Harper
I was hoping to be well rested for the day and evening ahead, but that didn’t happen.
Instead, I’m slogging through the morning after lying awake in bed all night replaying what happened in the kitchen.
Holy hell. Have I ever been that turned on before? Have I been kissed that thoroughly? Touched with such perfect precision that it brought me to orgasm in seconds flat?
No. The answer is no.
I flush at the memory of Marek’s hands on my skin and mouth on my body as I stare dreamily at the table where I was wantonly stretched out last night. I can’t help run my finger along the length of the eight-person table where it all happened less than twelve hours ago.
I place a cup under the individual pod spout and hit start, watching as the liquid pours out in a piping hot stream. It’s as fast and steamy as my interaction with Marek last light, only that grew immediately cold when he walked out on me and disappeared upstairs.
He didn’t reappear again, and it’s obvious he’s now avoiding me since I heard him quietly leave a little before 6:30 a.m. without saying goodbye. I heard his footsteps grow close to my door on his way to the staircase. I could tell he stopped for a moment, maybe hesitating at my closed bedroom door, but then he resumed his walk. Soon afterwards, I heard the front door open and close.
While I’m not surprised he left without me, I am disappointed he didn’t say goodbye at the very least. If Marek doesn’t want any more from me, that’s fine. I can be an adult and forget what happened and try not to make it awkward during our encounters the remainder of the weekend.
In the meantime, I’ll call Vivian to see if they found another place for me to stay tonight after the gala.
Then a thought occurs to me.
Maybe the offer to be his date no longer exists. Or maybe I should just politely decline, and we can both move on and pretend this never happened.
I finish my coffee, rinsing out the cup and returning it to the cupboard, and tap out a message to Doug, reminding him to meet me in the press room at nine. Then I pack up my bag, hefting it over my shoulder, and walk out the front door to find the driver already waiting for me in the driveway.
“Good morning, Miss Conrad,” he greets, holding the door open for my arrival as if it’s an everyday occurrence.
“Good morning.” I smile politely, sliding into the back seat to find several containers of what looks like takeout food, as well as to-go coffee. I glance up and note the driver tips his chin toward the seat.
“Mr. Talbert wanted you to have breakfast this morning and asked that I stop to pick up some croissants, eggs, bacon, coffee, and tea.”
“Wow, thank you. That’s very thoughtful…” I blink. “Um, I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Bradley, Miss Conrad.”
“Just Harper is fine. And thank you, Bradley.” My stomach growls at the delicious-smelling food. “I appreciate it.”
He smiles proudly before shutting the door. “My pleasure. But it’s all Mr. Talbert’s idea. I just delivered it.”
Figuring I’ll be too busy to eat the rest of the day the moment I step through the arena doors, I take this opportunity to dig into the food containers.
Bradley is quiet once he enters the car, and we head out of the gates and toward the basketball arena.
As I finish my breakfast, I’m left with a full belly and an altogether new and funny feeling in my stomach. If Marek keeps up with these kind and generous gestures, it’s going to be very difficult to forget about last night.
* * *
“Thankyou for your time with me today, Coach Milton. I wish you luck in your draft this year for the San Francisco Stars.”
I reach out and shake hands with the coach I just finished interviewing, collecting his lapel mic in my hand and returning it to Doug behind the camera.
Charlie Milton smiles, grabbing the armrests of the interview chair to hoist himself up to a standing position. He’s of generous size and it takes him a few attempts to get up.
I stand along with him, twisting sideways to set my things down on my chair. When I turn back around, the coach has closed the distance between us, leaving little space between him and me. I’m startled, but not frightened because Doug is back in the corner of the room and in earshot if I need his assistance.
Truthfully, I had a feeling something untoward was going to happen. It was pretty obvious throughout the interview, with Coach Milton’s comments and leering eyes, that he was a sleazy dick nozzle. I didn’t expect this, though. Or that he’d act on it.
His words are like a serpent’s hiss, the scent of his cigar-stench breath filling my nostrils with its putrid odor. “How would you like to grab a drink later at the hotel after the events and we can talk more about my team and my strategy? Off the record and inprivate.”