“I saw her on Saturday,” I mumble.
“Oh? Where?”
I take another swallow of beer. “At the club. She was out partying with her friends.” And dancing with handsy creeps.
Seeing my scowl, Dad chuckles.
Unfortunately, Skyping with him makes it harder for me to mask my emotions. Not that I ever could. He’s always been able to read me like a book, whether he can see my face or not.
“Did you ask her to dance?”
“No.” I frown. “She asked me.”
“Ah.” There’s a glint of humor in Dad’s eyes. “Now that you’re in town, maybe you can go on her sports show sometime.”
“I don’t think so,” I grumble.
“Why not?”
My dark expression warns him to drop the subject. “I’m not interested in appearing on her show. The less I see of her, the better.”
Dad merely chuckles.
Because he knows better, and dammit, so do I.
Chapter Six
EMERSON
On tuesday evening i’m sitting in my cubicle putting the finishing touches on my latest article.
The noise of ringing phones, blaring TVs and fingers clattering over keyboards fills the newsroom. I can hear two of my coworkers arguing over who won the latest bet, the details of which were hammered out at our favorite sports bar a week ago.
The sports department’s TV is playing a familiar political ad featuring U.S. Attorney Brigham Malone. His handsome, smiling face greets viewers as he challenges voters to take part in shaping North Carolina’s future. As clips of him visiting schools and shaking hands with the elderly roll across the screen, the tranquil voiceover details his many accomplishments, telling viewers why they should vote for him in November’s gubernatorial election.
I look away from the TV and open my email to send a message to the copydesk. I can’t help noticing that the newsroom has suddenly grown quiet. I figure people are either heading home for the day or settling down to finish their articles before the print deadline. The newspaper has to be sent to the printer before eleven o’clock, and the managing editor doesn’t take too kindly to last-minute delays.
When my phone buzzes on my desk, I reach over and pick it up.
There’s a text from Zoe: Are you still mad at me?
I sigh and text back: I was never mad at you.
You’ve barely said three words to me since Saturday, she responds.
I was hungover on Sunday, I remind her. Yesterday we were both at work and hardly saw each other.
Those aren’t the only reasons.
There’s a long pause. I know what she’s going to say even before her next text comes through.
I shouldn’t have dared you to dance with him.
I shake my head as I type: I’m an adult, Zoe. Nobody put a gun to my head. I knew what could happen if I went up there.
WHAT DID HAPPEN???
I close my eyes, the memory of the encounter bringing a fresh stab of pain. I’ve replayed the scene over and over in my mind. It hurts worse every time, opening up a new hole in my already broken heart.
The girls and I are worried about you, Zoe tells me.
My throat tightens as I type: Don’t be. I’m fine. I just
A shadow falls across my doorway, stopping me in mid-text.
I look up and almost drop my phone when I see a pair of golden eyes staring back at me.
“Reyes,” I whisper in shock.
He’s actually here, in the flesh, standing at the entrance to my cubicle. No wonder the newsroom got so quiet. Everyone was just as stunned as I am to see him.
He stares at me without speaking. I can feel the anger and frustration thrumming through his body. He doesn’t want to be here, and he probably hates himself for coming. But not as much as he hates me.
My heart races painfully as I return his brooding stare. He’s wearing tailored dark pants and a white button-down shirt that contrasts magnificently with his tan complexion. With his hands tucked in his pockets, he oozes such raw sex appeal that I practically start drooling on my forgotten phone.
He still hasn’t spoken. His silence ratchets up the tension behind my ribs.
“I, um, was just . . .” I look down at my unfinished text, delete everything and quickly type: Gotta go. See you at home.
After sending the message to Zoe, I put my phone down and look up to find Reyes checking out my cubicle.
I follow his gaze to the news clippings and photos framed on the far wall. In one picture I’m posing with several Renegades players at a charity gala. Another photo features me shaking hands with the National Sports Media Association’s president as I accept a prestigious award. Another photo—my favorite—shows me kneeling with a group of Little League softball players with a huge, sparkling grin on my face.
Reyes enters my cubicle, making it seem smaller than ever as he walks over to the wall to get a closer look at the photos.
“You seem happiest in that picture.” His voice is low, without inflection.
I swallow. “Which one?”
“The one with the kids. Your face is glowing.”
I manage a smile. “I enjoy meeting youth athletes and covering their games. At that age, their love for their sport is pure and innocent, unspoiled by contract disputes and the pressures that come with fame and success.” My voice softens. “Plus I really just love children.”
“I remember,” Reyes murmurs.
Our eyes meet and hold for several seconds.
He’s the first to break eye contact, looking away to resume his perusal of my workspace.
There’s really not much to see. Just a worn oak desk, a visitor’s chair and a desktop computer littered with Post-it notes. Only the framed news clippings and photos accentuate the space, chronicling my life as an overworked but dedicated sportswriter.
Reyes seems to be cataloguing every single detail. With his back facing me, I take the opportunity to check him out. He has an amazing ass. Round, muscular and paired with those thighs of steel, it’s the kind of ass that was made for football tights. It looks especially mouthwatering when he’s bending forward to catch the snapped ball.
As he turns to me, I quickly look away and lick the drool from my lips. “Wh–what’re you doing here?”
“I had a late meeting in town, so I thought I’d drop by on my way home.” His eyes flick to my computer and then back to my face. “You busy?”
“Yes. Um, no. I mean, I just need to send my article to the copydesk.”
He nods, watching as I begin tapping away at the keyboard.
“Have dinner with me.”
My eyes fly to his face. “Dinner?”
He nods.
I blush at a mental image of us gazing into each other’s eyes across a candlelit table, although it’s more likely that Reyes will do more glaring than gazing.
“I–I don’t know,” I stammer. “I’m not really dressed for dinner.”
My body tingles as those piercing eyes slide over me like hot honey. I’m wearing skinny jeans and a flowy green shirt in honor of St. Patrick’s Day, and my hair is swept up in a messy topknot.
“Besides,” I add breathlessly, “you’re the Renegades’ new quarterback and it’s my job to cover your games. It’s probably not a good idea to mix business with pleasure.”
He lifts a sardonic eyebrow. “That didn’t stop you from strutting into the VIP section to ask me to dance.”
Heat stings my face. He’s never going to let me live that down.
I raise my chin. “After the way we parted, I didn’t think you’d ever want to see me again, let alone have dinner with me.”
A small smirk kicks up the corner of his mouth. “Guess you thought wrong.”
I smirk right back, folding my arms across my chest. “Maybe you should be taking what’s-her-face out to dinner. The two of you looked so cozy together at the club. A match made in heaven.”
His eyes gleam. “Jealous?”
I open my m
outh to deny it, but nothing comes out. Because I am jealous, and we both know it.
“Aren’t you going to ask if I spent the night with her?” he taunts. “I bet you’re dying to know.”
I narrow my eyes. “Go to hell.”
He laughs, the deep rumble rippling through me and curling my toes. Before I know it, he’s prowling around my desk and caging me in the chair, his arms on either side of me.
I stare up at him, my heart beating wildly. “Wh–what—”
“Let’s not play games.”
“I’m—”
He leans over me and growls in my ear, “The same reason you sought me out at the club is the same reason I’m here right now. We’re drawn to each other. We’ve always been drawn to each other, and no amount of running or pretending will ever change that. So stop fucking running and stop fucking pretending.”
The raw force of his words has my breasts swelling and my sex throbbing, spilling slick heat into my panties.
I swallow thickly and lower my eyes, watching the beat of his pulse at the base of his neck. “You shouldn’t be here.”
He puts his finger under my chin and lifts my face so that I’m forced to stare straight into his fiercely intense eyes.
“I’m taking you to dinner.” His voice is low and commanding, sending shivers up and down my spine. “We’re going to sit at a table like mature adults and enjoy a nice meal and good conversation. If you decide afterward that you never want to see me again, you can ask your boss to assign someone else to cover my games. I don’t fucking care. But tonight, Emerson—” He leans even closer, his thumb and forefinger gripping my chin “—tonight you’re having dinner with me. Entiendes?”
I gulp hard before nodding.
“Good girl.” His eyes move over my face, lingering on my lips. I think he’s going to kiss me and I tremble, anticipating his mouth. Hungry for it.
Instead he straightens and steps back with a look of dark satisfaction. “Now turn in your article so we can go.”
I almost say “Yes, sir.” That’s how rattled he has me, exerting all that alpha dominance.
He sits on the edge of my desk, watching over my shoulder as I email the copyeditor. When I’m done, I grab my handbag and rise on shaky legs.
“Did you have someplace in mind?”
He gives a lazy shrug as he stands. “You’ll know when we get there.”
“Get where?”
“Wherever it is we’re going. After you,” he murmurs, indicating that I should lead the way.
As I brush past him, every inch of my skin tingles with awareness. I can’t help inhaling his clean, manly scent. I have an overwhelming urge to rip his shirt off and bury my face against his warm neck.
I do no such thing, of course. But I’m alarmingly tempted, damn him.
The newsroom seems suspended in time as we emerge from my cubicle. Heads swivel in our direction, stunned eyes following us through the bullpen.
“Hey, Irish, where’re you headed?” Troy calls from his desk.
“To dinner,” I mumble self-consciously.
“Guess this means you won’t be joining us for half-price St. Patty’s Day beers,” Will Thomas concludes, grinning as he falls in step with Reyes and me. Not surprisingly, Troy gets up and makes his way over as well.
“Sorry, guys. You’re on your own tonight.” Since they’re both staring at Reyes like awestruck groupies, I reluctantly stop and perform introductions. “Reyes, these super nosy reporters are Troy Peters and Will Thomas. Guys—”
“We know who he is, Emerson,” Troy interrupts, already thrusting his hand toward Reyes. “Hey, man, welcome to Piedmont Bay.”
“Thanks,” Reyes says with a nod as he shakes Troy’s hand and then Will’s.
“It’s really great to have you here,” Troy enthuses with a boyish grin. “I can’t tell you what a huge relief it is to have you throwing for us rather than against us.”
Reyes chuckles. “Thanks. Appreciate that.”
Will is more composed. “You and Emerson better get out of here before he starts serenading you,” he teases, flashing dimples.
“Shut up, bro.” Troy smiles sheepishly at us. “You guys have fun. Nice meeting you, Reyes. Looking forward to the new season.”
“Thanks, man. Same here.”
When Reyes and I emerge from the building, I glance around the crowded lot. “Where’d you park? I can just follow you to—”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He’s already maneuvering me through the parking lot, his hand on my back sending tingles down to my toes. “We’ll ride together and I’ll drive you back to your car after we’re finished.”
I don’t protest as he leads me over to a hulking Mercedes-Benz G63 AMG, the shiny black exterior sparkling in the late evening sun.
I gasp with exaggerated shock. “You mean you’re not zipping around town in some flashy little sports car like the rest of your new teammates?”
He slants me a wry grin. “Not tonight.”
I laugh as he opens the passenger door and helps me up into the seat, then comes around and slides behind the steering wheel.
“Do you actually own any sports cars?” I tease.
“One or two.”
I grin. “I remember how much you loved your four-by-fours, plowing through rough terrain like some rugged mountaineer. This wagon on steroids is definitely more your speed, even if it’s rather posh.”
He chuckles. “I’ll choose to take that as a compliment.”
As he fastens his seat belt, I catch another whiff of his cologne. The deliciously masculine aroma makes my mouth water and sets my pulse racing. I want to lean closer to breathe in more of him.
He glances at me. “Buckle up.”
I do as I’m told, hoping he doesn’t notice the effect he’s having on me.
When he presses the ignition button, rock music blares out from the speakers. As he turns down the volume, I smile at him.
“Do you remember the rocker phase you went through? When you dreamed of becoming the lead guitarist in a rock band?”
“Until I realized that learning to play the guitar was harder than I thought it’d be.” He chuckles. “Yeah, I remember.”
I grin. “You weren’t too bad. I always enjoyed it when you performed Linkin Park’s ‘Points of Authority.’”
“It was the only song I could play,” he reminds me wryly.
“Was it? Huh.” I purse my lips thoughtfully. “I guess it’s a good thing you stuck to football.”
We both laugh, enjoying the lighthearted moment.
As he pulls into traffic, I stare out the window at glistening skyscrapers towering above neoclassical office buildings, retail shops and green parks. Downtown was built around the eastern shore of Piedmont Bay, the sprawling lake the city was named after. It’s a bustling hub of banking and commerce, a global metropolis with quaint southern charm.
As Reyes makes a right turn toward the lake, I covertly study him, absorbing random details such as the sexy fullness of his bottom lip. The way his thick black hair curls over his ears and shirt collar. The way he drives with his left hand on top of the steering wheel and his other hand resting on the console, an expensive silver watch glinting on his hair-dusted wrist. Every time he brakes, his thigh muscles flex beneath his pants and make me think things I’d be better off ignoring.
When he turns his head and catches me staring, I blush and bite my lip, embarrassed by how turned on I am just from watching him drive. I need to get laid. Seriously. It’s been too long.
“So,” I blurt out, “aren’t you worried that my colleagues will think you’re trying to bribe me into writing only positive things about you?”
“Nah,” he drawls with a cocky grin. “We’ll let my performance speak for itself. It always does.”
“Indeed.” But I’m thinking about his off-field performances, which I have intimate knowledge of. He was my first, and I can definitely vouch for the impressive skills he’d possessed even at seventeen.
>
I quickly change the subject. “So where was your meeting?”
He glances at me, his eyes glinting as if he knows exactly where my mind went. “Meeting?”
“You said you had a meeting in town,” I remind him.
“Oh. Right.” He nods. “It was at my office building.”
“The new one on Fifth and Magnolia, right? The high-tech-looking skyscraper they threw up in record time?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Yeah.”
I bite my lip, toying with the leather strap of my handbag. “I just found out that you opened another office here for your membership association. Prior to the announcement, most people thought that building was the site of a new billion-dollar tech corporation.”
“Nothing that sinister,” he says with a chuckle. “In fact, I was going for a softer, less daunting exterior. But the contractor thought an ultramodern corporate look would be more appropriate for downtown. He said it would attract more businesses once I’m ready to lease out office space.”
I stare at him with dawning comprehension. “You’ve been planning to move to Piedmont Bay for several months at least.”
He glances at me. “Is that a question or a statement?”
My heart is thumping against my ribcage. “Both, I guess.”
His only answer is a faint smirk.
“How did you keep everything a secret?” I probe. “And . . . why?”
He looks at me without responding.
Suddenly his phone trills through the Bluetooth speaker. He glances at the dashboard display but makes no move to answer the call.
I lick my dry lips. “Avoiding someone?”
“It’s just Jimmy.”
“Your agent?”
Reyes nods. “I’ll call him back later. No big deal.”
I manage a smile. “How does that work?”
“How does what work?”
“The player-agent relationship. I’ve heard so many horror stories. Does Jimmy work for you, or do you work for him?”
Reyes grins wryly. “Believe me, I’m still trying to figure that one out.”
Get Over You (Dare Me Book 1) Page 6
