by Lila Monroe
I nod. I remember reading that about him, that while all his teammates were buying yachts and Maseratis he was living in a modest condo and driving the same SUV he’d had in undergrad. His one big indulgence was buying his mom a house.
“I mean, I’m not saying I never partied or spent money on stupid stuff,” Ryan admits with a smile. “But some of the guys I played with acted like they were going to get that kind of payout every year for the rest of their lives, which obviously isn’t true. The thing about a football career is that you never know how long it’s going to be. It’s idiotic not to plan for whatever might be around the corner.” He motions down at himself. “I mean, I’m a pretty glaring example of that, right? One bad tackle, and my Achilles is fucked so bad I couldn’t play again.”
“It must have been hard,” I say, taking a sip of my mojito. “Working so hard for something and then having it cut short like that.”
“Not as hard as you think,” he admits. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it totally sucked at the time. But I think there was a part of me that was also a tiny bit relieved.”
That surprises me. “Really?”
He nods. “I loved playing football. And I had a pretty good run. But I could already see where it was headed, you know? The guys who play for years and years, it winds up being so hard on their bodies—not to mention their brains—that by the time they retire it’s almost impossible for them to have any kind of life. They’re holding on so long, they almost don’t know how not to be a player.”
I nod. “I can see that.”
“I feel for those guys, honestly,” Ryan says, “but I knew I didn’t want to be one. So when the injury happened, I figured it was a sign. I could have tried a comeback, done the training, but maybe that wasn’t my path anymore.” He grins. “Do I sound like your woo-woo future step-mother right now?”
“A little.” I grin. “But not in a bad way.”
“Anyway.” Ryan shrugs again, stealing a forkful of fried plantain off my plate. “That’s how I wound up here. I started with the easy stuff: sports drinks, commentating. Building on my profile. But now it’s time for the next phase, a real business, with real money involved. Sorry.” He stops abruptly. “I feel like I’m talking about myself a lot.”
“I don’t mind,” I say, and it’s the truth. The more time Ryan and I spend together the more I realize there’s way more to him than just a charming jock. He’s thoughtful, and smart, and hot as hell—
Nope. Down, girl. Bad Olivia.
I have to hide a smile. All this time, I’ve been so strict about reading the riot act—to my clients and their matches alike. I tell them that lines get blurred, and spending an intense few days with someone can make you feel all kinds of emotions.
But here I am, sitting in a dark, romantic corner, having those feelings myself. Hallie would be saying a great big “told you so” if she could see me now.
It’s just a natural part of the job, I tell myself. You get close, you act like boyfriend and girlfriend, and soon, that’s easy to believe. I just need to stay focused on the job, and soon it’ll all be over.
But just as I’m about to suggest an early night—alone—back at the hotel, Ryan nods at the crowded dance floor. You want to?”
“What, dance?”
“Yeah, princess.” Ryan smirks. “Dance.”
I shouldn’t. After all, there’s nobody here we have to show off for, nobody we have to convince of our shiny happy coupledom. But it would be rude to turn him down, wouldn’t it?
Friends dance, all the time. Colleagues. Co-workers.
“Sure,” I say, pushing my chair back and fitting my hand into his. At the very least it’s practice for the wedding, right? It’s not like it has to mean anything.
We hit the floor, and I find that Ryan’s a surprisingly capable dancer, quick and nimble and good on his feet. “They teach you this in the NFL?” I ask as he twirls me around during the fast song.
“A variation,” he teases, and lowers me into a dip. I try to catch my breath, but he’s already whirling me into the next one. We dance for another song, and then another, all my usual worries slipping away as my hips swing and the blood thrums in my veins. The dancefloor is full: of older couples and young, hot dates, and everyone is just letting loose and having a great time, not worrying about what anybody thinks. Including me.
For the first time in a long while, I’m having fun.
I’m breathless by the time the music switches to a slow song. I’m thinking we’ll sit down again, maybe order some more drinks, but instead Ryan pulls me closer, pressing me against the broad, hard width of his chest. “One more?” he asks with a crooked grin, and I’m powerless to resist.
Just one more song.
Ryan slips his hands around my waist, and I rest my head against his shoulder.
For a moment we just sway to the slow, sultry sound of the horns, the bare skin of my back prickling under Ryan’s warm touch. Our bodies are pressing gently, and my whole body lights up at the contact like a pinball machine in a boardwalk arcade. “This is pretty,” he murmurs, gently reaching to twist the simple gold ring I wear on my index finger.
I swallow. “It was my mom’s,” I tell him softly, close enough to murmur in his ear. “Her wedding ring.”
Ryan closes his hand around mine, and traces a soft circle in my palm. It’s just a touch, but it feels like every last nerve ending in my body is concentrated in that one tiny spot.
We’re somehow even closer now, though I don’t remember either one of us moving. I can smell him, clean sweat and the faintest hint of lime. Our pace slows until what we’re doing could barely be called dancing, the two of us pressed hotly together from chest to thigh, swaying to the music. I glance up and find him gazing back at me, his blue eyes gone ocean-dark. “Ryan,” I say, swallowing thickly. “Are we—?”
And then he kisses me.
His mouth is hot on mine. Hot, and slow, and intoxicating. I shiver against him, pressing closer without thinking, parting my lips to taste him. It’s pure instinct, not a single shred of rational thought in my mind, because who could think when a man like this has his hands on you? It goes from zero to sixty all at once, the whole world disappearing and the air burning up between us. Ryan sinks his hands into my hair. I wind my arms around his neck as our tongues tangle together, gasping as he slides a knee between my thighs.
I don’t care who’s watching, I don’t care about anything at all except this fire suddenly raging in my bloodstream, a sharp desire demanding more.
Then Ryan’s eyes fly open.
“Fuck,” he curses, pulling back suddenly. I let out a noise of disappointment, but then he’s tugging me off the dance floor and around the side of the restaurant, to some dark, blissfully secluded alley where he pushes me up against the wall.
“Better,” he says decisively, and kisses me again.
God, yes.
I close my eyes and sink into it, my whole body combusting. I can feel the music—or maybe it’s just my own heartbeat—thumping away in the base of my spine. Ryan grazes my breast through the thin fabric of the dress, and I muffle a soft moan against his shoulder. “You like that?” he asks, and the intent in his voice makes me shiver.
“Yes,” I admit, my hands sliding down his back to squeeze that truly glorious ass, feeling totally shameless. I’ve never done anything like this—well, ever. But the last thing I want to do is stop.
His mouth is searing hot, dropping kisses on my collarbone, and his hands rove further now, possessively sliding over my hips and then back to palm my breasts again. It’s dark back here, giving us the illusion of privacy, but the truth is that right now I want him so badly that I wouldn’t care if the whole world could see. I arch against him eagerly, loving the feel of his taut body, and the hardness I can feel pressed against my thigh.
It’s that move—my own base instinct, the way my body seems to respond to him all on its own—that makes me freeze.
Holy shit, what am I d
oing?
Ryan is my client. We’re in public, for fuck’s sake. This is hands down the most unprofessional thing I’ve ever done.
I duck out of his embrace, my cheeks flaming.
Way to go, Olivia. Ruin your reputation in one single kiss. OK, two, or three of the hottest kisses I’ve ever had the pleasure of surrendering to, but still!
“I, um—” I gasp for air. “We can’t.”
Ryan seems to snap back to reality, just like me. He clears his throat and puts his hands into his pockets. “Right,” he says. Both of us are breathing hard. “Sorry, I—”
“No, I’m sorry!” I blurt. My face is on fire. My panties are drenched. “I didn’t . . . I mean . . .” I gulp. “We should probably get back—”
“Uh-huh.” Ryan nods quickly. “Absolutely.”
Ryan finds the waiter and pays the check while I head outside to call an Uber, my heart still pounding. But the moment away from him is exactly what I need to get my shit together. There’s no way I’m doing this, not when I’ve staked my whole business on being discreet and totally above-board. He’s a client! And we have days of this ahead of us.
Days together, pretending like we do this kind of red-hot makeout all the time. I groan in frustration.
“What was that?” Ryan appears behind me.
“Nothing!” I flush. “The car should be right here. Oh, there it is!” I flag it down with relief, and we ride back to the hotel in silence—staring out opposite windows.
“About what happened . . .” I start, when we pull up outside the entrance. “I’m sorry I got carried away. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea.”
“I get it.” Ryan gives me a wry smile. “Let’s just chalk it up to the mojitos and the music.”
I nod. “Great. Perfect.”
I should be relieved. After all, the last thing I want is for things to be awkward between us with the rest of the week still to come. But a tiny part of me can’t help wishing he felt as upside down as I do right now.
Because fuck, that man can kiss.
8
Olivia
I spend the night tossing and turning alone in my hotel bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to ignore the unsatisfied ache between my legs.
I can’t stop thinking about what happened back at the club.
His mouth. His body. His hands . . .
What would have happened if I hadn’t stopped things when I did? I can certainly fill in the blanks for myself: over, and over, and over again.
Ahem.
Morning takes a looooong time to come. But one thing’s for certain, it can’t ever happen again—at least, not outside the privacy of my own X-rated fantasies. Which is fine. I can resist him. He’s just a man. A hot, funny, charming, hot—did I mention hot?—man who can reduce me to a panting molten pool of desire in just a couple of kisses, but he’s still human. And a client. And as long as I keep reminding myself of that, I should be fine.
Right?
The next day, we’re supposed to hang out with my dad and Vanessa, so I hit the gym as soon as it opens, then take an extra-cold shower and gird my loins against what I’m sure is about to be one of the more uncomfortable morning-after encounters of my life. I grab my phone off the nightstand and scroll to Ryan’s name. Meet you in the lobby? I text. We should head out soon.
The three dots appear right away. Already down here, princess.
Oh. I frown at the screen, strangely flustered. I don’t know why I was thinking I’d have to blast him out of bed like some irresponsible frat boy. So much about him is different from what I’d expect.
On my way.
I’m prepared for things to be seriously awkward between us, but when I get down to the lobby Ryan looks totally relaxed, sitting on one of the couches scrolling the headlines with an iced coffee in one hand. “Morning,” he says with a smile. “I would have gotten you something, but I didn’t know what you drink.”
“Small latte, double shot,” I tell him. “Whole milk.”
Ryan looks surprised. “You know,” he says as he gets to his feet, “I would have taken you for a skim.”
“Skim milk is actually harder to digest,” I explain inanely. I can’t believe we’re talking about dairy products right now. “Better to just drink less.”
“Huh,” he says. “Learn something new every day.”
“I guess so.”
Just stop!
God, it’s like last night didn’t even happen—or, I realize suddenly, like maybe for Ryan it happens so frequently it didn’t even leave an impression. He may be the first guy I’ve made out with up against the wall in, um, forever, but maybe that was just a regular night on the town for him. He’s the player, after all.
Well, fine. Two can play that game. I jam my sunglasses onto my face and get my own coffee, then meet him out in the parking lot.
“Top on or off?” Ryan asks, as we climb into the car.
“What?” I whip my head around, my eyes boggling.
He smirks, nodding at the roof of the car. “The top, princess. You want the breeze today?”
“Oh.” I feel my cheeks color. Jesus Christ, Olivia. Pull it together. “No thanks. Up is fine.”
The drive back to the Keys takes forever. I feel hyperaware of Ryan’s every shift and movement, stealing glances at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s wearing jeans and a soft-looking gray T-shirt that clings to his chest in a way that seem specifically calculated to drive me insane. I’ve never been super attracted to guys with big muscles, but with Ryan I can’t deny how much I like the size of him, how unapologetically male he is. Like if he wanted to, he could pick me up, swing me over his shoulder caveman-style, and carry me off to—
“Olivia?” Ryan says. Suddenly I realize we’re sitting in the driveway of my dad’s house. “You coming?”
“Oh,” I say, swallowing hard. “Um, yup.”
I take a beat, then follow him into the house. The pre-wedding festivities don’t start until tomorrow, so I’m thinking I’ll take advantage of the calm before the storm to lay out by the pool at the hotel, or maybe distract myself with some work. I owe Alice a call to check in, and I want to comb through some final details of Jason Kilcher’s S&M-free weekend in the woods . . .
But when we get inside the house, it looks like it’s been hit by a hurricane. There are suitcases everywhere. Half-finished centerpieces cover the dining room table. A small, yappy dog runs in demented circles in the foyer while Jagger looks on mournfully, a pained expression on his doggie face that clearly reads, Can you believe this shit?
“Peaches,” scolds a high-pitched voice, heels clacking on the tile. A skinny woman I’ve never seen before swoops in and scoops the little rodent up off the floor, tucking him into a Louis Vuitton handbag for safekeeping. She stops when she sees me. “Oh!” she says, tilting her head to the side. “Are you the delivery girl? You can put the food in the kitchen!”
“Oh my God, you’re so funny,” Vanessa squeals, scampering into the foyer. She’s wearing a crown of eucalyptus branches, her hair in styled curls down her back. “This is my stepdaughter! Livvie, these are your aunties-to-be!”
Two more blondes follow her in from the living room; Vanessa introduces the trio as Kirsty, Crystal, and Kiki, though I immediately lose track of which is which. All three of them are wearing crop tops with Bride Tribe emblazoned across the boobs in loopy gold script, and they’re loaded down with garment bags and makeup trunks. One of them—Kiki, maybe?—has a flatiron looped around her neck like a stethoscope.
“You’re just in time!” Vanessa coos. Her tank top helpfully identifies her as the bride, in case any of us are in danger of forgetting. “We’re going to take bachelorette photos!”
“Oh!” I blink. “Is . . . that a thing?”
“Of course, silly!” She smiles. “And I want you to be in them even though you’re not in the bridal party.”
I technically am in the bridal party, actually—my dad asked me to be his best woman—but
right now doesn’t seem like the time to point that out. “Oh, you don’t need me,” I say, waving a hand. “You guys look fantastic just the four of you, and I’ve actually got some stuff to—”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Vanessa says, grabbing my arm so tightly I’ll be surprised if it doesn’t leave bruises. “I insist! And I’m your mom now, remember? So you have to do what I say.”
Yeah, I’m still not finding that as hilarious as Vanessa does. I’m about to put my foot down when I catch sight of Ryan through the living room window—he’s settling down by the pool, his perfect bare chest gleaming in the sunlight.
Hello. I practically have to wipe the drool off my chin.
Spend the day with temptation just an arm’s length away, or brave whatever Vanessa has in store?
Dammit. It’s probably not a bad idea for me to put some space between us before I manage to make even more of a fool of myself.
“OK,” I say finally, turning back to the Bride Tribe and feeling vaguely like I just agreed to my own execution. “Bachelorette photos. Sounds great!”
We pile into Vanessa’s bright yellow Mini Cooper and head down to the marina, where we meet the photographer, their assistant, and the captain of our chartered speedboat, which will deliver us out to a tiny island a few miles off the coast. “A private island!” Vanessa squeals, already toasting SkinnyGirl margaritas with her friends on board. “It belongs to some of Larry’s friends, and they totally said we could use it for our shoot. Apparently, there’s like an actual shipwreck!”
“We’re so going to kill it on Instagram!” Crystal—or is it Kirsty?—says as we arrive, and I have to admit she’s right. It’s a beautiful day, sunny but not too oppressively hot, and the island is picture-perfect, with soft white sand gleaming invitingly, and shady palm trees swaying in the breeze.
