Page 79 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

I catch sight of a small bar in the corner, its glass shelves stocked with an impressive collection of liquor bottles. The kitchen, visible off to the side, looks like something out of a cooking show, all stainless steel and glossy countertops.

I feel like I’ve walked into a magazine spread.

So different from my modest abode.

Gio has a terrace.

An expansive one that wraps around his entire penthouse, dotted with potted plants and sleek lounging chairs that look like they belong in a luxury resort. There’s a fire pit on one side and a table with chairs on the other, perfectly set up for late-night dinners or early morning coffee.

It’s incredible.

I walk out and go to the railing, leaning to peer over the edge.

“Holy shit,” I mutter under my breath, gripping the railing a little tighter than necessary. My heart skips three beats.

We aresohigh up.

Gio steps up behind me, handing me a glass of wine. Before I can even thank him, his arms slide around my waist, pulling me back against him. His nose nuzzles into the crook of my neck—his favorite spot, apparently. And now?

My favorite spot, too.

I feel the warmth of his breath against my skin, and I have to fight the urge to melt completely.

“You live here and get to look at this every day?” I ask, my voice tinged with disbelief as I lift the glass to my lips, taking a small sip.

His grip on my waist tightens slightly, and I feel him smile against my neck.

“Every day.”

“That’s insane,” I murmur, shaking my head, hair whipping around from the wind. “I don’t think I’d ever leave if I were you.”

He chuckles softly, his chest rumbling against my back.

“You get used to it,” he says with a shrug, though there’s a softness in his tone that tells me he still appreciates it. But I’ve followed his career and understand enough to know hisopportunities didn’t come easy; they came with hard work, lots of injuries, and dedication.

Gio Montagalo had nothing handed to him, not his glossy penthouse or professional hockey career.

I glance up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Do you, though?”

He meets my gaze, and for a moment, there’s something unspoken between us that makes my stomach flutter.

He is so hot.

“No,” he says as last. “I don’t think you ever really get used to it,” he admits, voice quieter now as he rests his chin on my shoulder. “Not completely. I mean, sometimes…” He trails off and he clears his throat. “Sometimes it feels like something is missing. Like—there’s no point in having all of this if you can’t share it with someone.”

I have no idea what to say to that honesty.

It’s so real.

For a moment, the world feels impossibly small—just me, Gio, and the view stretching out before us.

“Come on,” he says suddenly, pulling back and grabbing my hand. “Let’s go back inside. Too cold out here.”

Curiosity piqued, I allow him to lead me back into the penthouse, his hand warm and steady in mine. The lights are dimmed, casting a warm glow over the space, and I notice how large his hand is compared to mine; how rough and calloused it is as he guides me down a hallway.

“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice breaking the silence.

Because the bedroom would be great.

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