Page 43 of Faking the Shot
Chapter Nineteen
Valentina
What to do if You Can’t Avoid Crossing the Line
I wake up slowly, the sunlight streaming through the large windows casting soft patterns across the room. Blinking a few times, I take in my surroundings—high ceilings, dark wood accents, and a bed that feels far too luxurious to belong to me. Then realization hits.
I’m in Kaden’s guest room.
The sheets smell faintly like him—a mix of clean soap and something inherently masculine, like cedarwood and temptation. Glancing down, I cringe when I see what I’m wearing: his black T-shirt and a pair of his boxers. They’re soft, comfortable even, but the idea of walking around his house practically draped in him is unnerving.
“Where’s my vibrator when I need it?” I mutter under my breath, tugging at the hem of the shirt.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll take care of myself when I get home. Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I push the covers off and sit up.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I grab it, scrolling through the notifications. My stomach twists as I see my face plastered across every gossip site imaginable. There it is—our kiss. Or, as the media has labeled it, our passionate public display of affection.
I cringe. My hair’s a mess, my face flushed, and there’s no denying the way I look at him like he’s the last chocolate bar in the world. Fucking perfect. Just what I always wanted—to trend as the disheveled woman who can’t keep her lips off Kaden Crawford.
Scrolling further, I see the worst text of all—from Steve.
What the fuck is wrong with you? Kissing athletes now? Good thing I left you when I did.
I roll my eyes, my blood simmering. Steve, my ex-husband, hasn’t cared about me in years. Suddenly, I’m trending, and he’s got opinions? Pathetic.
“Why does he even give a fuck?” I mutter as I shove my phone onto the nightstand and stand up, my stomach growling loudly.
I head downstairs, following the faint sounds of movement and the smell of coffee. The stairs creak softly beneath my bare feet as I reach the kitchen.
And there he is.
Kaden stands by the counter, shirtless, his skin glistening with sweat. His dark hair is damp and tousled like he’s just come from a workout. His broad shoulders and sculpted chest are on full display, and I suddenly understand why people obsess over hockey players.
He glances over his shoulder, catching me mid-stare. His brow quirks, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Morning.”
I blink, forcing myself to focus. “Morning. You, uh . . . already worked out?”
“Yeah,” he says, turning back to pour himself a cup of coffee. The muscles in his back shift as he moves, and I bite the inside of my cheek, desperate to keep my thoughts from spiraling.
“Coffee?” he asks, holding up a mug.
“Yes, please,” I say quickly, hoping caffeine will save me from this awkward tension.
He hands me the mug, his fingers brushing mine briefly. The contact sends a little jolt through me, and I step back, clearing my throat.
“You’re up early,” he comments.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I lie.
“Well,” he says, his smirk widening, “at least you look comfortable in my clothes.”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I take a hasty sip of coffee, nearly scalding my tongue in the process. “They were the only option.”
“Good,” he replies, his tone dropping just slightly, enough to make my stomach flip. “You should get used to them. You look better in them than I do.”
I don’t know what’s worse—the fact that he said it or the fact that my traitorous brain immediately conjures images of me wearing nothing but his shirt while he . . . Nope. Not going there.
“Thanks,” I mumble, focusing on the coffee like it’s the most interesting thing in the room.
