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Jude Bessonette heaved himself out of his truck with a grimace. His ass was numb, he was thirsty, and the sauna-like air in the underground parking garage made him want to climb back into his efficiently air-conditioned truck and point it at the lake he’d spent the last seven hours driving away from.

Ignoring the urge—and the sweat already dampening the back of his t-shirt—he grabbed his bag out of the back seat, shut the door, and crossed the brightly lit garage to the elevator.

He hit the button, then pulled out his phone to send his mom the requisiteI’m home safetext. She wouldn’t see it until morning, but he knew the rules. She’d been disappointed when he’d left early—training camp didn’t start for two months, and he’d planned to stay at the family vacation home for another month at least. But while he’d had plenty of exercise in the form of swimming, water skiing, and games of touch football on the beach, he hadn’t hit the gym since he’d left the city. Which meant he had work to do before the season started.

So he’d left the breezy shores of Lake Superior for the humidity of Detroit in July to train, and with the most important season of his professional career looming, he didn’t want thestress of his mother’s wrath for failing to inform her that he wasn’t dead in a ditch.

The elevator gave its soft, dignified chime, the doors slid silently open, and he stepped inside. He hit the button for his floor and, circling his neck to work out the kinks from the long drive, ran through his mental to-do list. He needed to unpack and do laundry, and grocery shopping was a priority—after a month away, there wouldn’t be any food in the house. His first training session was at nine tomorrow morning, so he’d have to get breakfast out, but as soon as he was done at the gym it was off to the store—provided he could still walk. He’d engaged the services of the team’s toughest conditioning coach to get him into shape for the season, and being too sore to move was a real possibility.

He started to swipe away from his contacts to start a grocery list when a name caught his eye. He hadn’t had a personal assistant long, but he knew that grocery shopping was in her job description. Mostly because Grant kept telling him so, but his agent was used to paying someone to do everything—including suck his dick—so his perspective was skewed.

Not that there was anything wrong with paying to have your dick sucked. Your dick got sucked, the sucker got paid, and everyone went home happy. But Jude wasn’t sure he’d ever have Grant’s ease with throwing money at the simplest of problems—and he was fully capable of buying his own groceries.

He was also capable of finding someone to suck his dick, but that hadn’t happened in a while. The Detroit Cougars was one of the most storied franchises in the NHL, and playing for them meant increased scrutiny from both the press and the public. The last thing he needed was some enterprising reporter—or more likely, a fan with a phone—snapping a picture of him at a swinger’s club.

Factor in that his favorite club—the one where he could be reasonably certain no one would snap such a photo—was on the other side of the state, and it was no wonder he was in a dry spell.

He’d had opportunities, of course—willing, eager women were always hanging around the rinks, the hotels, the clubs. And when spending yet another night in a hotel room far from home had felt too damn lonely, he’d been tempted.

The brunette in Tampa came to mind.

She’d had purple streaks in her hair, a diamond stud in her nose, and a throaty laugh that made him think of low moans and dark rooms and soft, slick skin. He’d been half a beer from asking her back to his room when he’d realized who she reminded him of.

Brynn.

He stared at the numbers above the door, silently counting floors. Brynn’s nose ring was a gold hoop, and her hair had pink streaks instead of purple. But it was her face he saw when he’d looked at the brunette—her pale white skin with its delicate smattering of freckles and faint flush, her wide brown eyes behind glasses too big for her face, her lush mouth with its plump bottom lip that she nibbled when she was nervous. So he’d set down his unfished beer, paid his tab, and went back to his hotel alone.

Because fucking someone who reminded him of the one woman he couldn’t have didn’t seem like a great idea.

The elevator chimed its arrival on the top floor, and Jude put thoughts of his off-limits personal assistant out of his head.

He stepped out of the elevator, his heavy footsteps cushioned by the thick rug. Light streamed through the single window at the end of the hall, the glow of streetlamps and the steady flash of passing headlights on the street below. He winced at the glare and with fatigue mounting, stepped to his front door and keyed in the code.

It swung open with a beep that seemed too loud in the cushioned quiet. He stepped inside, kicking off his shoes as the door swung shut behind him. The shades were up on the ceiling-height windows, bathing the living room and open kitchen in moonlight and neon, and for the first time since he’d started driving, he felt himself relax.

He'd only lived in the apartment for six months—and for half of that he’d been on the road—but it felt like home. When he’d been called up to Detroit mid-season last year, it was only supposed to be for a few weeks. But when the player he’d been filling in for needed surgery, and it soon became clear he’d be with the Cougars for at least the rest of the season, he’d wanted out of the apartment provided by the team. So Brynn had handled the paperwork to terminate his lease in Grand Rapids, arranged for his things to be packed and shipped, and found him this place.

In the high-ceilinged, loft-like space the sofa and two chairs that had filled up his Grand Rapids living room almost looked like doll furniture. He’d considered buying new, but the familiarity of his things had helped make the apartment feel like home—and being able to rollerblade circles around the sofa made it easy to get in a workout when it was too cold or wet or snowy to get outside.

He dropped his bag on the sofa and headed for the kitchen, skirting the long, narrow, stainless steel work counter that separated it from the rest of the open-concept living space. He plucked a glass from one of the open shelves lining the tiled wall, filled it from the filter spigot at the sink, and drank. When it was empty he refilled it, turning to face the room as he drank, and noticed the counter.

It was clean. Too clean.

Not that he’d left it a mess. He’d been raised too well—and feared his mother too much—for that. But his focus had beenon making sure he wouldn’t come home to rotting garbage and funky laundry, and after more than a month away, he’d expected a layer of dust. But there wasn’t a spec—and sitting in the center of the counter was a potted plant covered in delicate white blooms.

He lowered the glass to frown at it. Nestled in a short, square pot painted sunny yellow, the blooms gave off a pleasant, faintly sweet smell. It was a nice plant—but he knew as well as he knew his own name that he hadn’t put it there.

He lifted a hand to scratch his head, muttering a curse when the glass he still held banged against his temple. He set it down and walked into the living room, eyes narrowed as he honed in on the details. The thick throw he’d left balled up in one corner of the sofa—a housewarming gift from his friend Esme—was artfully draped over the cushions, the throw pillows plumped and carefully placed. The ancient steamer trunk he used as a coffee table held a couple of small candles, a green glass bowl filled with shiny red apples, and another plant. The game controllers that usually lived there were nowhere to be seen.

He frowned at that, a spurt of panic lighting up his tired brain before he spotted the controllers sitting on the low shelf under his wall-mounted television, the trio of remotes that controlled his entertainment system lined up neatly next to them.

Relieved, he turned in a circle, cataloging the rest of his belongings. As far as he could tell, nothing was missing—his books were on the shelves built in under the windows, his game consoles and electronics were all in place. He hadn’t been robbed, but someone had been in to clean.

He had a dim memory of Brynn telling him she was going to hire a cleaning service, but it had been during the grueling push to make the playoffs at the end of the season, and he hadn’t been paying much attention to anything but hockey.

A vague sense of unease stirred in his gut. He needed to pay attention to the tasks Brynn was handling and the expenses she was incurring on his behalf—it was irresponsible not to, and he knew it. But every time he was near her he went witless with lust, and with his career on the line he’d needed his wits. The safest thing to do was stay away from her as much as possible, so that’s what he’d done.

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