Sure, the numbers these guys were throwing around had only been going up—and it was flattering, no doubt—but the truth was, Ford liked working independently. He liked designing the games that got into his head, working on them when he wanted to and how he wanted to without anyone else’s vision or timetable getting in the way.
And without the risk of some partner screwing him over. Been there, done that.
Still, he’d hear the guys out. Listen to what they had to offer…and then inevitably end the evening more confident than ever with his current path. Besides, he’d scored a few sweet merchandising deals on his own, and sales from his last three games had earned him more money than he knew what to do with—so he must be doing something right.
When it came to business anyway.
He looked around the bar—at the clusters of preening models and big-bill-flashing financial guys.
Not his scene.
He’d have rather been hitting one of the neighborhood places where the only dress code required was that your clothes be comfortable, where the point wasn’t to see and be seen, but to connect with friends and maybe make a few more—and hell, where there was a chance he might run into a girl wearing Converse sneakers instead of five-inch stilettos.
It could happen. He’d seen Brynn a handful of times since he left her apartment the week before. The next day she’d been walking into La Colombe for coffee as he’d been walking out and, sticking with his plan to play it cool until she realized there was no reason to fight this thing between them, he hadn’t done anything more than hold the door and say “Good morning.”
She’d been nervous and flustered, and he’d just laughed and told her he’d see her around.
They’d bumped into each other two days later at the UPS Store, where he’d accused her of following him, and she’d turned every gorgeous shade of red there was before helplessly holding up a package she was sending to her old boss in Milwaukee. They’d talked about the game the night before, a truly incredible shot with less than a second on the clock and the sweet victory that followed.
But again, once his missed delivery was in hand, he’d limited his contact to tucking a few flyaway curls behind Brynn’s ear before taking off. And yeah, it was a small cheat, because he knew for a fact Brynn’s entire scalp was like one big erogenous zone, but whatever. He hadn’t stood around to soak up the way her eyes hazed over just that much, or angled to work that small gasp into something bigger.
The next three days she’d been out of town for the Magic game in Orlando, but he knew she was back because the next TNT game wasn’t for another four days and the Bulls had played the night before. And speaking of, there were a couple of players across the bar.
Reaching for his glass of Booker’s, he took a swallow, nodding appropriately as the suits talked about a trip to the Andes, no doubt trying to gauge whether he’d be open to joining them sometime. More of the woo, but typically the kind reserved for the close of the night. Excellent, he’d heard enough and—
Red. An untamed spill of it, there over by a pool table, where he’d just seen a handful of NBA guys.
Ford leaned forward in the low club chair, setting his glass on the table in front of him. Because, yeah, that was most definitely the body he hadn’t had nearly enough of draped in some kind of formfitting black dress with a low, scarfy-looking neck, and pair of black, thick-heeled boots. Looking incredibly good.
Brynn leaned back into the table, making a face at whatever one of the players had said to her. She feigned like she was taking a shot—earning the laughter of half the guys there.
“Hey, Ford, you like basketball?” the suit with the ponytail, Jeremy, asked, leaning into his line of vision. All grins. Totally in the way. “Want to meet a couple of the players? Just say the word and we’ll make it happen. Drake, buddy, want to set something up for Ford here?”
Shit.
Ford leaned back and waved the guys down. “No, thanks, but I just saw someone I knew over there. Thinking I’d like to catch up, actually.”
He stood, and both men rose with him, their disappointment masked as quickly as it flared.
“I appreciate the offer, and I’ll give it another look and get back to you with an answer next week.”
Jeremy perked up, shoving out his hand for a solid shake. “Excellent, man. And think about the Andes, too.”
“You’d love it,” Drake chimed in, adding his own vigorous shake.
“I’ll keep it in mind, guys. Thanks again.”
And then they were gone and Ford was walking toward the group of guys surrounding his girl, wondering if his plan to be cool and take his time could withstand the curve-hugging perfection of her dress.
Stepping around the velvet rope between where he’d been seated and what he figured was the VIP section, he headed toward Brynn. Toward that hair and smile and—fuck—her body.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Ford glanced down at a bald guy with a giant zirconium in his ear. Security, from the look of him, except this guy didn’t seem entirely confident in what he was securing. Or maybe what he wasn’t sure about was who he was defending against. After all, people had been mistaking Ford for a ballplayer most of his life.
Rather than help him out, Ford met the man with a level stare.
“What?” he asked, putting just enough irritated entitlement into the single word to suggest he might be “somebody.” Another ballplayer with a slightly less recognizable face, maybe?
The funny thing was, based on the club standards, Ford was somebody. Just not who this guy was thinking. Not that Ford would clue him in either way—the Hibachi Cannonball connection wasn’t one he shared with the masses. Too many opportunists, and ulterior motives were one thing he preferred not to worry about when bringing a woman home. Hell, he hadn’t even told Brynn. Habit mostly. But he would soon.
After a few seconds, earring guy took a step back, inviting Ford to enjoy his night.
Another few steps toward the group of professional athletes, most of whom were as tall as he was, and the two closest guys looked up at him. They exchanged a knowing look like they were expecting to have to sign an autograph or something, and blinked in surprise as he clapped one on the shoulder, congratulated them on the game from the night before, and then edged past, to get to Brynn.
She took a swig from the bottle of Heineken she had hooked around the neck with her finger, and then stalled mid-swallow—her eyes going wide as they landed on his.
“The ‘coincidental’ meetings were cute at first, Brynn,” he started, leaning a hip into the table beside her. “But I’m starting to wonder if maybe it’s time for me to look into a restraining order.”
She coughed, and he patted her back, smiling as she shook her head.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, once she’d gotten her breathing back under control.
“Business thing. Big dinner, trendy club. But I’m done. How about you?”
She looked around at the group of players, who Ford realized seemed to have stopped their conversations and were looking between him and Brynn. And then just at him.
The looks darkening, like if he was bothering Brynn, he might be about to have a big problem. He was certain it wasn’t their intent, but those dark looks were a welcome sight. He liked the idea that Brynn had people looking out for her.
“Umm, this is Ford Meyers,” Brynn offered, introducing him to the group. Probably a few were trainers and production people, players, their wives and girlfriends. “He’s an old friend, and almost as big a sports geek as I am.”
With that he was shaking hands and bumping fists.
“How old of an old friend we talkin’ here?” one of the guys asked, grinning wide when Brynn seemed to blush and straighten up a little.
She tucked a curl behind her ear. No earrings. No jewelry at all, now that he looked. Just a black rubber Ironman watch on her slender wrist. That same barely there pink sheen on her full lips, and nothing else.
So di
fferent from the other women he knew.
Had she worn makeup when they dated? Maybe a little, but he liked this look. He liked the idea that with this woman, what he saw was what he got.
“Ten years,” he finally answered.
Then, catching the look of panic that flashed through Brynn’s eyes, he leaned closer. “You okay?”
She nodded, but set her drink down behind her.
“You know what, guys?” she started quickly, her voice sounding pinched. “Thanks so much for inviting me tonight. But I’m going to catch up a little with Ford and then head home early.”
Something was definitely up.
“Ten years?” Another player hooted, landing a play punch at Ford’s shoulder. “So you gotta know her boyfriend then, too, since—Brynn, how long you and Fred been dating?” He looked around for confirmation. “Since high school, right?”
Ford was pretty sure the sound system of the club hadn’t actually blown out, that the static filling his head was originating from between his ears. The jackhammer pounding through him, within his chest.
His eyes cut to Brynn, who was looking at him with such apology, it blasted him back to the one part of those few months he hadn’t revisited. Hadn’t compared a single moment to, until now.
He could feel the phone biting into his palm, the frustration boiling over after weeks of hurt and confusion and anger.
“Of course I looked you up!” he shouted through the line, instinctively knowing he’d regret losing it later, but unable to contain his emotions. They’d been in love. Christ, she’d given him her virginity a week before winter break. And when she’d said goodbye at the Amtrak station that last time it had been with tears streaming down her cheeks. He’d kissed her and told her it was only a couple of weeks.
But then he’d come back to school in January and she hadn’t been there. All he’d gotten was an email telling him she wasn’t going to be back. That she’d transferred and she was sorry. She’d miss him, but he should take care.
Take care. Right.
Only the whole thing had been bullshit. Because he’d called Santa Clara out in California, and surprise, fucking surprise, she hadn’t been registered there. So he’d tried the phone number she’d given him before break—the one that hadn’t worked the last four times he’d dialed it—and this time it rang. And rang. And rang, until a weary-sounding woman finally answered and when he’d asked to speak with Brynn…she’d gotten on the line.
“You were coming back, Brynn. Everything was great. You told me—what the fuck happened?” he demanded, still too shocked to believe she wasn’t there with him. That she’d left. That she’d lied. That—
“Ford, I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
He could hear her crying through the line and the sound of it—even as mad and confused as he was—it gutted him. Had him ready to hop the fucking train himself and pound down her door just to wrap her in his arms and tell her everything would be all right.
“Don’t cry, baby.” He couldn’t handle it. “Whatever this is, we can work it out. I can come up and—”
“No. Don’t come up here.” Her voice was stronger then, colder. “I don’t want you to. Look, Ford, I didn’t want to hurt you, but the truth is, there’s someone else.”
Chapter 7
“Hey, can I talk to you for a second, Ford?” Brynn asked in a hushed request as the ballplayers—her friends—joked around about her long-term relationship with the guy from Milwaukee. The guy she’d been with since high school.
Shit. A boyfriend.
The same boyfriend?
Christ, was that possible? He’d always figured she’d met someone when she’d gotten home after that first semester. That she’d been young and impulsive, and hell, he’d never thought that he was actually the jackass nailing some other guy’s girl.
And yeah, wasn’t that an excellent revelation.
He wished he were numb. Would have loved one of those shell-shocked responses to override his senses, but instead he was completely aware of the raw, wrecked feeling originating in his gut and tearing straight up into the center of his chest.
He hadn’t moved from where he’d come to stand beside her at the pool table, but when Ford looked down into her anxious face, it was like a thousand miles had suddenly wedged between them. Like she was a blur he barely recognized.
“Complicated, huh?” he asked, and then figuring he had a better chance of getting the truth out of these straight shooters than he would from the woman who’d been ready in his bed the week before, he turned to the group and slapped a carefree smile on his face.
“Nah, we didn’t know each other that well.” Apparently. “So, long-term, huh? Must be pretty serious.”
Brynn was tugging at his shirtsleeve, but he needed to hear this.
The blond guy who he was pretty sure had been introduced as a trainer, or maybe he was an assistant—hell if he could keep track—was breaking into Beyoncé moves with his hand up, rotating it forward and back.
“Mr. Mason better put a ring on it.”
Trainer/assistant/whatever guy was working it, doing the dance while the rest of the group laughed it up. Everyone except him and Brynn, who was saying his name more urgently.
Only Ford’s attention had narrowed down to a single sharp point. He leaned forward and laughed, really laughed, before jutting his head at dancing guy. “Did you say Mason? Fred Mason?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Ford,” Brynn, urged, no longer bothering with discreet.
He grinned down into her gorgeous face, the raw wound at the center of him replaced with a chest-thumping satisfaction more powerful than anything he’d felt before.
He was back in front of Brynn’s dorm, his heart pumping hard as he felt the pull of the mouth that had kept him laughing and guessing the whole day through. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to stake a claim right then and there, because this girl was unbelievable.
Her lips parted on a shuddery breath.
“Fred,” she whispered, leaning toward him—as he leaned back, a laugh punching out of him faster than he could contain it.
“Who’s Fred?” he asked, taking the solid knee to the ego as it came, because of the way she’d said “Fred.” Damn, he couldn’t wait to hear “Ford” easing past her lips like that.
“I thought you said your name was Fred. Fred Mason. You totally said your name was Fred!”
Okay, and he loved it that she would actually stand that firmly behind her belief that he forgot his own name. Although, the way she’d been getting to him, it was possible.
For the second time that day, he extended his hand, liking how small hers felt when she gave it to him. “Ford Meyers. Nice to meet you.”
Now, standing in this too swank nightclub with Brynn at his side, looking like she wanted to bury her head in a hole, he flagged the waitress and ordered a round of drinks. He’d be staying awhile.
—
“Oh yeah, Fred,” Ford announced, drawing the name out like it was just coming back to him. And looking all too pleased with himself in the process. Looking all too good, too.
She’d never seen him in anything like the charcoal slacks that hugged and hung just exactly right and that black dress shirt he’d left open at the neck. It was strange to see Ford dressed like this. Looking so sophisticated and stylish—though now that she thought about it, even the casual kicking-around clothes she’d seen him in over this last week were pretty stylish, too.
He always looked good. Comfortable.
Tempting.
“I think I remember him now.”
Of course he did.
And whether that was a good or a bad thing, Brynn wasn’t entirely certain. Sure, it killed her for Ford to think she’d been involved with someone else when she’d gone back to his apartment the week before. Despite how hard she’d worked to make him believe that was exactly the kind of woman she’d been ten years ago, the idea of him believing it now? She couldn’t stand it.
But the alternative?
Ford knowing she’d used the name she’d thought was his to create a fictional boyfriend? Yeah, she’d have some explaining to do.
Only not until Ford stopped grinning like he’d just won the state lottery.
“Someone fill me in on the Fred details,” he prompted, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the pool table to get comfortable. “It’s been awhile.”
Brynn buried her face in her phone, scrolling through her calendar and checking email that had been checked days before. Mortification burned up her throat and cheeks as these guys, jocks and grunts and crew she’d known for years, spilled every gory detail.
“—tall and dark—”
Yeah, well there was that.
“—with eyes like ‘melty chocolate’—”
She had not said that. Unless it was that night she learned her lesson about tequila shots. Probably that night. She’d been hungover for two days.
“—scary-smart programmer—”
Right. No connection there.
She was going to die.
“—nicest guy on the planet—”
True. Even if he was reveling in her discomfort.
“—legs too long to be able to get anywhere in the back of his car—”
God, this was humiliation of the epic variety. Where was Dr. Who’s TARDIS when she needed an escape? When Ford was shooting her looks as the telling details piled up—bits so specific to him there was no way she could pass them off as coincidence.
“—dates at the arcade—”
“—picnics on the rooftop—”
“—she knew she loved him from the very first day—”
With that last one she’d had enough. She moved to step away but stopped at the feel of Ford’s hand closing around her wrist. He pushed up to his full height and turned his body so he was speaking only to her.