Page 22

Morning light filters softly through the sheer curtains, bathing everything in a golden, almost dreamlike glow.

The room is insane. Like everything Nick owns or touches. The walls are white—clean and calming—but a pale pink crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, catching the sunlight like it was designed for a fairytale.

Why is this room designed for a woman?

You know what? I don’t even want to know.

I grab my phone, instantly regretting it. A dozen missed calls. Over a hundred messages from my brothers and the Hardys. A few emails from work. And ten back-to-back texts from my best friend, Thalia, demanding every single detail about my first night as Nick’s fiancée.

I respond with a vague, “I’m fine, call you later.” Then I toss the phone aside and drag myself to the bathroom.

Less than thirty minutes later, I’m showered and dressed, though I have no idea what this day will bring.

I went with black yoga pants and a pink tank top—mostly because I’ve officially given up trying to guess what kind of madness Nick has in store. I took a week off from work to “spend time with my fiancé” and make some public appearances, but no one said anything about what that actually means.

And after last night…

After everything that almost happened…

God, I’d love nothing more than a full day alone. No cameras. No questions. No Nick.

Maybe he already left for his photoshoot with that puck bunny. Maybe he’s already fucking her in the locker room.

God. Apparently, I enjoy torturing myself.

I head down the stairs, my fingers curled tight around the railing, every muscle tense. When I see him—sitting at the kitchen counter, smiling at something on his damn phone—my stomach clenches.

Hearing my steps, he raises his eyes and locks them with mine.

Damn him.

He’s so attractive it actually hurts.

Those green eyes, the familiar mix of danger and mischief in them—it’s always been impossible to resist. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of gray shorts. That’s it.

I try to look away, pretend I don’t care, but my eyes betray me. They trace over his chest, involuntarily drinking in the hard lines and inked skin. His arms, his chest, even his thigh—all covered in tattoos I don't remember from before.

My fingers twitch at my sides.

The image of my mouth on his skin flashes through my mind like a jolt of electricity. My throat goes dry.

Sierra, last night the man received a text from another woman while you were literally spread wide for him. Have some pride.

The thought cuts through me like a blade. My cheeks burn. My stomach twists. For a split second, I can’t breathe.

I walk past him without a word and grab a bottle of cold water from the fridge, my hand shaking. Then I head outside, straight to the balcony, and collapse onto the sofa. The infinity pool shimmers quietly at my feet, helping me imagine this is just another peaceful morning.

I need air.

And distance.

Mostly distance.

I’m lost in my thoughts when I hear him from behind me, “Sierra, this is not gonna work like this.”

I stiffen, every muscle in my body locking up. That calm I was clinging to? Gone. Washed away by a fresh wave of jealousy and frustration.

I turn to him, trying to hold even a shred of control. But he’s already so close I can feel the heat from his skin.