by Natalie Wrye
He shrugs. “Blowing off some much-needed steam. Small night out with the boys.” He motions over his shoulder. “A long day of tryout camp. And my shoulder’s so sore I can barely hold this drink, so I’m seeing a lot of liquor in my future.”
I can’t help but gape, nearly smacking his shoulder. The smile widens on my face. “You’re trying out for the Cougars?”
The smile he flashes me is sheepish, small on his handsome face. He nods his head. “Yeah. I mean, it’s about time. It’s been time. I had that injury last year that put me down in the dumps. But it’s a new year. Hopefully, a new me. Going to put myself out there. Even if it means I get shut down.”
I lean closer, elbowing him with one arm. “You won’t. You’re fantastic.”
“You’ve never seen me play.”
“I don’t have to. I just know talent when I see it. And you? You’re talented.”
“No more than you are,” he says, nudging me back. “Miss I-Bake-The-Best-Goodies-in-the-World-without-even-trying.” I laugh, and Chris keeps going. “When are you going to open that catering business of yours?”
Damn, I wish I still had that glass of wine. I suddenly need a drink more than anything. I shrug.
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
“Thinking about it, my ass. Have you done anything about it? Set up a website? Started a logo? Started working on your brand? Man, because if you did…”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I scoff, taking a step back at the crowded bar, the music still thumping over my skin. I swallow hard. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.”
Chris frowns. “‘Get ahead of ourselves’? Naomi…you do know you’re super talented, right?” He gazes down at me, eyebrows knitting even harder when I say nothing in return. “Right? Because if you don’t, I’ll gladly tell you here and now—”
“Chris…”
“—that you are the best fucking baker in Chicago, and you shouldn’t stop until everyone knows it. Oh man,” he says, staring off into space, “those pastelitos you make? With the cream cheese and the guava and the flaky crust? Whew,” he whistles. “It’s almost better than getting laid.”
I snort. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“You’ll have to take my word… Wait, Naomi. Seriously?”
I shut my mouth, hating that I’m telling on myself. Missing my little wine-filled, lime-licking corner back with the Brit bartender.
I resist the urge to chew the end of my already paint-chipped nail, putting my hands on my hips, one eyebrow cocked.
“Don’t give me that look, Chris. And don’t say another word. I don’t want to talk about it.”
He holds one hand in the air. “Fine. Whatever you say. I don’t want to talk about your love life, anyhow. I’ve got enough problems of my own,” he comments, finishing his cocktail. “But since we’re not talking, we might as well do something else.”
My breath hitches. “What?”
“Why, dance, of course.” He slides back to the bar, slamming down his empty glass. “Come on.”
In seconds my hand is in his, and I’m being pulled so fast to the dance floor that I can’t rebut, can’t complain, can’t stop the motion as we squeeze our bodies between the many on the floor, our steps lost in a sea of bass-filled sound.
Chris stops, twirling me around. And I let him.
The space on the floor is cooler than I thought—air-conditioned. A steady artificial breeze blows over the ocean of beautiful bodies, the smell of liquor and fun filtering through the air.
God, I haven’t felt something like this since college. Maybe even before.
It’s no Miami. But it’ll do.
A fast-moving Latin beat kicks in over the sound speakers, all drums and horns and guitar strings, and suddenly my feet, clad in high heels for the first time in years, finding themselves moving, the rhythm coming back to me like a memory.
My hips start to swing.
“Hell yeah, Naomi,” Chris calls out as he watches me. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!”
For a man in a collared shirt and slacks, he actually has moves. Grabbing my hand in one swift motion, he twirls me around again, spinning me. I can’t help but giggle, tension releasing from my gut, as I turn into a little spinning top over the hardwood, my heels rotating fast, skin warming as I spiral into Chris’s arms.
I never realized how muscular they are.
He’s loose tonight, even more at ease than he is at the bar. And though a part of me recognizes the attractiveness of someone like Chris—tall, blond and built, though a piece of me understands that I could be attracted to a man who laughs easily, who seems uncomplicated and unburdened by being my boss’s best friend… I feel nothing.
No attraction. No heat. No anything.
In the middle of a small samba, hips gyrating to the funky beat, I realize that there’s only one man I wish were seeing me in my Saturday best. Finishing the song with flair, Chris and I spin ourselves silly, spilling off the dance floor half-sweaty and all smiles, as we rejoin again at the bar, laughing.
“You nearly killed me with that last move,” he pants, leaning against the polished aluminum slab.
“Hey, you asked for it. I didn’t say I wanted to dance.”
“You didn’t turn me down either. That was more of a workout than tryouts. I’m completely wiped.”
He waves over my shoulder to a few friends, nodding their way.
“I’m going to catch up with some of my tryout buddies, but don’t go anywhere, alright? You owe me another dance. And I owe you a drink.”
A drink sounds perfect right now. Nothing but ice cold water.
I order two for myself and Chris from the nearest barkeep, swallowing one down. I order another glass of wine, too, just for kicks.
For the first time tonight, I’m actually enjoying myself. Taking my first sip out of my glass of wine, I tilt it towards my lipstick-painted mouth, letting it slide down my throat until the sight of a broad set of shoulders nearby sends me spitting it back up.
Sawyer.
On the other side of the bar.
My hands fly to my hair in an instant, smoothing the strands. A few fingers find my black halter top, making sure everything’s in place, and beneath the slight shaking, I manage to throw my shoulders back and smile.
I look his way again. But he’s gone.
My eyes end up on a swivel, sweeping the dance floor.
Scanning. Skimming. Swinging. Searching for that golden-brown head of dark hair. Those dark blue eyes. That distinctive swagger.
Knowing it would be hard to miss.
Finally, I find those same set of shoulders I saw before, and who they belong to. And it isn’t Sawyer.
My heart drops into my stomach, landing with a thud. I tighten my hand around my glass of wine, telling myself to calm down, questioning just why in the hell I’m so eager to see him.
Eager to talk to him. Eager to be with…
God, I can’t even say his name without getting butterflies.
If just saying the man’s name is hard to do, then thinking about him might be even harder. And as much as I may deny it to anyone who might be dumb enough to ask, that dumb, asshole, jerk of a ballplayer is the only person I can completely let my guard down around these days.
With his easy smile, tousled shoulder-length locks, and blue eyes, he puts me at ease with his wicked humor, his handsome face.
There was his own version of pain hiding behind those Adonis-like features, and though he had the manners of a Tibetan mongrel and a tongue that was just as crude, he’d been someone, surprisingly, I could talk to. Someone with whom I could share.
If he weren’t such an insufferable playboy, he’d have long ago been someone whose company I enjoyed.
I shake my head, realizing that the wine might be working faster than I thought.
Because me liking Sawyer Kennedy? Gotta be a myth.
But then again, we did have that kiss in his room. A kiss that’d almo
st turned to more.
I walk off, raising my glass to Chris as I round the bar again. Nearly throwing the rest of the wine down my throat, I retreat to my corner, swallowing the remnants of the savory drink.
Reaching one hand into my impossibly tiny purse, I slip out my cell phone, barely small enough to fit, thumbing for Rosalyn’s number again.
This time when I call, she picks up. I can barely hear her smoky voice over the sounds of a new dance beat, loud and blasting, overhead in the crowded club.
“Ros!” I exclaim, feeling myself sway slightly against the bar. “Where are you? Are you here? I’ve been waiting for you!”
“Almost!” She tries to yell over the background music behind me. “I’m on the way! I, uh, I’ve got some company with me.”
The dark wine in my system does the talking. “That’s fine! That’s great, actually. The more, the merrier. But, whoa, hey! So do I! My friend Chris from Sevin’s bar is here. You’ll really like him! I’m actually having fun!”
“Yeah, you sound like it!” She responds, laughing. “Drinks at Soca must really be good, huh? Well, we should be there any sec—”
But whatever Rosalyn is about to say is drowned out by the cheers that erupt from around me the bar.
Some small bridal party of drunken bridesmaids stumble in, and I glance up to find Chris cheers’ing me at the other end of the bar, a personalized glass of wine in his hand for me.
I wave.
“Ros!” I shout back into the phone. “I’ve gotta go. Chris got me a drink! Can’t wait to see you!”
“Can’t wait to see you too! But wait, Nome, I gotta tell you…”
But I cut the call, elation getting the best of me as I rush in Chris’s direction, laughing loudly as he hands me the glass of wine and introduces me to the rest of his Cougar-aspiring friends, guys from today’s tryouts.
And they’re just as nice.
Clit-whipping aside, Ros was right. Meeting men is not as bad as it seems. I actually enjoy their conversation, the polite touches and lingering looks.
And when the wine finally gets to me, I head towards the bathroom, slinking my way through the crowd. Suddenly, I see Ros waving at me amongst a throng of people—the person I’ve been waiting all night to see.
Problem is… She’s standing by someone I recognize.
Maybe the last person all night I need to see.
I should be super excited to see her. I should have all my attention on her. But every bit of it is now reserved for the man now dawdling in the dark doorway and entrance to the club.
Still standing there in his customary black t-shirt and jeans, he flashes me a smile that should be illegal.
I couldn’t keep my eyes off him if I tried. He practically fills the doorframe.
In the crowded bar, bunched full of people, he stands out amongst them all.
Dark caramel hair spilling towards his shoulders, he’s a towering Demi-god amidst mortals, pretending to blend in.
In a crew-necked t-shirt almost thin enough to see his skin, he looks devastating tonight. Extra sinister.
And then the dots connect. He must be Ros’s “company.”
Blue eyes gleaming, firm lips curved, he perches there—staring, an example of everything I don’t need right now.
My “Mission Accomplished” for a night out with drinks just turned into a Mission Impossible. I toss back my shoulders quietly as he lifts off the doorframe, eyes right on me, heading my way.
Chapter 17
NAOMI
A chill runs up the back of my bare spine, prickling down low, and I can do nothing—think nothing—as the man walking towards me comes to a stop.
Showing every bit of his own six-foot-four inch frame, Sawyer Kennedy hovers just a few feet away, intrigue inching into his dark blue eyes.
He keeps the shadowy orbs on my face, a smile sliding below them. He doesn’t hide it. “Having fun tonight, kitty?”
I blink. “Of course I am. I’m having a blast, actually.”
“You?” He looks around. “You are having a blast in a club?”
“Don’t act so surprised.”
“I can’t help it.” His large shoulders lift, falling just a half second later. “Doesn’t seem like your scene.”
“Well, you don’t know me that well, now, do you?”
His dark eyes grow even more shadowy under the disco lights, irises glinting even in the mostly dark. “I think I do.” He glances down at my outfit, eyes glazing. “I know that it probably took you two hours to pick out that pair of jeans since you’re so damned anal about anything that you do. I’m sure you considered getting a manicure, but as always, you knew you were going to ruin it by biting your nails anyway, so you opted to paint them yourself. That sexy-as-hell red lipstick you’re wearing? Probably the only color you own because you know what works for you and it makes you uncomfortable to try anything else…” He tilts his head towards me, the stubble against his skin standing out. “Am I getting any warmer?”
I stare over his shoulder, finding Ros somehow talking to Chris in the corner in some heated exchange I’m obviously too far to hear. “I’d say you’re ice cold. But then again, that’s just me.”
I turn to walk away. But he grabs me, securing one hand around my wrist, the touch light and sure. As always.
“Where are you going?”
“None of your business.”
“Are you headed somewhere to find your date?”
“Again, none of your business.”
“Are you—?”
“For God’s sake, Sawyer,” I say, twirling towards him, my skin growing warm. “I’m headed to the bathroom, alright? The bathroom. Would you like to watch me go? Or is that the only kink you’re not into, besides dating good friends?”
“Dating?” He blinks, still holding my wrist. “Is that what you think I’m doing by showing up with Rosalyn? Dating her?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. This is just sex, right? Or no-sex, in your case. Wasn’t this the agreement? Basically nothing more, nothing less?”
“Is that how you think of us now? As just an agreement?”
His fingers won’t release my skin. Long and interestingly rough, one slips from the soft fist he’s making around my arm to slide against the heart of my palm.
The touch is light, distracting. Intoxicating. And I can’t snatch my hand back fast enough, backpedaling towards the bathroom, my eyes on his the entire time—stinging, fresh tears springing just at bay.
“Don’t toy with me, Sawyer. I’m not another one of your one-night flavors. This was all part of the pact, remember?”
I spin on my heel, heading towards the bathrooms before he can follow, my shoes clicking along the hardwood. I push through the door.
Luckily, the huge bathroom isn’t too crowded, the night still early enough not to turn the stalls into high heel traffic. I’m in and out quickly, washing my hands, careful not to scrub them too hard.
I take my punishment out on the paper towels instead, wiping my hands dry, not bothering to stop and stare at what I might find in the mirror. I don’t want to see.
Don’t want to see that I’m upset. Don’t want to see that Sawyer Kennedy, the overgrown asshole I might be falling for, is getting under my skin.
I take a deep breath. Pulling the door open, I’m barely beyond the doorway when he grabs me, hands on my waist, pushing me into the darkest corner of the hallway, his hands everywhere.
On my shoulders. On my neck. In my hair.
I know it’s him the moment he touches me.
The distant smell of cotton, soap and man combined, wrapping all around me the moment he touches his lips to mine.
This kiss is hungrier than the last, more eager.
I wrap my arms around him immediately, and it is all it takes for him to hold me harder, for Sawyer to angle his mouth along mine into the perfect fit, every line of our bodies moving perfectly in sync as we mesh.
It’s as if our lust is choreographed
, every step mapped. Knowing someone like this, feeling their every move. I breathe when he breathes. Touch when he touches.
Every slip of the tongue is synchronized, our attraction meeting match for match, and it isn’t until I’m so breathless I can’t speak. Until my body is so heavily weighted with desire that I find my voice, the words rasping as I wring them out from my tired mouth.
“We. Can’t. Do. This,” I say, scarcely able to function, my body buckling at the knees.
Sawyer holds me. “Yes, the hell we can. We can do anything we want to. We are two grown ass adults, and I don’t care what anyone thinks. Not Sevin right now. Or Emily. Or Stephan. Or the entire Cougars organization and whatever dickheaded rule they’re making up today.”
I don’t know what any of that means.
But I do know that Sawyer feels indescribably good, his muscles bunching beneath my fingers making me dream of doing the dirtiest things imaginable with him.
I try to clear my head, but Sawyer’s fingers are running along it, threading through my hair. Every time I try to back out of his arms, he’s there, his arms half-carrying me as if I weigh nothing.
His kiss is incredible, everything he does with the perfect amount of pressure and I’m seconds from melting into a puddle in his arms, falling into a pool at his feet when someone clears her throat from behind him.
Ros quirks up a brow.
“Don’t let me stop you, please. I was enjoying the show.”
Sawyer steps back, and I step around him. He lets go, turning by the smallest fraction to reveal Rosalyn in a fiery red dress, smirking and watching us. Grabbing for me again, he almost manages it before I slip out of his grasp, moving fast, shoving Ros along the way.
“Don’t say another word,” I mumble, waiting until we’re out of earshot before I let her have it, our high heels tapping in unison as we head to the bar. Ros is practically hopping she’s so excited when she turns.
“What the hell was that?” She gestures.
“Was what?”
“That.” She points back towards the bathroom, her green eyes wide. “You never told me you were sleeping with Sawyer Kennedy.”
“Oh, I am not sleeping with Sawyer Kennedy.”
