Hard to Hold

by K. Bromberg

  “There’s only one thing I have in common with horses,” I tease and earn a roll of her eyes and a shake of her head.

  “I don’t think Los Angeles is far enough away from the attention you’re escaping.”

  “It doesn’t seem anywhere is far enough these days.”

  She walks toward me, still sizing me up, and right when I think she’s brazen enough, about to lean in for a kiss I’m more than willing to give, she reaches down for my towel beside me.

  She quirks an eyebrow when her eyes meet mine, knowing what I thought she was doing, and I laugh.

  I like this woman. Plain and simple.

  We stand a foot apart, the towel in her hand, water still beaded on her skin, and for the first time I notice the dusting of freckles across the tops of her cheeks. Cute on a woman who defines the word sexy.

  “Lennox Kincade,” she says, and now I’m even more intrigued than I was seconds before. I know the name, I’ve met one or two of her sisters, but never Lennox.

  The question is why the hell not?

  “Rush McKenzie.”

  “So I assumed,” she says as she bends over and runs the towel down each long leg making a production of it as she goes.

  Yeah, I’m looking, love. A man would be stupid not to watch.

  “I wasn’t aware that you and Johnny knew each other,” she says.

  “Johnny knows everyone.”

  “True.”

  “I met him at the Super Bowl years ago. I was in Stance’s stadium suite during the game,” he says mentioning Johnny’s parents’ company, Stance Sports, “and we hit it off. Since then we meet up every now and again. He extended the offer to get away from the chaos. I took it.”

  She twists her lips and puts a hand over her forehead to block the sun as she looks at me once again. “You’re flying at half-mast there, mate,” she says mocking my accent and highlighting it with a smirk.

  “We don’t like to show all of our talents right off the bat.”

  “So much for first impressions then.”

  “Jesus,” I bark.

  But just as she goes past me, I grab her wrist so we’re face to face. This time, I can make out that there is a ring of light blue around her pupils before it turns dark. Unique.

  “Seems you’re already in enough trouble, McKenzie. I think the last thing you need to do is start some with me.”

  “Is that a warning or a threat?”

  “Maybe it’s an invitation.” She smirks. “’Cause God knows I could use a little of all three right now.”

  Without another word, Lennox Kincade strolls into the house leaving me to watch the devastating swing of her hips, the curve of her ass, and the slope of her shoulders from behind.

  And here I thought I was going to dread my time in the States.

  Seems to me I may have found something to help me pass the time.

  Hell, if I’m going to be blamed for causing trouble, I might as well enjoy a little of it in the meantime.

  LENNOX

  “SO THAT’S IT? YOU’RE HERE for secret meetings you can’t talk about?” Johnny asks over the rim of his glass. He’s sprawled over the outdoor sofa with the flames of the fire between us, playing off the blond in his hair.

  “Not secret, per se.” And I wonder why I’m not telling Johnny about Cannon’s offer when obviously Finn knew about it, so it’s not exactly a secret. “Just . . . pending.” I flick my gaze toward the inside of the house where Rush is moving about the kitchen making a smoothie with a dedication I can’t say I have when it comes to putting green things into a blender.

  The protein powder and supplements on the counter make perfect sense now.

  “Yes?” Johnny asks, the lone word drawn out until I look back toward him and his raised eyebrows.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, as in stop looking over there. He’s already in a shitstorm of trouble.”

  “You’re the one who neglected to warn me he was here.”

  “Blame it on crappy cell service, but I did tell you. You just didn’t hear it.”

  “Maybe you should have told him too. I mean, who trounces around someone else’s house buck-ass naked?”

  “Apparently a man who doesn’t give a fuck what others think of him,” he says and glances toward Rush.

  But why should he? As a soccer player, Rush has a phenomenal physique. His lean, toned body is a testimony to years of hard work and self-discipline.

  I study that body right now and then remember exactly how incredible it looked earlier standing a foot away from me . . . and naked.

  “Don’t you dare get that look in your eyes, Lenn. The last thing he needs is to add you to his mix.”

  “Me?” I mutter. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “The man has been accused of sleeping with his teammate’s wife, a famous singer, for Christ’s sake, so of course the image spreads like wildfire. Who does that kind of shit?”

  “Not that I’m okay with cheating, but from the tabloids, it seems shit like that happens all the time here in Hollywood. Why are you batting an eye at him if you don’t think ill of everyone else who’s doing it?”

  “I bat my eyes all the time at what I see and hear in LA, but as it pertains to Rush, it’s not exactly the best timing when his contract is up for renegotiation and his entire club is up in arms over whether he stays or goes. What do you think management is going to do? Trade him to keep the peace or keep him on and have every other teammate freaked he’s going to fuck their wives too?”

  “I call bullshit. They won’t trade their star player.”

  “Seth is their captain though.”

  “He’s nearing the end of his career and is nowhere near as popular or dependable as Rush. Greed for another championship comes before all else.”

  “Talk about adding insult to injury though. Rumor was that Rush would slide into the captain’s role next season. Steal Seth’s wife and his status on the team.” Johnny glances Rush’s way and blows out a telling whistle. “I hear it’s a clusterfuck over there. The guys are fighting over who’s taking what sides and management’s in constant talks on how to smooth this over, when it’s really not their job to manage their players’ personal lives in the first place.”

  “Sounds like chaos,” I murmur but recall overhearing comments here and there about Seth. Rumor is he’s not the nicest of guys. “Rush is here to lie low until shit cools off?”

  “Or another scandal overshadows his.”

  “Hmm,” I murmur, realizing my gaze has gravitated back to Rush again.

  “After all that, you’re still going to sit here and stare at him?”

  “You’re just jealous that I’m not staring at you.” I toss my coaster at him. “And eww. That would be gross if I did since you’re the brother I never had.”

  “True.” He chuckles but levels a look at me. “Doesn’t any of what I just said, what Rush has done, give you pause in making those googly eyes at him?”

  “I’m not making googly eyes at him.” It’s called smoldering. I smolder when I look at him because even across the distance, his pull is undeniable. “Did he do it?” I ask.

  “What do you mean, did he do it?” Johnny looks at me like I’m crazy for asking, but in my quick search on my phone earlier before he came home, I didn’t see a single article or post where Rush said anything other than, “no comment.”

  Why did I search for it? Why did I want there to be something that could redeem his actions? Why do I care?

  Because, I don’t think Rush McKenzie is that man. The man who doesn’t give a flying fuck about the enormous ripple effect caused by cheating with a teammate’s other half. I’ve known a lot of shitty people in my life, have seen infidelity after infidelity with other athletes I’ve represented. And even though Rush is cocky and arrogant, I don’t sense the same . . . sleaziness I’ve seen many times before.

  And honestly? I’d be surprised if Johnny would allow him such easy access to his place if he thought it was true
as well. That’s one of the reasons we’re such great friends.

  “Well, has anyone asked him if he did it?” I ask. “I mean . . . sure he has that cocky swagger and crooked smile that could charm the panties off any woman—even pop stars apparently, but—”

  “Sorry, that isn’t something I take notice of,” he says and rolls his eyes.

  “And that’s why you’re jealous, because you can’t buy it with any of that money you have laying in stacks around here,” I tease.

  “You’re a pain in my ass.” His smile widens.

  “You wouldn’t want me any other way.”

  “You’re right, though a little dose of you goes a long way.” He winks. “Question is, why do I let you visit when clearly your intentions are to abuse me relentlessly?”

  “Because you love me.” I give my oldest friend the biggest, cheesiest grin I can muster.

  “You’re right. I do. It’s an illness.” He pours more merlot into his empty glass. “To answer your question, I’ve asked, but he won’t talk about it. When I bring up anything about it, he stays tight-lipped. The club put a gag order in effect to keep club business in house.”

  “Smart on the club, but I think it’s a little too late for that considering there’s a photo of the two of them on every tabloid out there.” I laugh.

  “I guess it was issued after the team got into somewhat of a brawl over it.” He shrugs. “I’m going to respect his wishes and leave him the fuck alone about it since everyone else in the world won’t.”

  I purse my lips and know what it feels like to be accused of something out of misperception. “I still think someone needs to just come out and ask him.”

  “How about that not be you, huh? I need to keep the peace between my housemates for the time being.” He lifts a glass my way. “Speaking of coming out and asking things, you want to tell me why you’re here? We’ve known each other long enough to know you only show up out of the blue when you’re running from something.”

  Shit. That’s the problem when you run to the one person who knows you better than most.

  Our gazes hold across the firepit, and then I tell him everything about my last twenty-four hours—the conference, Finn, my conversation with Chase then Dekker. All of it.

  “You know your family loves you like mad, right?” he finally says after a long silence and a quiet, thoughtful stare.

  “They can love me all they want, but that doesn’t make any of this better. What they think of me or what others think of me, for that matter.”

  “There’s more to the story, isn’t there?” he prods.

  I swear under my breath as a ghost of a smile tints my lips. How is it that he knows? How is it that he’s going to make me admit to the one thing I don’t even want to admit to myself?

  My long exhale stretches across the silence as I think of the two major clients I’ve lost over the past two months. Clients who I thought I had everything covered, but obviously dropped the ball somehow by not giving them what they needed. Clients I didn’t tell my sisters and Dad the whole story behind because it just painted me in a worse light than them leaving already did.

  “So in a state of rebellion, you flew here to take whatever job it is you’ve been offered to prove it to yourself that you’re not that person.”

  “Basically.” I shrug. “And to prove it to them too.”

  “Have you ever thought maybe that’s what you’re hearing—that they don’t think you’re doing a good job—but it’s not what they actually think?”

  And this is why I came here. Johnny always gets me on a level like no one else. He won’t push, but he’ll tell me straight every time and right now, I need that.

  “Too many coincidences for me to think otherwise.”

  “Says the woman who reads into everything,” he says while I glare at him. “Look, I hear what you’re saying, I understand why you feel the need to do whatever clandestine thing you’re apparently doing to prove your point, but know that so many of us love you because you’re the perfect mix of brains and beauty. Screw assholes like Sanderson who cause you to doubt yourself. We wouldn’t want you any other way.”

  “Easier said than done when you’re the person escaping to your friend’s house instead of heading home, wondering if maybe they have a point and if maybe, you have in fact been resting on your laurels more than not lately.”

  “The question is why are you resting on your laurels?”

  I open my mouth and close it as I try to figure out the answer. Because I’m bored? Restless? Because, lately I’ve felt like there’s something more and I’m not quite sure what that more is yet? Maybe I just want to feel more independence—a little bit of me—instead of always being part of the Kincade family.

  Not that anything is wrong with being a part of my family. We love each other madly (when we’re not bickering), but at the same time, my identity has never been anything but them. But the business.

  But the beauty queen.

  But the third daughter of four.

  I lean my head onto the back of the chair and close my eyes for a moment. How do I put that into words for the person who’d love more than anything to be part of a family like mine?

  Johnny Stance is the perfect example of parents throwing money at their son because they’re too busy building an empire and enjoying its riches to parent him themselves.

  “Where’d you escape to?” Johnny asks.

  “Nowhere. I’m here. I appreciate you letting me be.”

  “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. You know that.”

  “Thanks,” I murmur and turn my head to the side where I can look into the house again. Rush leans over the counter with his forearms resting on it as he does something on a laptop. A pair of dark gray sweats with the Liverpool Football Club logo emblazoned on them hang low from his hips, and the green smoothie he made moments ago is half empty beside him.

  “You’re looking again,” Johnny murmurs.

  “Can you blame me?” I laugh. “I mean, Jesus. Look at him. He’s kind of perfect.”

  “If you’re into broody assholes who every football player would kill to be and every woman would love to fuck.”

  “Basically,” I say with a shrug and a laugh, as if it’s common sense.

  “Like I said, Lenn, he doesn’t need you.”

  “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” I ask, welcoming the change of topic and the playful tone that’s back in his voice.

  “It means right now it seems he needs to be grounded . . . anchored. You don’t like to be attached, you like to have fun, and for him, fun is nothing but a media magnet. You like to rebel when you’re in this mood, and it seems he already has or he wouldn’t be here. Hell, it’s his middle name.” He ticks each point off on his fingers. “And you never shy away from what you shouldn’t be doing.”

  “What I should be doing is him,” I murmur as Rush stretches his arms over his head causing his sweatpants to slip some.

  “Jesus, Lennox. Really?”

  I shrug and offer him a cat ate the canary grin. “Can’t fault me for being honest.”

  LENNOX

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN THIS is your loo?” I ask, feeling ridiculous using the term, when I look to where Rush stands in the doorway, one arm resting on the jamb with those same sweatpants riding low on his hips. He smells like soap and citrus and hell . . . does he really have to smell good too?

  “No, I said I have to go to the loo. This is the bathroom, and it’s mine. The one I’ve been using since I arrived. All of that shit you just slid into the drawer”—he motions with his free hand to the toiletries I just cleared into it—“is my shit.”

  And there’s something about him standing here—or maybe it’s because I want him to notice me when he’s kept to himself all evening—that makes me push for banter, for an argument, for anything to ease that sexual tension snapping between us.

  “And your point?” I smile sweetly in the mirror as I pull my robe tighter around m
y waist.

  “God knows there are a million other bathrooms in this house,” he says.

  “Good, then you can find one that suits you better. This one has the best lighting to do my makeup in,” I say and cross my arms over my chest as I turn to face him. Even now, I’m sucker-punched by the sight of him—the cut of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, and the thick lashes framing his crystalline green eyes. He’s truly stunning in the most masculine way.

  “Sucks then that you’ll have to do without it since this is the one that suits me.” He returns the same catty smile back at me. “I was here first.”

  If he wants to go there . . . “Finders, keepers.”

  “Really?” He laughs and runs a hand through his hair to get it out of his face. “You’re something else.”

  “So I’ve been told.” I angle my head and stare at him. The silence lengthens and begs me to ask the question that doesn’t fit in the playfulness of the moment whatsoever. “Why did you come here?”

  “To Johnny’s?” He alters the question to suit him, and I don’t expect anything less. “Probably for the same reason you’re here. Because I needed a place to go where I knew there would be no judgment, and Johnny is that. Besides, the view and the pool don’t hurt.”

  I’m both surprised and impressed by the honesty of his answer and give a nod in response. I recall my conversation with Johnny earlier. “Doesn’t any of what I just said, what Rush has done, give you pause in making those googly eyes at him?”

  No.

  In fact, there’s an allure to it. To wanting someone who everyone is warning you away from. It’s enticing and thrilling—rebellion always is.

  He lifts his eyebrows to elicit a response from me, but I think the tension between us is response enough. It’s undeniable—I know he feels it too—and neither of us opt to break or dissipate it.

  So we stand in the small space, inches apart, as so many more questions whirl in my head that I don’t dare ask yet: How long are you staying? What are your plans?

  Most of all the same one I asked Johnny: did you do it?