“And then he asked you out?” Cammy gasps, her hands balled on her hips. Lowering her voice, she glances past me to the living room where Matty sits cross-legged, his little head of blond curls bowed over the Lego fortress he’s erecting. “What an epic douche. How’d you get out of it?”
Carefully. “First, he didn’t ask me out on a date, per se. He proposed getting together at his place in Florida for a few days to discuss opportunities for my future.”
She starts walking toward the kitchen and bends to sweep up a stray action figure on the way. “Right, so you could see what you could do for each other. Barf.”
I laugh, but the very fact that I have enough experience to be able to take this sort of thing in stride is depressing as hell.
“I basically reminded him about my very strict policy of not dating—or even giving people reason to suspect I might be dating—anyone from the industry.” There’s an open bottle of white in the fridge and I pour us both a glass. “And while I know what he’s suggesting would be on the up-and-up, I couldn’t risk the perception that there was something else going on.”
“You know I’m not the biggest fan of that rule, but it has come in handy from time to time.”
“It has.” It protects Ray’s bloated ego, keeping him from turning on me. The guy is an ass, but the last thing I need is a good old boy like him as an enemy.
I take a sip of wine and relax into the counter behind me.
Cammy picks at her thumbnail. “Do you feel better after talking about it?”
“Umm… sure.”
Her smile bursts free, and she leans forward, eyes wide. “So, any chance you heard from Mr. Dirty Kisser today?”
Greg
The locker room is loud, with blaring music and half the guys talking over each other. The other half are laughing their asses off, tossing bills at Rux’s feet as he works his hairy-as-fuck body in this hip-thrusting stripper dance, wearing his jock and nothing else. I ought to be pouring a bottle of water on his chest or some shit, but instead my inner fifteen-year-old girl is stuck staring at my phone. Martin, one of the guys I reconnected with at the reunion, is throwing a party tonight and invited me to come.
My living depends on my ability to make solid decisions in fractions of a second. But I’ve been staring at Martin’s invite for a full five minutes already, trying to decide what the fuck to do. Knowing whatever I choose isn’t going to have jack to do with Martin, who’s a seriously cool guy, even if he did used to play football. It’s about Julia… because she’s pretty good friends with him too. Which means there’s a chance she’ll be there. And while the man downstairs is already starting to primp, I’m not entirely sure seeing her again so soon is a good thing.
It’s been a week since the reunion.
I’ve texted her, of course.
We’re friends. It would be shitty not to.
But no matter how easy her reply was, it feels different to me. She’s in my head, and even after playing three games this week, I’m not any closer to getting her out.
That’s not how it’s supposed to be with her.
Rux grabs the side of my breezers and starts using me like a pole. “Dude, what’d a bunny send you, another picture of her tits? Lemme see.”
Christ. I toss my phone back on the shelf and straight-arm his chest. “No dirty pictures, so you can stop humping me.”
He stumbles back, nearly stepping on Vsev, who’s down picking up the dollars. “But you’re so big and strong.”
He’s a laugh riot, but this thing with Jules is really bugging me.
“You ever get caught up with a woman you know better about?”
He raises a brow. “Like a bunny?”
Bunny? Fuck no. Not even a little bit.
But then I stop and think, because putting aside the fact that Julia is essentially the antithesis of a puck bunny, the situation isn’t that far off. Both are attractive women I know better than to get serious about, and both could be filed under: Exception to the rule.
“Not exactly, but close enough.” Saying it makes my gut feel wrong.
“Who you been doing?” he demands, beefy arms stacked behind his matted brown curls as he does a few more Magic Mike thrusts.
“Doesn’t matter, because it’s not something that’ll happen again.”
Rux’s tone turns serious and his arms drop to his sides. “Dude. It matters. I don’t want to be your Eskimo brother.” At my very-not-amused look, he shrugs. “So what, you hooked up with someone you don’t want to get serious with, but you want to hit it again?”
“No. That’s not it.” Jesus, why did I think talking to this guy was a good idea? “I just—fuck, I keep thinking about her, even though I shouldn’t want her that way.”
Because we’re friends and all that shit.
“Ah, easy then. Just wait ’til you see her again. If you aren’t into this thing goin’ anywhere, one look and your ass’ll be straightened out.” He shakes his head. “You’re not the type to nail her just ’cause you can.”
He’s right. I’m not. At least not anymore.
“Hey, wanna hit a club tonight?”
I clap him on the shoulder and start getting dressed. “Can’t. Got a party I’m going to.”
Julia
One night. Twelve hours. That’s what I gave myself. And considering I don’t normally waste twelve minutes on the guys who threaten my rules, that was pretty generous. So what the heck am I doing standing in the middle of Martin’s party a full week later, wondering what Greg Baxter is doing tonight? He’s not playing a game. They wiped up the ice with the Lightning last night, and tonight they’re off.
Maybe he’s with the team. He once told me that most nights, he’d rather hang out at one of the guys’ houses than let Rux drag him around to a club. I wonder if they invited a few girls over.
My belly tenses at the thought and, recognizing the pang of misplaced jealousy for what it is, I cough out a laugh.
Sarah or Sidney or whatever the name of the woman I’m standing with stops talking, and my cheeks start to burn.
“Sorry, frog in my throat. I’m fine. Go on.”
I am so not fine.
Jealous? Absolutely not. I don’t get jealous. Ever. I don’t get invested enough to merit that kind of emotion. And to get jealous over Greg Baxter? No. We’re friends with one little kiss between us. One exceptionally dirty, scorchingly hot kiss with the staying power to wreck my brain for the better part of a week.
Like I need that again.
I refocus on the woman in front of me and accept a refill on my wine when Martin’s girlfriend Dana comes around with a bottle. I keep waiting to see a ring on her finger, because this girl is a keeper, and that’s not just wishful thinking on my part. It’s in every look Martin gives her. He’s the kind of guy that will stick around too.
Dana asks Simone—thank God I didn’t call her Sarah—about the work she’s having done on her condo, and suddenly the conversation I was only marginally following makes more sense. This is ridiculous. Listening to people is my job. Even if it wasn’t, I like to think I’m more considerate than this.
The conversation turns from one topic to another. Simone excuses herself, and another couple joins us for a few minutes before moving on. Dana has me in stitches as she recounts Martin’s kitchen-related quirks. Hard to believe this is the same man who set his mom’s microwave on fire junior year trying to make mac and cheese. I’m about to say as much when the air seems to shift, and the cacophony of party sounds seems to drop.
My mouth closes, and I turn toward the entry where the guests have been arriving in a steady stream. It’s him. Greg. I have to blink to make sure he’s actually there and not some figment of my imagination, too easily conjured after the way he’s been on my mind this week. But in the next second his blazing blue eyes come up, they connect with mine, and his mouth tips into a cocky slant even my imagination couldn’t get right.
My heart starts to pound and—God, are my hands sha
king?
I can’t believe he’s here.
Why is he here?
That’s a silly question. Martin invited him after catching up at the reunion.
Greg isn’t mine alone. He isn’t mine at all.
Dana touches my shoulder. “Martin’s flagging me from the kitchen. Give me a few minutes.”
I nod and she gives me a quick squeeze, but my attention is on the tallest man in the room as he cuts through the party… heading for me. Perfectly worn denim moves around his heavily muscled legs, and a cream sweater pushed up his forearms stretches over the solid definition of his shoulders and chest. No man should look this good. He’s halfway through the crowd when a couple of guys step into his path, drawing his attention until our eye contact breaks.
The breath leaves my lungs in a rush. I turn away, my nerves going haywire. It’s just Greg, only he hasn’t felt like just Greg since last week. And the look in his eyes when he saw me—it’s different from the way he’s looked at me before. I think. Maybe it’s me.
Scanning the room, I search for a friendly face. Someone to pull into conversation and serve as a buffer between us.
Greg’s hand meets my shoulder. It’s warm and wide and feels like it’s feeding that low charge that’s been running through me since the minute his mouth met mine.
“Julia.”
We’re friends. I can do this.
“Hey stranger,” I say, turning back to him with a practiced smile.
His brows furrow like he doesn’t know what to make of my reaction. I hardly know what to make of it myself.
“Was wondering if I’d see you here.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Funny how seldom our paths actually cross when we’ve been living in the same city for over a year now.”
I make a dismissive sound, waving my hand away even though I know he’s right. It’s the nature of our jobs. I’m on the road three days a week minimum for the games I cover, and Greg’s schedule is even more nuts. “We text.”
“Talk on the phone a few minutes here and there.” He bites his bottom lip. “We don’t see enough of each other.”
If he’d brought this up a week ago, I wouldn’t have thought a thing about it except that he was right.
He leans closer. “Why don’t we hang out more?”
I’m saved from answering when a couple of Martin’s cousins come up and introduce themselves. I’ve met these guys before, but they’re clearly here for Greg. In the past I’ve felt possessive of my time with him, because he’s right, we don’t see enough of each other. But now, I’m grateful for the reprieve. The guys want to rehash last night’s game, and Greg accommodates them for a few minutes, answering questions, listening to their analysis. But every time his heated eyes meet mine, linger and hold for just a second, the tension between us builds that much more.
It’s getting hard to breathe, hard for me to think about anything beyond how good it felt to be beneath his kiss, and whether it would be like that again.
Maybe I was just hard up.
Like it’s been so long since I had any quality lip action, I’m blowing things out of proportion. Making that one kiss with Greg into more than it actually was.
Heck, if he kissed me again, it might be a total letdown. I hazard a look at his face and find his eyes on me again. A tremor runs through me.
Or maybe it wouldn’t be a letdown.
Someone asks Greg about what it’s like knowing he might be traded to a different team and have to move at the drop of a hat.
I hear his voice, but what he’s saying fades when I feel the brush of his hand against mine. It’s barely contact, just the backs of his fingers brushing mine. It’s the type of contact that could be seen as completely accidental, but this isn’t. This is deliberate.
And it sets a dozen butterflies to flight in my belly.
Greg just smudged the line again, and my facade of cool is going to crack if I don’t put some distance between us.
“Excuse me for a minute, will you guys?”
I don’t dare look, but I can feel Greg’s eyes on me with every retreating step I take. When I get to the hall bathroom, there are a couple of women waiting ahead of me. Then, like an angel of mercy, Dana comes around the corner and, seeing the line, grabs my arm and points me toward the far end of the apartment. “You look like you could use a minute. Martin’s office has a bathroom off it. We never use it, so forgive the mess, but take all the time you need.”
She’s officially one of my favorite people tonight. “Thank you, Dana.”
When I reach the office, it’s filled with boxes still labeled from their move two years ago. That’s very much the Martin I know. Then, that good humor fades as the quiet settles around me and I ask myself what I’m doing.
Greg is one of my oldest friends. An athlete with ties to an industry I’ve made it my goal to conquer. I can’t get breathless every time our eyes meet. I can’t keep thinking about what it was like when he kissed me or how no one I’ve dated was capable of making me feel that way.
I can’t.
The latch from the door closing sounds behind me, and I know it’s him. I should feel frustration, but it’s relief that washes over me when I turn to find him there. His hair is standing up in different directions, like maybe he’s shoved his hands through it since I left him three minutes ago. But it’s his eyes I can’t look away from. The laughter I usually find in those gorgeous blues is gone, and all that’s left is heat.
7
Greg
SO THAT PLAN is shot to hell.
One look at Julia and, Christ, I’m worse off than I was a week ago. She’s fucking gorgeous. And while that’s been the case since the day I met her, I’m seeing something different now. I’m seeing more than the surface-level assortment of attractive features, more than the brash friend I’ve been joking around with for thirteen years. I’m seeing the soul-deep sensuality Julia so effectively hides from everyone else, the passion and playfulness. I’m seeing the vulnerability she won’t admit to and a need that mirrors my own.
I’m seeing potential for something bigger than what we already are to each other.
And now that I’ve seen it, I don’t want to pretend I haven’t.
“You wouldn’t be running away from me, would you, Jules?”
“What? No. I just…” Her cheeks take on a warm glow, and she smooths a nonexistent wrinkle from the burgundy dress that wraps around her in a phenomenal way.
“You were running.” I move closer. “So the question is… were you running because you wanted me to chase you?”
Her eyes snap up, pupils wide. I step even closer, and yeah, that look is telling me two things. One, she definitely likes the idea of me chasing her. And two, she’ll never admit it.
“All I want is for things to be the way they always have with us. I want us to be friends.”
“We are friends.” Friends on the brink of being something more.
She crosses to the desk covered with boxes. “Just friends.”
A few hours ago, getting friend-zoned was exactly what I wanted. Or thought I wanted, anyway. But now?
I rub the back of my neck. “Yeah, about that just.”
Her head drops forward into a low shake, but not before I see the smile I’d been hoping for.
“Greg.”
This is my Julia, scolding me with a smile on her face and laughter in her eyes. This is the woman I can talk to about anything.
“Come on, Jules, tell me you haven’t been thinking about it. Tell me you haven’t been wondering what it would have been like if we hadn’t stopped when we did. If at the end of the night you’d come home with me.”
It doesn’t matter what she says. I can see in her eyes she’s been thinking about it as much as I have. Just like I can see that as much as she might want to put that just back between us, there’s a bigger part of her that doesn’t. Just friends don’t stare at each other’s mouths when they talk, they don’t bite their lips when their eyes drop lower than that
.
“Julia.”
Guilty eyes snap back to mine, and she huffs. “Fine, yes. Of course I’ve been thinking about it. But honestly, I’ve been in a bit of a dry spell. So, you know, it’s not about us.”
Dry spell? Finding the edge of the desk, I lean back and cross my arms. “This I’ve got to hear.”
“Don’t get your ego in a bunch. The kiss was good.”
“Mind-blowing, world-rocking, etcetera…” Distinctions are important.
She rolls her eyes and walks past me. It takes everything I have not to pull her into my arms right then.
“But this whole sort of extended obsession thing probably has more to do with my not getting out that much than—than anything else.”
Running my hand over my mouth, I wipe away the smile trying to fight free. She said obsession. Things are definitely looking up. “You’re saying if we kissed again, it wouldn’t be as good.”
“It wouldn’t be bad,” she adds in a rush, like she’s worried about my feelings being hurt.
“Right. Just nothing you couldn’t walk away from.”
“Greg, don’t take it personally. I can walk away from pretty much anything.”
We’ll see about that. “Great, then it’s settled.”
Her eyes narrow. “What is?”
“We’ll kiss again.” I push off the desk and start toward her at the opposite wall. Slowly. “So you can stop obsessing.”
She looks a little nervous now, her posture stiffening as she follows my steps with her eyes. “Obsessing is probably too strong a word. I really don’t think—”
“Consider it a favor from me to you.”
“A favor?” she coughs out. “Please.”
Damn, I love firing her up.
“Yeah.” I round the couch piled with magazines and she takes a step back. “Don’t worry. When I kiss you again, Julia, I won’t go easy.” Her breath hitches. “Rest assured, I’m going to give it everything I have—just so there’s no doubt in your mind when we’re done. You’ll be able to walk away confident the only thing behind that obsessing was a dry spell that’s now been quenched.”