Page 1 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
PROLOGUE
TESSA
Three Days Ago
I wake up to the sound of slot machines dinging somewhere in the distance and immediately know three things: I'm not in my own bed, my head feels like it's been used as a hockey puck, and there's a very large, very naked man sprawled across my chest.
"Oh, fuck," I whisper, trying to piece together the nuclear disaster that was apparently my night. Sunlight streams through gaudy gold curtains, and I can make out the tacky Caesar's Palace logo on everything from the lampshade to the goddamn ice bucket.
The man shifts slightly in his sleep, and I get my first real look at him in daylight. Jesus Christ. Dark hair that's perfectly tousled and looks effortlessly sexy. Strong jaw with just enough stubble to be dangerous, and those cheekbones could cut glass. There's a small scar through his left eyebrow, another on his chin, and even unconscious he has this intensity about him that makes my breath catch.
His arm is draped possessively across my waist, and I can feel every inch of the muscle definition that had me losing my mind hours ago. Broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist, the kind of chest that belongs on magazine covers and in very detailed fantasies. The sheet has slipped dangerously low, revealing the V of his hip bones.
I stare down at my left hand where a gold band sits on my ring finger. The matching one on his hand catches the morning light, and I fight the urge to throw up. Though that might just be the tequila.
"Jesus Christ, Tessa," I mutter, carefully extracting myself from under what feels like two hundred pounds of solid muscle. "What the hell did you do?"
He doesn't stir as I slide out of bed, thank God. I need to think, need to process what the hell happened without those storm-gray eyes looking at me.
Standing there I let the memories flood back. The upscale bar at the Bellagio. The way he'd been sitting alone. Even in a simple black button-down, he'd commanded attention without trying.
The memory makes my cheeks burn. I'd been in Vegas for a sports psychology conference, wound up at that bar after a particularly brutal panel on performance anxiety. He'd been there for reasons I can't quite remember, but the chemistry between us had been immediate and electric.
"The chapel," I whisper, more pieces falling into place. "Oh God, the Elvis chapel."
The memory of what happened next makes my whole body flush with heat. The way he'd worshipped every inch of my skin with his mouth, those calloused hands mapping my body. How he'dmade me come apart with just his fingers and that wicked mouth before I'd even gotten his shirt off.
When I'd finally seen him naked, I'd actually gasped. The man was built like a Greek god—all lean muscle and sharp angles, with scars that told stories and hands that knew exactly how to touch me.
And when he'd finally been inside me, moving with a power that had me seeing stars, I'd understood why women write poetry about men like this.
Now, looking at him sleeping so peacefully, I can still feel the phantom touch of his hands. But reality is a cold bitch, and I know this fairy tale ends the moment he wakes up.
I need to leave. Now. Before those storm-gray eyes open and I lose my nerve.
I grab my purse and move as quietly as possible. I find hotel stationary and scribble a quick note with shaking hands.
Last night was beautiful, but it can't be real. I'm sorry. Take care of yourself. - T
I place it on the pillow next to his sleeping form, allow myself one last look at the man who made me believe in magic for one night, and flee.
CHAPTER 1
TESSA
PRESENT DAY
Three hours early. That's how I roll when I'm having a full-scale panic attack disguised as professional enthusiasm.
I've been in my new office since 6 a.m., arranging and re-arranging everything until it screams "competent mental performance coach who definitely didn't flee Seattle with her tail between her legs." My diplomas are perfectly aligned, my books organized by color and height, and I've labeled every file folder with my neat handwriting because apparently I'm twelve years old.
The Chicago Renegades' training facility is intimidating as hell—all gleaming surfaces and championship banners that seem to mock my insecurities. But it's also my lifeline. My chance to prove that what happened in Seattle was an anomaly, not a pattern.
"You've got this," I whisper to my reflection in the window, smoothing down my blazer for the hundredth time. "Professional. Competent. Definitely not thinking about how Marcus Williams destroyed your career because you wouldn't fuck him."
God, I need therapy. MaybeIshould find a mental performance coach.
My phone buzzes with a text from my best friend.
