I should have known better than to think I'd be able to leave the meet and greet alone.

Connor trails me as soon as I exit the locker room, falling into step beside me. Don't get me wrong, I knew this conversation would happen at some point, I just didn't imagine it'd be now, seconds after seeing him again after five years.

"Long time no see," he teases. "One would think you followed me here."

"Excuse me?" I glance up at him, thoroughly annoyed. "Why on earth would you assume that?"

"Well..." He spins around to face me, walking backward down the hall. A flirtatious grin spreads across his lips when he adds, "We hooked up and haven't seen each other for years, and suddenly you show up in Los Angeles? Did you watch me play a game on TV or something? I wouldn't blame you if you missed me and did all this to return for seconds."

It's been a long time since I've belly-gut laughed, but he somehow manages to pull one out of me. At the sound, Connor shares a full-toothed grin, and damn him for having such a nice smile. "I've lived in Los Angeles my entire life," I explain, "and I hate hockey. I've never even watched a game."

"Then how the hell did you become our photographer?"

It bothers me that he knows where to turn, all while still walking backward. I suppose he's walked these halls enough to know this place by heart. "It's a long story..." One I don't feel like getting into. The more I tell him, the more he'll get to know me, and I'm keeping this strictly professional. The less he knows, the better.

"I've got time," he replies.

"You're a professional athlete. I find that doubtful."

"For the right person, I'll make time whenever."

We stop by the doors leading outside, and I narrow my gaze on him, waving a finger between us. "This isn't going to happen," I say.

His grin grows wider. "What isn't?"

"This. Us. My contract states that I can't have a relationship with a teammate. Unlike the other photographer you supposedly fucked, I won't be as stupid. What happened before will never happen again."

He's leaning against the door in such a sexy way that it's distracting. Even when the man isn't doing anything, he's unbearably attractive. His arms are crossed over his chest, the muscles in his biceps flexing beneath a black t-shirt he's wearing, but somehow, I manage to tear my gaze away.

"We'll see," he says.

"Not we'll see. It's never going to happen again, Connor."

His gaze meets mine, and for a second, I consider lifting my lens to capture the expression on his face. I've always loved capturing raw emotion—the person someone is beneath the mask. I don't know Connor well enough to understand the mask he wears, but it's there. I'm a photographer, after all, and given my past, I've learned to pay attention to the details.

"What?" I ask, wishing I were a mind reader. I'd give anything to gain the knowledge behind what emotion he's feeling.

But as soon as the mask is pulled down, it seems to get thrown up just as quickly. The emptiness in his eyes is replaced with lust, and a smug grin pulls at his lips. "Nothing. I just like the sound of my name on your tongue. It's the first time I've heard you say it."

I scoff. "Are you actually going to ignore everything I just said? I'm being serious."

"Oh, I'm aware. However, this attitude thing you've got going on is a turn-on for me. It's cute how much you're trying to hide your desire."

Is he fucking delusional?

"Do you hear how you sound? Like, do you ever stop to consider that maybe you should keep your mouth closed before you speak?"

"But why would I keep it closed when I can do so many more pleasurable things with it open?"

Oh my god.

I'm hardly ever speechless, but right now... Right now, I've never wanted to punch someone more just to bring him down a notch. I imagine he hasn't faced much rejection in his life. Yes, I fell for his charm all those years ago, but I was a different person then. I was someone who didn't mind being used for instant gratification. Having fun with him for a night was what I needed at the time, and I certainly don't regret it, but he's mistaken if he thinks I'll throw away this job for another night of fun.

"Face it," he purrs. "As much as you try to forget it, you still think about that night. Don't you?"

"Hate to burst your bubble, but no. Seems to me like you are the one who's thought about it."

That same flicker of emotion passes across his face, and I realize I've hit a nerve. I should let it go. I should be professional and end this conversation entirely, but, despite what I try to tell myself, there's a tiny part of me that's curious.

"You have thought about it, haven't you? Oh, come on. Don't tell me none of the models and superstars who throw themselves at you haven't scratched the itch." A muscle flickers in his jaw, the emotion he's trying desperately to hide slipping to the surface.

There's no way he's thought about me for this long, but if that were true, then why does he seem so irritated?

The silence stretches between us as I wait for him to answer. His green eyes, normally as bright as the grass during the first hints of spring, have grown as dark as the deepest forests. With all that...turmoil? Regret? I wonder what it'd look like on film if I had the opportunity to capture it.

"What would you like me to say, Aria?" He steps closer, and my knuckles grow white on the handle of the door. "That I've spent the past five years wondering if I'd run into you again? That every corner I turned, every road game I attended, I was hoping I'd somehow wind up in your city? That in every coffee I drank, I saw your eyes? That every time I was inside someone else, it reminded me of when you were beneath me, wreathing with pleasure? That knowing you were right beneath my nose in the same city this entire time is fucking killing me? Is that what you want me to say?"

I'm not breathing. No part of me is functioning. Not at all. We had one night together. Sure, it was an incredibly mind-blowing, fucking magical night, but that's all. Right? This man is beyond wealthy. He could have any woman he wants. The odds of him wanting me are slim to none.

"I wouldn't believe you even if that was true." Somehow, he's gotten close enough almost to be pressed against my chest. Being a photographer, I can tell when someone is being their true self, and despite the arrogance and funny guy he portrays himself to be, a part of me truly believes he's not all jokes and insincerity. This version of him, the one who seems hurt by what I just said, might be the real—

"You're a smart girl, then," he says with lethal precision. "Smarter than the last photographer. Because if I had said that speech to her, she would have already been on her knees for me."

Any feelings bubbling to the surface immediately vanish, replaced by nothing but rage. I push him back with my hands, forcing space between us. "You're a fucking prick," I seethe. And I'm so incredibly stupid for even thinking for a second he was being truthful. "I don't care how the last photographer treated you. I take this job seriously, which means no one will find out about what happened between us on that beach. Ever. I asked to fuck you not because you were you but because I was—" My voice falters, and if I'm not mistaken, it seems as if he wanted me to finish that sentence. "It doesn't matter. The point is, you could have been anyone that night, and I would have slept with you. It's shameful to admit, but it's the truth, so do me and yourself a favor by leaving me alone. I have absolutely no interest in having seconds."

I slam the door open and stalk outside, attempting to level my breathing. My hands are shaking from how fucking angry I am.

"You can't ask me to leave you alone when we technically work together!" He calls out.

I whirl to face him, clenching my hands into fists at my sides. The man has the audacity to smile. Anyone else would have been affected by the speech I gave. They should be pissed, mad, or...I don't know. Anything but calm. "I'm hired to take photos of you, not speak to you. All you have to do is stand there and look pretty."

I continue heading to my car, throwing up a middle finger behind me, and the howl of laughter that follows only makes the fury fester more.

This is going to be an excruciating two years.

Author's Note:

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