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  “That’s what I figured.” He shoots me the most obnoxious smirk I’ve ever seen. “And I notice you haven’t denied the fact that you’re being a pussy.”

  “I am not a pussy.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then why is it you’re sitting here talking to me instead of cuddling up to Bambi over there?”

  “Because you wouldn’t shut up and I was trying to be polite.” I take a long sip of my whiskey, watch as Clay does the same from his chocolate martini. The man really is an embarrassment to the Y chromosome everywhere. “And I’m pretty sure her name isn’t Bambi.”

  “Probably not, but with those eyes it should be,” he says after polishing off what has to be the most girly drink in the bar—which is saying something considering the bachelorette party currently going on. “And bullshit you were being polite. You’re just chicken.”

  “No, I’m not. Dude, you’ve been playing pro ball for seven years. Don’t tell me you don’t know that there’s a certain order to how these things are done.”

  “By certain order I assume you mean you show up and women trip over themselves trying to get to you and that ridiculous face of yours.”

  It sounds conceited as fuck when he puts it like that. But…“Yes. That is the order I’m referring to.”

  Clay hoots, long and loud. “Dude, you’re interested in the girl. Man up and make the move.”

  “She’s with the bachelorette party. The last thing I want is to be the creep who comes over and starts hassling her when she just wants to have a good time with her friends.”

  He makes a clucking sound under his breath. It gets to me, even though I know that’s the whole reason he’s doing it. But damn it, it’s not that I’m afraid to make “the move.” It’s just that for as long as I can remember, women have always made the move for me. Even before I played pro ball, all I’ve ever had to do was show up.

  The fact that that’s not enough for Bambi, as Clay calls her, intrigues me. It also makes me want to force her hand. Makes me want to see what it will take to get her to come to me.

  “You call me a chicken, but I don’t see you moving in on the hot redhead beside her even though she’s been giving you the signal for the past half an hour.”

  “Yeah, well.” He shifts uncomfortably. “That’s because I’m on hiatus.”

  I nearly choke on my drink. “On hiatus? What the hell does that even mean?”

  He shoots me his best choirboy look, which is patently ridiculous coming from someone as rough looking as Clay. Not as ridiculous as the flavored martinis he drinks by the half dozen, but still pretty damn absurd. “A hiatus is a pause or a lull in a—”

  “I know what a damn hiatus is, Clay!”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  “Because I never thought the day would come when the biggest man-whore on the team took a break from women. What brought this on?”

  “I’m doing a cleanse.”

  “Of your dick?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Of my soul. You should try it sometime.”

  I take another swig of my drink. “My soul’s just fine, thanks.”

  “You sure?” He raises a hand to get the bartender’s attention. “Maybe if you did a cleanse every now and then you wouldn’t feel the need to try and kill yourself jumping off cliffs every chance you get.”

  “Cliff diving is a legitimate sport, I’ll have you know.”

  He snorts. “Yeah, so is flipping snowmobiles and surfing volcanoes, but you don’t see sane people doing that shit, do you? Especially not when they have an NFL contract that forbids them from engaging in physically dangerous activities off the field.”

  Before I can figure out a comeback, the bartender stops by and asks, “Another round, gentlemen?”

  “Absolutely,” Clay answers. “Can I go with the white chocolate martini this time, just to shake things up?”

  I’m pretty sure the only thing keeping the bartender from laughing at the complete absurdity of that whole statement is the twenty-dollar tip he gets every round.

  “How about you, sir?” he asks, nodding to my almost empty glass. “Can I get you another Lagavulin?”

  “Actually, I’ve got something else in mind. Can you send a round of top-shelf old-fashioneds to the bachelorette party over there?”

  His eyebrows go up, the first sign of surprise he’s shown since Clay ordered his first chocolate martini two hours ago. “Old-fashioneds? Not something more…festive, like sex on the beach?”

  I look back at the doe-eyed brunette, at her sheer, high-collared black blouse and the cameo nestled at her throat. “No, definitely old-fashioneds.”

  “There’s the move,” Clay crows, slapping me on the back as he settles down with his white chocolate monstrosity. “I knew you had it in you.”

  “Says the man taking a hiatus from women.” I tip my glass back, take the last swallow of whiskey.

  “Hey, Lucinda was crazy. Hot and smart, but totally and completely batshit crazy. After that wild ride, a man’s entitled to a little peace and solitude.”

  I can’t fault him there, having borne witness to more than a few of the tantrums thrown by the lovely but exceptionally high maintenance Lucinda. Tantrums I’m pretty sure the woman across the way—with her very practical pixie cut and even more practical lack of penis attire—wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to throw. I’m not going to lie, after eight years in the NFL, a low-maintenance woman is an appealing thought.

  And she is an appealing woman. Very, very appealing.

  The bartender brings me a fresh whiskey right before the waitress picks up the tray of old-fashioneds and heads toward the bachelorette party. The bride-to-be squeals when the drinks arrive, and then the entire table is staring at Clay and me, all wide eyes and interested faces as they nudge my girl.

  Which is, of course, the number one reason not to make a move on a woman when she’s out with her friends. Even when they’re feeling supportive of the match, it’s like running a gauntlet to get to her. It’s an awful lot of effort for a one-night stand.

  Still, something about this woman tells me she’s worth it.

  I grin at her as I raise my glass in a silent toast to the bride. Then take a sip before turning back to the bar and waiting for her to come to me, like a moth to a flame.

  I can’t wait to burn right along with her.

  But long seconds tick by and she still doesn’t come over. Which…I don’t get it. I’ve shown my interest. I’ve even made the first move, which I normally don’t have to do. I’ve included her friends in that first move…this should be an easy run to the end zone.

  I want to turn around, want to see what she’s doing. But I’m not that desperate, no matter how much I want to lick my way inside those perfect lips of hers.

  Except, it turns out I am that desperate because as Clay prattles on about God only knows what, I can’t help glancing over my shoulder. Our eyes meet and my heart jumps to my throat. Because instead of looking interested or flattered or any of the other reactions I expected, she looks pale, stricken.

  It makes no sense, and I can’t help wondering if something else happened in the last couple of minutes. But no, she’s looking straight at me, and for a second, just a second, it looks like there are tears in her eyes.

  Then she’s scooting her chair back, breaking eye contact and all but running for the restrooms at the back of the bar.

  What. The. Hell?

  Chapter 3

  Sage

  I’m an idiot. A total and complete moron and I have no one to blame but myself.

  What was I thinking, imagining even for a second, that he was flirting with me? Worse, that he was interested in me? Men like him don’t look twice at women like me. I learned that a long time ago, and nothing that’s happened in the last ten years has proven me wrong.

  I almost died
when he sent over that round of old-fashioneds. Almost fell right through the floor. Most of the other women were charmed by what they called “such a classy drink,” but it was hard to miss that he was making fun of me. That he was calling me old-fashioned and probably uptight, too.

  I mean, who wears a high-collared blouse and wide-legged pants to a bachelorette party? Who refuses to engage in ridiculous, dick-themed revelry? Who is so lame that she doesn’t have more than three drinks in an evening, even when there’s a hired driver?

  A square like me.

  I’ve heard the same old refrain my whole life, starting with my mom, who thinks I am the most boring person on the planet. Normally it doesn’t bother me—in fact, I like it. The world needs squares like me to balance out the more undefined edges of people like my mother. We keep the bills paid and the lights on when everything around us is going to hell on a flying yoga mat.

  I’m proud of my normalcy, proud that despite the most flighty, woo-woo, run-off-to-India-to-find-her-guru mother in the world, I’ve managed to grow into a responsible, respectable person.

  But there’s nothing exciting about responsible and respectable. Nothing sexy about it. I know that. I’ve always known that. Still tonight, just for a minute, I thought maybe Hot Stuff was actually interested in me. Thought for once, that maybe he saw more than the boring old square—or if that was all he saw, maybe he didn’t care that that’s who I was. And then he went and sent those drinks to make fun of me.

  Asshole.

  To be honest, I’m not sure if I’m talking to myself or to him. I’m the one who looked back at him, after all. I’m the one who batted her eyes at him all night. And I’m the one who was stupid enough to let herself believe that a guy like that—a guy who has risk-taker written all over him—might want more from her than a good laugh.

  Yeah, I’m definitely the asshole in this equation.

  For a moment, just a moment, hot tears burn against the backs of my eyes. I swipe them away impatiently, then make a beeline for the bathroom so I can get a little privacy. I just need a minute to put myself back together, a minute to remember that I don’t care what Hot Stuff thinks of me. Or what any of the women at that bachelorette party think of me. I’m the only reason most of them have jobs. If I left the studio in my mother’s so-not-capable hands, it would have gone under a long time ago.

  I’m almost to the bathroom, almost to safety, when someone takes hold of my elbow. Expecting it to be Autumn, or maybe Skye, I’m a little surprised by the strong grip—even before I turn around and find myself looking up, up, up into the most beautiful bittersweet chocolate colored eyes I’ve ever seen.

  Holy shit, I can’t help thinking as I stare up at Hot Stuff.

  Holy shit, he followed me from the bar.

  Holy shit, he’s even hotter up close.

  Holy shit, his hand feels way better on my elbow than it has any right to.

  I start to pull away, but his grip tightens just a little. Not enough to hurt, by any means, but enough to keep me where I am. Then again, that could be the way his thumb is softly stroking the sensitive skin on the inside of my elbow.

  It feels good—surprisingly good—and for a second I feel myself relaxing despite myself. But then I remember who he is and why he’s the last person I should relax with. I narrow my eyes, straighten my spine and say, “I’m fine, thank you.” Frost drips from every word.

  One eyebrow goes up at the tone. “You sure? You didn’t drink your drink.”

  “Is that really why you followed me? Because you want to rub it in?”

  His second eyebrow joins the first. “Exactly what am I rubbing in?”

  “You don’t need to play stupid. I get it. I promise, I won’t look your way again tonight.”

  “Well, that would be a shame,” he says, moving a step closer. Maybe two. “Considering I’ve been trying to get you to do more than look my way all night.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Obviously.” He leans down—and I admit I’m a little weak in the knees just from that. I’m five eleven barefoot, six foot two in the heels I’m wearing tonight. I’m not going to lie. The fact that he still has to look down on me is a total freaking turn-on.

  His face is only a couple inches from mine now, his body less than that. I should feel threatened by his proximity—not only is he taller than me, but he outweighs me by a good seventy-five pounds. But even though he’s crowding me, it doesn’t feel bad. Maybe because there’s plenty of open space behind me if I decide to step back? Or maybe because for all his size and nearness, the only place he’s touching me continues to be those feather-light strokes against the inside of my elbow.

  They feel good. Too good, which is why I yank my arm away. The last thing I want to do is melt into a puddle at the feet of a guy who thinks I’m old-fashioned and dull.

  “I need to get back to the party.”

  “This is way harder than I remember,” he mutters under his breath, so low that I’m not sure I heard him correctly.

  “What?” I demand, certain that he’s insulting me.

  But he just shakes his head as he steps back, gestures for me to pass.

  I don’t move.

  Which makes absolutely no sense. It’s what I’ve wanted since the moment he took my arm. But now that he’s no longer in my way, all I can do is continue staring up at him. Continue staring into those crazy, black magic eyes of his.

  He smiles a little then, as if he understands his effect on me. Then again, he probably does. He’s the kind of man women fling their panties at—while they’re still wearing them.

  More seconds tick by and I don’t move. I don’t know why, except he’s big and warm and standing this close to him makes me feel strangely safe. Maybe because he’s so willing to let me go, so determined to make sure I don’t feel trapped with him in this narrow hallway.

  Either that or that third drink I had really did a number on my inhibitions. Either way, when he asks, “What’s your name, sweetheart?” in a deep voice gone gravelly in all the right ways, I can’t help but answer.

  “Sage.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Sage.” He takes my hand in what could be called a handshake but feels more like a caress. “I’m Shawn.”

  “Nice to meet you, too.”

  I watch wide-eyed as he brings my hand to his mouth and presses a kiss right in the center of my palm. My heart goes wild, and my brain starts screaming DANGER at me in blinking red lights. And still I don’t pull away. Still I let him keep ahold of my hand even after he’s lifted his lips from my skin.

  “Why did you order old-fashioneds for the table?” I ask, partly to remind myself of what drove me back here in the first place and partly because I have to know if my assumptions were right.

  He looks surprised. “As opposed to ordering one just for you?”

  “As opposed to ordering some other drink!”

  Now he just looks confused, but I’m more than okay with that. About time he joined the club.

  “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision,” he says after a few seconds. “I guess I ordered them because they remind me of you.”

  “Old-fashioned?” I ask, the indignation starting to flood back now that I’m no longer mesmerized by his Hot Stuff demeanor.

  “A little,” he agrees, toying with the cameo at my throat. “And classy. Smooth.” He touches my bottom lip with one calloused finger. “Delicious.”

  I nearly swallow my tongue.

  “You okay?” he asks again, and this time it’s almost a whisper.

  Then again, this time he leans forward so that his mouth is very, very close to my ear. So close that I can feel his breath hot against my cheek.

  I nod a little jerkily, because it’s dawning on me he wasn’t trying to insult me with that drink. He was trying to seduce me.


  My legs—hell, my whole lower body—go liquid at the thought, and it’s all I can do to remain upright. I try to hide it, but Shawn sees it. Or maybe he just senses it. Either way, his pupils widen and his breath catches in his throat, as if the sudden molten warmth making its way through my body is also working its way through his.

  His fingers slide up from my cameo, skimming the hollow of my throat, the line of my jaw, the curve of my ear. I gasp a little as he gently pinches my earlobe between his thumb and forefinger. Gasp again as he cups my jaw in his large, rough palm and strokes his thumb across my bottom lip. Once, twice, then again and again.

  It feels shockingly, incredibly good.

  So good that I sway a little where I stand.

  So good that I grab on to his shoulders to steady myself…and to feel the heat of his body under my palms.

  So good that I lean forward until our bodies are just barely touching from shoulder to thigh.

  He groans. It’s a soft, under the breath thing but it’s definitely a groan. His breath starts coming faster, but then again, so does mine as he slowly, slowly, slowly, pulls me forward until I’m standing between the deep V of his legs. As he slowly, slowly, slowly closes the distance between our mouths.

  As he slowly, slowly, slowly presses his lips against mine.

  Fireworks go off deep inside me. There’s no other word to describe the explosion that shakes me to my core. That has my hands tightening in the silky fabric of his shirt and my body arching against his. That has me pressing my lips more firmly against his and opening my mouth to welcome the dark heat of his.

  A part of me—a small part—feels like it’s standing off to the side, gaping at me and what I am currently doing. I’m not the kind of girl to flirt with a guy at a bar, let alone kiss him. Let alone press herself up against him in a desperate bid for more.

  But that’s exactly what I’m doing here, and I don’t even feel bad about it. How can I when his mouth, his touch, his body feels so incredibly good pressed against me?