “Maybe.” No chance in hell, but I like to think I’d be badass enough to do it.

  “Do not tell my grandmother about this. She’s been begging me to jump with her for her birthday. Ethan’s jumped a time or two already so has passed. Finn is contractually prohibited from doing anything that puts his health in possible danger. And so that leaves me. And while I might be persuaded, it freaks me out thinking about my grandma doing it. She’s too fragile. She might break a rib midair or something, I don’t know.”

  That Drew is protective of his grandmother makes my heart swell.

  “Are you sure she isn’t teasing you?”

  “I’m positive. She’s having a late-life crisis or something. Last Thanksgiving, she took surfing lessons. Last month she went indoor go-karting. I admit she’s in great physical and mental health for her age, but now is not the time to start pushing her limits.”

  “It’s a good problem to have,” I say.

  A flash of guilt spoils his easygoing features. “I didn’t mean to make you feel—”

  “You didn’t. I’m around seniors all day, Drew. They’re my favorite age group. Your grandma seems like a firecracker and you’re lucky she’s not shying away from life. I hope there’s some Rosemary in me when I’m her age.”

  His lips quirk. “I hope…” He trails off. “I’m sure you will. You are the woman who just had a date night with herself and survived it.”

  I press my shoulders back. “That’s true.”

  His eyes dip to my chest. My white zebra-print off-the-shoulder blouse is loose so he can’t see the effect his quick look has on my nipples.

  “What about you?” I ask, drawing his gaze back up to mine. “Do you have any kind of list?”

  “Right now I’d say it’s all about the hotel. Sold-out rooms aren’t enough to give me the reputation I want.”

  “Did you always want to be involved in the family business?”

  “I did, yeah. I admire my dad more than anyone else. And I want to make him proud.”

  “I think you’ve probably already accomplished that. Besides The Surfeit, do you have a favorite hotel?”

  He runs his hand along his jaw. “That’s a tough question. Our property in Maui is pretty special because we gather there as a family every Thanksgiving.”

  Drew’s phone, sitting faceup on the coffee table, trills and lights up with a text message. We both zero in on the device. A split second later, I wish I hadn’t looked. The name on the screen clearly reads Dahlia. There’s only one reason a woman would be texting him at ten o’clock at night.

  “I’ll let you take that,” I say, putting my feet on the floor to stand.

  “Wait. It’s not what you think.”

  I give him a look.

  “Okay, it is what you think, but I haven’t seen her in a while and have no plans or desire to see her tonight.” He flips the phone over rather than respond to the message.

  “It’s fine with me if you want to text her back,” I lie.

  “It’s not fine,” he argues. “I don’t date—or see—more than one woman at a time. What kind of guy do you think I am?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. I just thought…”

  “You thought…?”

  I blow a piece of hair off my face. “I don’t know what I thought, but I don’t want to tie your hands behind your back because I’m staying with you.”

  “Is that an option? Because I’m all for tying each other up,” he fires back.

  A hot and heavy sensation flares between my legs at his teasing words. My breasts tingle. I nibble my bottom lip while I try to think of a flirty comeback.

  He saves me with: “I know you’re out of practice, Al, so I’ll spell it out for you. I’m a monogamous dater, and I’d venture you are, too.”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “Good. So that means while we’re dating, there will be no seeing other people. You and I are going to have some fun. No stress. No doubts. And if something you’re not sure about comes up, we’ll talk about it. Deal?”

  “Deal,” I say, wondering how I got so lucky to meet this man.

  “Let’s shake on it.” He extends his hand. I take it.

  And even though we’ve touched before, this time is different, and his warm, masculine hand gives rise to sparks on my skin that thrill and scare me at the same time.

  Chapter Eight

  First Date

 
Alejandra

  I have nothing to wear.

  Okay, not nothing.

  But you know what I mean.

  I stare at the pile of clothes on the bed—everything I brought with me from home—like maybe something new will magically appear, but of course it doesn’t. Jeans and a cute top, or a dress? That’s my dilemma since Drew didn’t tell me where we were going for our date tonight. I deliberate for another minute before searching for the outfit I put on fifteen minutes ago: my lavender floral-print button-up mini dress. Finding it, I slip the soft cotton over my head and smooth it down before looking at myself in the mirror above the hotel dresser. With a V-neck and cap sleeves, it’s sexy, but conservative. A good-enough first-date dress.

  I’m going on a first date.

  For the first time ever.

  Matthew and I were friends before we became a couple and our relationship grew gradually from hanging out with friends to hanging out just the two of us at each other’s houses. I can’t pinpoint an actual first date that signified our togetherness. More like we just naturally settled into being boyfriend and girlfriend. We chose our anniversary date as the day we said “I love you” for the first time. Matthew took me out plenty of times after that, to restaurants and movies and concerts. But I’ve never had the experience of first-date jitters like I do now.

  My hands shake as I put on my heels.

  I’ve wrestled with my feelings all day, confused over how I can feel both guilty and excited. I can’t deny I’m attracted to Drew and want to spend more time with him. But am I being fair to either of us when I don’t know what’s going to happen when I see Matthew again? Until I reconnected with Drew, I knew what I hoped would happen: that there would still be a spark between us and we’d resume our relationship and live happily ever after. My parents and grandparents married their first loves and that had always been my goal, too.

  Goals change, Alejandra.

  People change.

  I push all thoughts of Matthew out of my head when I notice the bedside clock reads 8:29. Drew made our date for eight thirty, so I better get a move on. I grab my purse, make a quick stop in the bathroom to brush my teeth, then walk down the short hallway to the main living area.