He hummed his approval low in his throat, pushing his tongue between her teeth.
The intimacy nearly stopped her heart.
Her temporarily silenced brain whirred into motion again. When was the last time she’d been touched like this?
She remembered the last guy she slept with, while she was still in the army. A bored, drunken capitulation to impulses that had left her unfulfilled and annoyed. She’d heard his oblivious snoring, felt the bite in the Midwestern spring air as she crossed the apartment complex to her front door, recalled her limp, drained sense of defeat as she shoved her vibrator back into its box.
She remembered the year in Saudi Arabia. Days spent cloaked in a shapeless abaya, drifting around the periphery of her client’s life. Nights alone in her room in a house she shared with three male security guards whose opposite schedules meant she barely knew them. At first she’d enjoyed the privacy, the isolation, the absence of romantic pressure. It had taken a month to feel lonely, another to borrow from her client’s supply of romance novels as bedtime reading, three more weeks to wake from vivid dreams of sizzling passion, true love and the promise of happily-ever-after. One month after that she’d stopped dreaming altogether.
She thought of her mother. Beautiful. Funny. Desperate. Her bra strap falling unnoticed to her elbow as she wrote her phone number on the back of the car salesman’s business card and slid it across the counter.
She thought of her sister. Even more beautiful than their mother. Funnier, sexier, more charming, with even worse taste in men. Her niece’s father, his crooked front teeth—
“Hey.”
Oz’s soft voice jerked her into the present so fiercely she was disoriented. Slowly she put the pieces together. Hotel floor. Video game. His face, brows knitted, eyes questioning.
“Where did you go?”
“Nowhere. I’m here.”
He pulled away and she felt his loss keenly, achingly, until she had to dig her fingers into the carpet so she didn’t snatch him back.
“Are you okay? Was that okay? Because if I crossed a line—”
“No, not at all.” She forced a bright smile and tried to ignore the panic drumming in her chest. “I’m fine. We’re fine.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“A mistake, clearly.” Flustered, guilty, embarrassed, she got to her feet.
“Kate? Hang on.” He trailed her to the door and put his hand on hers to stop her from turning the handle.
“I’m going. Don’t be annoyed. It’s not you. This was just a bad idea.”
She could see the why forming in his mind, working its way down to his mouth, and then disappearing. He turned the handle and pushed open the door for her.
“If for some reason the nutritionist asks, you ate the waffles,” he instructed flatly.
“Fine. Goodnight.”
She stepped into the hall, nearly colliding with a handholding couple in formalwear. The door shut behind her without a parting word from Oz. She sighed, waiting for the lovebirds to pass before she started toward the elevator.
She pressed the button too hard, jammed her fingers into too-tight fists, reproaching her foolish disappointment at Oz’s failure to chase after her.
What did she expect? She’d seen his house, his car, his job. He could have any woman he wanted.
She squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to acknowledge the hot tears welling behind her lids. I fucked up, but it’s over now. It’s done.
A ping announced the elevator’s arrival. She stepped aside as the doors slid open to reveal a hotel employee with a room-service cart.
He pushed it past her. The smell of chicken and waffles was unmistakable.
Chapter 7
Oz turned at the tap on his shoulder. A girl in her early twenties stood behind him, her asymmetrical bob dyed bright pink.
“I’m so sorry to bother you, and I know this isn’t part of this event, but would you sign this for me?” She pulled a Skyline jersey out of her messenger bag.
He glanced over her head, making sure the video game company’s uptight publicist wasn’t nearby.
The coast was clear. “Sure. Do you have a pen?”
She produced a black Sharpie. He flattened the shirt on one of the cocktail tables dotted around the martini bar that had been turned into a gaming lounge for the launch. He wrote the two letters of his name with a practiced hand and added his number beneath.
“Thank you so much,” she gushed, clutching the shirt to her chest. “Can I ask you one more thing?”
“Go for it.”
“Can I take a photo?”
“Of course. Put that away first so the publicist doesn’t give you trouble.”
She stuffed the shirt in her bag and pulled out her phone.
Ted extended his hand. “Here, I’ll take it for you.”
She got into position and Oz had his arm across her shoulder when Glynn piped up, “Did you not want my autograph?”
Her expression fell from gleeful to stricken. Oz smirked at Glynn’s oft-used joke, which, on a handful of admittedly hilarious occasions, had led the fan to ask him if he was a particular hip-hop artist or basketball player.
This girl was too smart for that, and Oz squeezed her upper arm. “Ignore him, he’s not famous.”
She recovered her smile for the photo and thanked him profusely. She scrolled vigorously through her phone as she walked away, undoubtedly posting it to her various social-media accounts.
On a hunch, he took out his own phone and checked his notifications. The photo was already on Twitter and Instagram. He tapped to like it on both platforms and watched as the girl spun around across the room and gave him a thumbs-up.
“You were saying?” Ted prompted impatiently.
“Where was I?”
“Anti-sniper mission in Outlaw Brigade: Stalingrad.”
“Best edition ever,” Glynn added.
“Agreed. Anyway, we were about to leave the barn and obviously things get hectic from that point, so I said I should probably kiss her. You know, to break the tension.”
Ted whistled. “Damn, you’re smooth. Teach us?”
“Speak for yourself,” Glynn retorted. “What did she say?”
“She was up for it. Seemed happy, into it, into me. Then she froze. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to. I could practically hear her changing her mind.”
Ted winced. “Ouch.”
“I asked her what happened but first she said it was nothing, then she said we’d made a mistake and walked out.”
“And that was it?” Glynn asked.
“That was it. Next morning we flew back to Atlanta and the few times I spoke to her on the trip she was polite, professional, like it never happened.”
Ted summed it up. “She rejected you.”
“I wouldn’t put it—”
“She did,” Glynn agreed. “She had a taste, tried a sample. Elected not to proceed. That’s rejection.”
Oz blinked at his friends. In the couple of days since his encounter with Kate he’d examined it from every angle, trying to put his finger on what stung so sharply. Now he knew.
“She rejected me,” he echoed in disbelief.
Ted frowned in genuine bewilderment. “That’s never happened to you before, has it?”
“No,” Oz replied honestly. “Never.”
For a minute they stood in collective silence, contemplating this unusual turn of events.
Glynn spoke first. “Don’t take this the wrong way—I like Kate a lot—but she’s so different from the women you normally date. What’s the attraction?”
“She’s funny. She doesn’t take shit. She’s lived an interesting life. She’s pretty. She’s got a gr
eat body.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, it’s hard to itemize.”
“Maybe it’s for the best,” Ted offered. “You keep saying you’re ready for something serious, something long-term. Someone who fits The Plan. Can Kate be that woman?”
“No,” Oz admitted. “I acted on impulse. I saw someone I wanted and made my move.”
“Not necessarily the best way to find your real-deal woman,” Ted replied, not unkindly.
Oz considered his friend’s point. “You’re right. If I want something long-term, I need to be deliberate.”
“For a guy who’s waited as long as you have, you deserve to be discerning.” Glynn slapped him on the back.
The publicist appeared then, taking Oz by the elbow. “Excuse me, gentlemen, I need to steal away our special-guest gamer for his big moment.”
He waved to his friends. “See you guys later.”
“Don’t embarrass yourself,” Glynn called cheerily as he walked away.
Oz followed the publicist up the steps of a platform at one end of the room, where three short, square leather stools had been set up in front of three televisions. A huge screen covered the wall behind the TVs, cycling clips from the new release of Outlaw Brigade, set in a dystopian future where a cannibalistic gang ruled a post-apocalyptic America.
The other two celebrity players joined him on-stage—a hip-hop artist he’d seen on TV, and a football player he’d met before at a similar event. They all shook hands and exchanged the overly polite small talk that always seemed to accompany product launches like this one.
The publicist took up the microphone. It didn’t take more than a second for everyone to crowd around the platform, smartphones at the ready to capture this first glimpse of the highly anticipated new release.
One of the game’s writers stepped up to talk about the latest edition, divulging a few details about the plot and characters and offering context for the mission about to be undertaken by the three celebrity gamers. He introduced each of them in turn, instructing them to take their seats.
Oz was on the left. Their backs faced the audience, but the big screen overhead now showed their three characters’ video-game perspectives, with an inset of each player’s face at the bottom so the crowd could see their reactions.
The game launched to applause and whistling from the crowd, which he could barely hear through his noise-cancelling headphones with an attached microphone. Their characters were futuristic Marines who’d escaped the captivity of the marauding gang to lead the resistance to defeat them and reestablish order. Oz and his fellow players were embarking on a mission to infiltrate one of the gang’s strongholds and free another group of soldiers.
The scene opened with an escaped soldier giving them information on the layout and security at the gang’s hideout. Oz ran through his weapons options as he followed the other two characters across a barren, midnight landscape to what remained of a blown-up casino.
They searched the ground floor, took out a couple of gang members, and then moved into the emergency stairwell beside empty elevator shafts. The football player took out another enemy and they pressed on to the next floor.
She rejected me. Oz tapped the controller to shoot a couple of bad guys.
They crouched behind busted slot machines as a wave of gunfire erupted in front of them.
“We have to get to the fifth floor,” the football player reminded them over the headsets. “Get back to the stairwell, I’ll cover.”
“No point checking all these floors,” the hip-hop artist agreed. “We’re wasting time.”
“Good with me.” Okay, she rejected me, that’s fact. But why? What did I—“Oh, shit.”
“I told you I’d cover,” the football player complained. Oz had sent his character out from behind the slot machine too early, without waiting for cover fire, and he’d taken a lethal shot to the head.
Oz tried to stifle his embarrassment as his character regenerated and play continued. Expertise in this game was measured by the ratio of how many characters you killed versus how many times yours died. He was off to a terrible start.
Unfortunately, his kill/death ratio only got worse as the game wore on. Any time he seemed to get into his semi-meditative groove an unsolicited thought of Kate popped up to distract him.
Crouch, shoot, reload. Maybe I moved too fast. Maybe she wasn’t—His character reeled with the force of an enemy’s deadly shot.
Run, jump left, duck behind the open door. Maybe I shouldn’t have let Kate leave. Maybe she wanted me to follow her and I—Oz dropped his controller into his lap as his character fell five stories, having stepped backward through a glassless window.
“Damn,” the hip-hop artist remarked as they all took off their headphones, the mission complete. “I didn’t even know a character could die like that. I figured the game would automatically bounce them back into the room if they got too close to an open window.”
Oz forced a smile as he shook hands with the other players and accepted the applause of the audience. The game writer made a few more comments into the microphone—kindly refraining from mentioning Oz’s specific performance—and then invited the rest of the launch attendees to take turns trying out the mission.
Oz raised his hands in defeat as he rejoined Glynn and Ted. “I know. I don’t want to talk about it.”
His friends exchanged glances, and Ted pushed a glass across the table.
Oz eyed the clear liquid. “Please tell me that’s vodka.”
“Water.”
He grumbled his disappointment, then downed half of it. Apparently racking up a humiliating K/D ratio in front of sixty onlookers made him thirsty.
Ted’s gaze drifted over his shoulder, then his friend snapped his fingers. “Of course, I should’ve thought of this before. I’m going to introduce you to someone. She’s perfect for you—super smart, funny, not a doctor. I’ll be right back.”
“Not a doctor?” Oz repeated, but Ted was already on his way.
“Your last serious girlfriend was a medical student, as was that girl you went out with a couple weeks ago.” Glynn clarified. “Time to branch out.”
Oz blinked. “I never even thought about that.”
Ted returned, leading a short, curvy brunette with big eyes and a polite but skeptical smile. “Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to D. Goldberg.”
“The gadget columnist,” Oz filled in as the name registered. He extended his hand. “Oz Terim.”
“The soccer player,” she acknowledged, her smile warming.
“And this is Glynn Washington, app developer,” Ted explained.
“I read your column every week,” Glynn told her. “Can I say something potentially offensive?”
“You thought I was a guy?” she asked.
Glynn nodded. She shrugged.
“D is for Davida. When I first started pitching to magazines, I found I had a better hit rate if I let people assume I was male.”
“Very Brontë,” Oz remarked.
“That’s what I tell myself. So, soccer player, what position do you play?”
“Left-back.”
“I played left-wing in high school.”
“Were you any good?”
“Regional champions three years running.”
Oz caught his friends swapping a knowing glance, then quietly sliding down the table to carry on their own conversation.
“I hope you’re better at soccer than at Outlaw Brigade.”
His turn to smile. Being called on his shit was definitely one of his turn-ons. Kate did it the first time they met, but he shut down that line of thinking as soon as it fluttered to life.
“I’m having an off day.”
“Let me guess, your K/D ratio is usually five-point-eight.”
“One-point-five, tops. I’m not very good.” He grinned, intent on disar
ming her. It worked. She peered at him warily, then broke into a broad smile.
“I guess Ted told me the truth when he said you’re not another gamer diva.”
He shook his head. “Gamer diva, no. Soccer diva, all day long.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He pulled out his phone and opened a video app. “I’ll show you the time I swore at a Turkish referee during an international match. He awarded a free kick against me, so I called him a son of a bitch in Turkish. Wait, it’s loading.”
She laughed. A nice laugh, pretty, musical.
But not as bubbly or delightfully startling as Kate’s.
“Okay, I’ll buy that you’re a soccer diva. I don’t need to see your bilingual profanity skills.”
“Trilingual,” he corrected. “I can be deeply offensive in Swedish as well.”
“You win. I’ve only got a couple of mild French swear words and some Yiddish that’s probably fifty years outdated.”
“If you’ve had your fill of gamer divas and Outlaw Brigade groupies, maybe we should get out of here.”
Her eyes twinkled. “I know a good place down the street.”
“Is it quiet enough for me to teach you an international range of insults?”
“Definitely.”
He extended his arm. “Let’s go.”
She wrapped her fingers around his elbow, he waved goodbye to his smug-looking friends, and they made their way out of the basement-level lounge and up to the sidewalk. The early-summer sun had set while they’d been inside, and the street seemed foreign, fresh, full of potential.
She nodded down the block. “This way.”
“I’ll follow you.” And not spare a thought for that harsh, unyielding, sexy-as-hell woman he kissed in a hotel room, who walked away and didn’t look back.
Chapter 8
“Double or nothing.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Kate shrugged, slapped the ten-dollar bill she’d just taken from him onto the side of the pool table. “Cash on the barrel head.”
He put a matching bill on top of hers and racked the balls. “My turn to break.”
Defending Hearts Page 7
