Playing Hard

by Melanie Scott

  These kisses were the real deal. One hundred percent raw longing and need. One hundred percent guaranteeing that she wanted more. Wanted the rest of him. Wanted his hands on her and his weight above her. Wanted flesh on flesh and the slide of hard against soft.

  The hand she’d pressed to his back grabbed a handful of his T-shirt and yanked it upward until she could get to bare skin. His skin. Hot under her touch. As hot as hers felt. The combination was near scorching. As she slid her hand over his back, his muscles tightened and trembled, and then he yanked his mouth away from hers.

  It took her a second to come back to herself. To dull the roar of lust through her body and get her brain to reengage.

  He’d stopped kissing her. So mostly what she was able to think was that she didn’t like that fact very much.

  “Did I bump your ankle or something?” she asked, doing a hasty inventory of where her hands and feet were. Nowhere near any wounded parts of him as far as she could tell. Which brought her back to why had he stopped kissing her?

  “No,” he said. “But I think we need to stop.”

  “You want to stop?” Her body didn’t want to accept that message.

  “I said ‘need’ not ‘want,’” he said, sounding suddenly cranky.

  “But—”

  “Amelia, I think we both know where that kiss was heading. And as much as I like that direction, I think I have to call a time-out.”

  She had liked the direction, too. She wanted all of him. Naked. In her. So much it was hard to think. “Did the doctor tell you not to?”

  He laughed at that. “No. But he probably didn’t think he needed to.”

  “I did hurt you.”

  “No. You didn’t. Well, only in a good way.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “You only met me on Sunday.”

  That startled a laugh from her. “You think it’s too soon? I think your seventeen-year-old self just voted you off the island.”

  “Yeah, well my seventeen-year-old self was a bit of an idiot. I liked kissing you, Amelia. I liked it a lot. I’d like to do other things to you even more, but you have to go to work in the morning and I’m kind of playing with a handicap here.” He lifted his bandaged hand. “So I’m just suggesting we take this slow. I don’t want you regretting anything. I want you sure.”

  She could feel him hard against her still. Every inch of her wanted to feel more. “I’m sure. Unless I’m mistaken, you feel pretty sure, too.”

  “Trying to think with the bigger brain here,” he said, determination underscoring his words.

  There really was going to be no persuading him, she realized. Damn it. “Your bigger brain sucks,” she grumbled, but she eased herself off him and onto the empty space on the sofa on his other side. “Happy now?”

  “Not particularly,” he said.

  “Me neither.”

  “Me and my great ideas,” he said. “So … want to play Words with Friends?”

  * * *

  If she drank one more coffee she was probably going to make her brain explode. Nevertheless she was going to drink it. She’d stayed at Oliver’s until close enough to midnight, until he’d begun to yawn and look exhausted and she’d made her excuses and stolen away. Then when she’d gotten home she’d watched her recording of the game. Because there was no way she’d be able to face Finn, Em, or their parents if she hadn’t watched it. So she was operating on about three hours’ sleep, a body humming with frustration, and a mood not improved by the fact that the Red Sox had beaten the Saints. Putting them one up in the series. Two more games like that and the Saints’ chances would be over.

  Which might make things easier on Oliver. Maybe. He was obviously pissed about having to watch the Saints from the sidelines but she had no idea if that meant he’d prefer them to lose. What she did know was that Finn wouldn’t take losing the divisional series well. He loved to win. Pushed himself relentlessly to win. To be the best at what he did. Which was why everybody had tended to let it slide if he sometimes chose to blow off some steam. But with Oliver out of the picture, Finn would be trying to prove himself more than ever. Go after what he’d decided was his. She had no idea how he’d cope if it didn’t work out.

  Baseball. Who knew it could cause so much drama in her life? She’d made a choice of a sort last night by going to Oliver. By kissing him. Finn might well see it as a betrayal. So that needed to be handled carefully to avoid even more drama. But not as much drama as Daniel would cause if she screwed up this project. Which was why she was on her fourth coffee of the morning and wishing desperately that Pullman Waters was the sort of workplace that let its employees take nap breaks.

  The only thing a nap break would get her here would be fired. She tipped extra sugar into the coffee she normally drank black and unsweetened and carried the mug back to her desk, trying to not to think about how many hours it was going to be before she could sleep. Also trying not to wonder if Oliver was going to call her. It was still relatively early, just on eleven. Maybe he was sleeping late. There hadn’t been so much as a move in their word game all morning.

  Which was making her nervous.

  Maybe he’d stopped kissing her last night because he hadn’t liked it.

  Her body voted no on that theory. There was no way kisses that had made her want to peel off his clothes and drag him to bed, that had left her hot and wanting hours later, had meant nothing to him. He’d been just as frustrated as her last night after he’d called a stop to their make-out session. She could tell by the way he’d watched her and by his restless movements as they’d played their silly word game.

  In retrospect, he’d done the smart thing. They were going too fast. Crazy fast. Logically she knew that. He was being sensible. Which the parts of her not currently feeling stupidly horny appreciated.

  But why hadn’t he called?

  Maybe he had another medical appointment.

  And maybe she was just going to drive herself nuts trying to figure out what was going on and she should just call him.

  Woman up. It was, after all, the twenty-first century. No one had to sit around waiting for a guy to call if they didn’t want to.

  She definitely didn’t want to. She slurped down more coffee and reached for her phone. Then nearly dropped it when it vibrated to life in her hand.

  But the name on the caller ID was Em’s, not Oliver’s. A pang of disappointment rolled through her. Chased swiftly by guilt.

  “Hey, Em,” she said, trying to sound awake.

  “Hey yourself,” Em said. “Did you watch the game last night?”

  “Of course.” It wasn’t a lie. She just hadn’t watched it live. No, instead she’d made out with Finn’s archrival. Information she wouldn’t be volunteering to Em. “Finn played well.”

  “Still lost, though.”

  “It’s the Red Sox. They’ve got a lot more experience at play-offs. I’m sure the guys will settle down to the job tonight.”

  “I hope so,” Em said. “’Cause the judge hearing my case decided he wants a long weekend or something because he’s adjourned until Monday.”

  A smile spread over Amelia’s face. “Does that mean you’re going to Boston for the game?” She hadn’t been happy with the thought that Em wasn’t going to get to see Finn play.

  “No. The earliest flight I could get to Boston last-minute was the seven-thirty flight tonight. I’d miss most of the game.”

  “Oh. Finn will be disappointed.”

  “No, because I’m booked on the seven o’clock flight to New York instead. So I can see him play tomorrow at Staten Island.” Em sounded gleeful.

  “You’re coming here? Tonight?”

  “Yes. I can still stay with you, right?”

  “Of course,” Amelia said, happiness at the thought of seeing Em dampened a little by the fact that a houseguest meant she wouldn’t be able to go see Oliver tonight. “What time does your flight get in?”

  “About nine thirty, if everything goes well. I
’ll just get a cab to your place. Don’t come meet me.”

  “Are you sure?” Was it bad that she felt relieved? The thought of battling her way out to JFK sounded pretty crappy. Particularly when she was so tired.

  “Absolutely. Friday nights are always a zoo at airports. Stay home and mix us up a batch of margaritas.”

  Amelia grinned. Friday-night margaritas with Em sounded pretty good. Even if Em wasn’t tall, dark, and handsome. “I can do that.” If Em was landing at nine thirty, she wouldn’t be at Amelia’s until well after ten thirty. Maybe even after eleven. Which meant Amelia might even get in a nap.

  “Cool,” Em said. “Don’t tell Finn if you talk to him. I want to surprise him and my parents.”

  “My lips are sealed,” Amelia said. She’d left Finn a “good luck for tonight” message earlier, carefully avoiding any mention of the loss to the Red Sox. But she hadn’t had a response. She wasn’t really expecting any. He needed to focus on the game ahead.

  “Awesome. I have to go, our recess is almost over,” Em said. “See you tomorrow night.”

  * * *

  After Em hung up, Amelia put her head down and worked. She needed to get shit done if she wasn’t going to have to work half the weekend. With Em in town and two baseball games, she didn’t want to do that. So Ignore the lack of sleep and just do it was her new motto of the day. She’d done it before and would do it again. In fact, she got so lost in the work that when Daniel knocked on her door, she realized it was nearly two and her self-imposed deadline to hear from Oliver had passed.

  “How’s it going?” Daniel asked.

  “Good,” Amelia said, hoping she looked more alert than she felt. “Just knocking some things off the issues register, then I have another meeting with IT this afternoon.”

  “And the Singapore analysis I wanted?”

  “Will be on your desk by the end of the day.”

  “Good.”

  She smiled, trying to decipher the expression in his pale eyes. “Are you going to the Hamptons this weekend?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  She tried not to let pleasure at the news show on her face. When Daniel went out of town for the weekend, there were far fewer weekend emails that needed attention from his team before Monday morning.

  “What are your weekend plans?” he asked.

  She waved at her desk. “I’ve got a few things to work on but actually I have friends in town. We’re going to see the Saints play tomorrow.”

  “Ah. Yes. You have a friend who plays baseball, don’t you?” Daniel said.

  “Yes. It’s his first play-off series, so it’s pretty exciting.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “The Saints are a terrible team, aren’t they? Seems unlikely they’ll win.”

  Was he trying to annoy her? Or was he just being his usual straight-to-the-point-regardless self? “Actually, since the owners changed a few years back, they’ve been doing better each year. They might just surprise you.”

  He looked like he doubted it. “To each their own,” he said eventually. He was studying her again. She wished she’d had time to go digging as to whether there was an opportunity in Hong Kong coming up. Otherwise she wasn’t sure why he kept turning up in her office. Twice in one week was unheard of. It was making her nervous.

  She nodded at her computer. “Was there anything else you needed me to do?”

  “No,” he said. “Just make sure I have that report before you leave tonight.”

  “Not a problem.”

  * * *

  She needed more coffee. Or maybe a Coke. Easier on her stomach. She leaned back on her desk chair and stretched. It was nearly four and she had to do her final pass on the report for Daniel and come up with a brilliant solution for one last issue with the Australasian model and then she’d be done. Or as done as she planned to be. She could try to work later tonight but she desperately needed a nap. Her head was starting to ache and her eyes were burning from staring at her monitor practically nonstop since seven thirty.

  Oliver still hadn’t called. At least, she didn’t think he had. She’d turned her cell off after lunch, not wanting to be interrupted. But he’d called her landline before, so she hadn’t thought getting her voice mail on her cell would stop him getting to her if he really wanted to.

  Caffeine and sugar first, though. She snatched up her purse and her phone and decided to hit the coffee cart outside the building to get some fresh air. As she stepped into the elevator, she switched her phone on.

  No message alerts.

  The tension in her stomach shifted from too much caffeine to sheer nerves.

  “Pull it together, Graham,” she muttered to herself as she hit the first floor and headed outside. It wasn’t as though she and Oliver were officially dating or anything. She’d spent time with him exactly four times and kissed him for a few minutes. They’d been a few fantastic minutes but she needed to keep her cool.

  The October air—still colder than usual—slapped at her as she left the building. The sting of it actually woke her up a little, and she tried to breathe it in more deeply as she reached the coffee cart and placed her order.

  Five minutes. Five minutes out in the fresh air and she’d go back to her desk. She sipped her mocha—combining the chocolate and caffeine just seemed easiest at this point—and found a seat.

  And, fortified by a fresh hit of caffeine and the cold, she dialed Oliver.

  * * *

  Oliver jolted awake when the phone rang. Crap. He’d fallen asleep again.

  Who was calling him?

  He blinked, trying to think. How long had he actually been asleep? He’d slept late that morning already. Gone through his routine with Alfie of having his splint taken off and his hand taped in a bag so he could shower. The dressing on the wound was apparently waterproof, but rebandaging the whole thing and getting the splint back would be nearly impossible on his own and Alfie had sensibly pointed out that it would be less painful to him if he had the splint on in the shower in case he knocked his hand somehow. Then there’d been the post-shower icing and dressing changing and rebandaging of everything.

  Hardly a jam-packed morning. So he shouldn’t be tired. But apparently he’d fallen asleep again at some point during his exciting afternoon of watching Justified reruns on TV. Surgical recovery sucked.

  He managed to grab the phone before it stopped ringing, his brain finally clicking into focus when he saw Amelia’s name on the screen.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey yourself,” Amelia said.

  She sounded … tired? Or just stressed. He leaned toward tired and then felt vaguely guilty that he’d kept her up late. Not too guilty, though, because kissing her had been too damned good to feel guilty about.

  “I was going to call you,” he said. “But I’ve been—” Sleeping sounded lame. He didn’t want her thinking of him as the injured guy. Helpless, in need of cosseting. Less than whole. But she’d seen him at the hospital, the day after his surgery. She probably did see him that way. But that didn’t mean he had to reinforce her impression.

  “Resting, I hope,” Amelia said. “Or at least following doctor’s orders.”

  If one more person mentioned following doctor’s orders he was going to lose it. But Amelia sounded worried when she asked, so he was giving her a pass. Besides, she didn’t seem to be pissed that he hadn’t called yet, which was more than he deserved. He’d meant to call her as soon as Alfie left but had been distracted by a call from his agent, checking up on him.

  “I have been an excellent patient all day,” he said. “Which is why I’m hoping you might come over tonight. I’ve earned a reward.”

  She laughed. “Most people get a lollipop when they’re a good patient.”

  “Amelia, you taste way better than any lollipop I’ve ever tried.”

  Her breath caught. He heard it clearly. A sudden indrawn breath. It made him hard. Damn it. Why had he been so freaking sensible last night and sent her home? He wouldn’t be feel
ing like a teenager with his first taste of a woman if he hadn’t sent her home. Sure, he might not have been able to pull off actual sex with his arm in a sling, but there were plenty of other things they could have done. And he might have heard Amelia make a whole array of sexy noises like that little sucked-in breath.

  “Still there?” he said softly when she failed to speak.

  “Yes,” she said, sounding just that little bit foggy. He knew how she felt.

  “So, are you going to make me happy and come on over?”

  “I’d love to,” she said and he almost did a fist punch of victory with his good hand … only he was using it to hold the phone.

  “But I can’t,” she continued.

  His happy sense of victory deflated like a balloon hit with a sledgehammer. “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Can’t,” she said quickly. “I have a friend coming into town. She’s staying with me.”

  “Tell her you’re having your apartment sprayed or something. Send her to a hotel.”

  She laughed. “I can’t. I already invited her over.”

  He sighed. “Let me guess, it’s Castro’s sister, isn’t it? Your best friend?”

  “Yes.” She sounded regretful, which made him feel slightly better. Slightly. But he knew better than to try to fight against the best-friend code. Nothing good ever came of trying to do that. And Amelia’s best friend was also Castro’s sister. Which only complicated things even more. The smart thing to do would be to be the easy part of the equation.

  “When is she arriving?”

  “Tonight. Nine thirty. But I have to work late again. I need to clear my desk so I can—” She broke off.

  “Go to the game tomorrow?” he said. “Don’t worry, I pretty much assumed that you were going to go see Finn play.”

  “Are you going to go?”

  He hadn’t planned on it. Maggie had already asked him if he wanted her to organize a driver to bring him to Staten Island but he’d put her off, claiming he didn’t think he was up to it yet. Didn’t think he’d fooled her about the real reason, either. But she hadn’t called him on it. That might change if the Saints lost again tonight. Then he figured he’d be asked to come down for team morale. He hadn’t decided whether or not he’d say yes. “That’s another one of those complicated questions.”