The Fake Out (Vancouver Storm, #2)(64)

My pulse still races, and I think about Rory and myself running through Stanley Park, laughing. It would be the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and then he would get sick of me, and all I’d be left with is a closet full of lingerie and stale memories of the good times.

“Please, Pippa.”

She puts my phone on airplane mode before tucking it away, and we spend the rest of the evening watching the movie and eating hotel room snacks from the minibar.

I lie in bed until the early hours of the morning, thinking about what’s on that video.





CHAPTER 43





RORY





The next evening, I’m in the airport, staring at my phone with a frown, knee bouncing.

“Miller.” Ward glances between my face and my phone.

“Hey, Coach.” I straighten up.

“Everything okay last night?”

My gut tightens but I give him a quick nod. “You bet.”

He means the stuff with McKinnon at the bar, and not that I sent Hazel a video of me jerking off and moaning her name, but twelve hours later, she still hasn’t responded.

Fuck.

Ward keeps staring at me, and it feels like he’s digging through my head. “My door’s always open,” he finally says before moving to his seat.

I turn back to my phone, staring at our chat. Stupid. So fucking stupid. I went way too far. Hazel’s horrified, disgusted expression floods my mind, and I groan, turning out the window to stare at nothing.

We were going to spend Christmas together. Things were going so well, but I fucked it all up because I was feeling possessive and horny.

“There’s my little ray of sunshine.” Owens drops into the seat beside me, holding one of those big fantasy novels he’s always reading. He flinches at my expression. “Someone’s grouchy. You going straight to Hazel’s tonight after we land so she can make you feel better?”

I had planned to, but the message in her silence is loud and clear: fuck off, Miller.

Tomorrow, I’ll apologize and we’ll go back to playing pretend, but for now, I’ll give her space.

“No.” I put my phone on airplane mode and toss it into my bag, chest straining. “I’m not.”





CHAPTER 44





HAZEL





When I get home from my weekend away with Pippa, my sole focus is getting inside my apartment and watching the video Rory sent with my fingers on my clit. My footsteps thump on the stairs as I hurry to the third floor, keys in hand, but when I reach the landing, a package sits on the floor, leaning against my door.

My stomach flutters and I bite down on my smile. Another? He must be as addicted to those photos as I am.

Inside my apartment, I tear the package open, excitement drumming in my veins, but when I push the plastic wrapping aside, my expression turns disgusted.

I hold it up and a laugh bursts out of me. Until now, Rory’s taste has skewed delicate, sweet, sheer, and lacy. Everything has been high quality and carefully constructed from soft material that feels incredible to wear.

This piece of shit looks like it’s going to fall apart any second.

It’s all black straps, stringy and confusing. My nose wrinkles. I’m not sure which hole is for the neck and which are for the legs.

“What the fuck?” I murmur, laying it out flat.

This thing is so ugly. It looks like a spiderweb. How am I supposed to wear it? I burst out laughing again before I take a photo.

Not sure about this one, Miller. It needs an instruction manual.





CHAPTER 45





RORY





“Where to?” the driver asks when I get into the taxi at the Vancouver airport.

I rattle off my address, and we drive in silence while I stare out the window.

The charity skating event is tomorrow. Will she still show up, after the video I sent? Even though she’d never admit it, I know she’s proud of learning to skate. My stomach sinks lower with disappointment.

My phone chirps with the ring tone reserved for Hazel. My pulse jumps as I pull it from my pocket, expecting the worst. Expecting her to tell me we’re done, or that she never wants to talk to me again.

Instead, it’s a picture of some weird mess of black yarn on her duvet. Or maybe they’re shoestrings. My face screws up in confusion.

Not sure about this one, Miller. It needs an instruction manual.

“What?” I murmur, zooming in.

Within the mess of shoestrings is a clothing tag. My gut drops through the floor.

It’s not shoestrings. It’s lingerie, but I didn’t buy that for Hazel.

You’ll see, McKinnon said yesterday.

Jealous rage thunders through me. He sent her a fucking piece of lingerie. I regret not punching McKinnon in the face last night as I stare daggers at the picture.

I’m going to kill that guy.

First, though, I’m going to make sure Hazel knows exactly who sent it.

“Change of plans,” I tell the driver. “I’m going to my girlfriend’s place instead.”

I rattle off Hazel’s address and fold my arms over my chest, seething with jealousy and possessive feelings as we drive.