Elina’s POV

If someone had told me this morning that, before the day was over, I’d be straddling an NBA legend’s shoulders while he fed me ice cream, I would have laughed in their face.

But here I was.

And Ryan Castro?

Ryan freaking Castro was burning me alive.

The private training arena smelled like smoke, sweat, and something dangerously male—the kind of scent that burrowed under your skin and made a home there, leaving you dizzy with how right it ...