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It’s just…every time I think about what I want my future to look like, it’s…this.

Someone to wake up with. Someone to hold close as I drift off. Someone who understands me. Someone who doesn’t think I’m a fuckup who turns everything—even the best of things with the brightest of futures—bad.

And that’s a thought I don’t want to have this early in the morning, her lush curves pressed flush to me, her scent in my nose, her tit in my hand.

So, I shove it out of my head and just enjoy this.

Eventually, though, reality intrudes.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Violet curses softly and reaches over to turn off her alarm, pulling partially out of my hold, and considering the movement, the noise of the alarm, and the voices outside the door, echoing through the hallway, I know that I have to stop pretending to be asleep.

I stretch slowly, peel open my eyes.

And see she’s watching me.

“You’re awake,” she says quietly, slipping fully out of my arms.

I nod, thinking she looks even more beautiful sleep-mussed than normal—and she’s fucking gorgeous normally. “I’m awake,” I say, sitting up, the blankets falling to my waist.

Her gaze drops to my chest, pink spreading on her cheeks, and the asshole in me invites, “Anytime you want to touch, baby, you can touch. No need to ask.”

Hot eyes. Her body shifting closer.

Then she jerks her head sharply and scrambles up to her feet.

It was worth a try.

Especially since last time I said offered that up, I got her hands on me.

“I should shower.”

Violet naked and wet and just down the hall.

Christ.

“Unless you want to go first?” she says, eyes drifting back to my chest.

“No, princess,” I murmur. “You go ahead.”

“We have the couples cookout today.” Her teeth work at her bottom lip. “Is that going to be as intense as the football game and scavenger hunt?”

I wince. “My mom actually cares about food—and has the recipe cards to prove it—so what do you think?”

“I think no heels in case I get tackled.” She taps a finger to her chin. “And maybe a long-sleeved shirt and pants as a precaution for when the inevitable fight breaks out and hot oil gets tossed.”

I chuckle. “Honestly, that’s probably not a bad idea.”

But part of me hates that she already knows how fucked-up my family is. Hate that it means the Laurents are probably going to see the same shit, which means that the contract is likely…

Fucked.

Starts off good.

Ends up fucked.

That’s how it goes with everything in my life—except for hockey.