Page 31 of Eight Second Hearts

That’s why I’m here after all, I remind myself.

I have to remind myself the entire ride there.

Unlike my motel, the place Tripp drives us to is in a nicer part of town, but still only fifteen minutes away from the arena. It’s a hotel rather than a motel, and it’s at least six stories where mine was two. This place features a lobby and boasts an area where they serve continental breakfast. It’s clean and free of graffiti, which means it probably costs five times as much as my room. I could have sprung for something like this, but it would have been painful to drop so much money in a single week on a hotel.

Ram opens my door and helps me out, and then like the true gentlemen he is, he doesn’t let me get my bags. “Come on,” he says. “We can order in some pizza while we get cleaned up.”

I’m going to be in a single hotel room with these men. I’m literally going to be in the same room. Holy shit. What am I doing?

I stop, staring up at the building with wide eyes. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“The good ideas are rarely the fun ones,” Beau quips. “But this one seems both goodandfun to me.”

Ram meets my eyes. “It would look mighty awkward if I were to carry you into this place with you over my shoulder,periodista.”

I force my feet to keep moving because he’s right. While it’s not crazy enough at the arena to warrant too much attention –I’ve watched cowboys carry their spouses often enough—here, someone’s likely to take a picture or worse, report it. I really don’t need to be in the news again, and thrown over the shoulder of a member of the Crimson Three? Hell, that could make the news.

No one pays us any mind as we head to the elevators and go up to the sixth floor. The hotel is relatively quiet despite the time of day, and we barely run into anyone at all. Room six twenty-one is where Ram stops, fishes a card from his wallet, and opens the door. He pushes it open and gestures for me to precede him. I’m proud of myself for only hesitating a few seconds before I push though. I’m a strong independent woman. I’ve slept out in the desert in full military gear. This is nothing. It’s just a hotel room.

A hotel room I’ll be sharing with three men I’m clearly attracted to.

Men I’m supposed to write a fucking newspaper article about.

“Make yourself at home,” Ram declares as he comes in behind me. “Bed by the window will be yours. Don’t worry. Ialready called ahead early to have them change out the sheets so they’re clean.”

“The three of you sleeping in the other bed?” I ask, staring at the perfectly white beds.

“I’ll be taking the couch,” Ram replies. “Tripp gets the other bed.”

“And Beau?”

“I’m sleeping on the floor,” he says, flashing a grin at me. “Unless you’d like me to sleep in your bed with you.”

Bilbo immediately leaps to his feet from where he’s lying on the other bed and starts to whine, wagging his tail frantically when he sees us. Tripp rubs his ears and the lab prances around happily, clearly relieved to see his dad.

“He stays here all day alone?” I ask, frowning. “Oh, no. You said he goes to. . . doggy day care?”

Tripp nods. “Every city, I have someone set up who picks him up from the day care and drops him back off in the room.” He glances at me. “They feed him, too. He gets to play all day with friends just like we do.”

Somehow, the fact that Tripp pays someone to make sure Bilbo is perfectly taken care of makes him more. . . endearing. He may be a grumpy asshole, but he clearly loves this dog, and a man who loves his dog is a good man. Dogs know when they aren’t.

Tripp tosses his bag in the corner before he kicks off his boots. He doesn’t bother straightening them up before he disappears into the bathroom. A minute later, the sounds of the shower come on, letting me know that he’s in there washing the day’s dirt away.

And also, that he’s naked.

Shit. This is going to be a problem.

“I don’t know if this is going to work—” I start.

“Sit on the bed,” Ram interrupts, ushering me toward it. “Just sit down.”

I do as he says, mostly because I don’t know what else to do. The moment I sit, I sink into the plush mattress and sigh. “It’s comfortable,” I grumble.

“Yo se,” he nods. “Tempur-Pedic. Like you, we don’t like uncomfortable beds. We don’t stay anywhere that’ll mess up our backs.”

“Which makes sense for athletes,” I reply.

“And now it makes sense for you, too,” he answers, setting my bags on the bed. “You can get the shower after Tripp.”

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