Crashed
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He nodded. “I can do that.”
She smirked. “We’ll see.”
And then things really got going. Fan glanced up at the man in front of them and took his order—two red wines, one beer—and then the woman behind him—two cosmos, one beer, one white wine—and Brandon promptly felt himself begin to scramble.
That scrambling didn’t stop.
The next hour was more of the same. He was sweating, his arms exhausted, his brain fried from having to take money and make change by the time the line tapered off and people had gone from their first to second to third round of drinks. There was still a trickle of attendees coming up to the bar, but they had thinned out, giving him a moment to breathe and also to go back to staring.
She was gorgeous.
And funny and smart and really fucking good at mixing drinks.
“Is there anything you can’t do?”
She lifted a rack of glasses—one he took from her and set on the table behind them. “Thanks,” she murmured. “And yes, there are loads of things I can’t do, things I suck at.”
He slipped his arm around her waist. “Lies.”
For a moment, she leaned back against him. “Okay, you’re right. I’m brilliant at everything I take up, and I definitely, definitely don’t have a closet that’s overloaded with old clothes and needs to be organized, or always forget to take my car in for an oil change, or really, really suck at cross-stitch.”
Brandon ran his fingers through the soft waves tumbling down her shoulder. “Cross-stitch?”
“I wanted a hobby.” A shrug. “Turns out, I’m only good at making knots.”
He bent, kissed her cheek. “Want me to make you a drink?”
A wide smile, warm eyes on him, her body melting back against his. She smelled like roses and vanilla. She smelled like home. She felt like home, there in his arms. “Okay,” she said, and he realized his mistake because his offer had her slipping out of his hold. But then she was looking at him expectantly and with challenge in her eyes.
“Well,” he murmured, “I know you like wine.”
“Pft. Going the easy way out?” she teased.
“But,” he said, talking over her. “I have a feeling that you’re a straightforward drink kind of girl.” He glanced at her, but her face was unreadable. “Not tequila,” he murmured, remembering the hangovers they’d both gotten the first time they’d experimented with alcohol. Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes warmed. He picked up a bottle of rum, used the shot glass measuring thingy to pour her a drink. One part of rum, and the rest of the glass with Coke and ice.
He handed it to her, watched as she sipped.
“Well?” he asked when she set it down.
Her lips curved. “It’s a decent rum and Coke.”
“Decent?” He wrapped his arms around her. “Just decent?”
A shrug that brought her breasts against him. A shrug that someone might interpret as casual, except for the hard nipples against his chest, the heat in her eyes. “Just decent,” she repeated, her lips curving up, and it wasn’t the time or place for it, but her mouth was tipped up, and her smile was sexy and—
He had to kiss her.
So, he did.
And then felt that hope inside him cover him from head to toe when she didn’t hesitate to kiss him back.
Scar had interrupted the kiss, pulling Brandon away so he couldn’t distract her best bartender.
“And the raffle is getting ready to start,” she said. “You’ll need to pull your ticket so I can make the announcement.”
He nodded, started toward the table holding the huge glass bowls, most of which were now overflowing with raffle tickets.
Scarlett caught his arm.
“Also, if you hurt my friend again, I will chop off your balls, freeze them in those giant ice cube holders, and then shatter them with a hammer.”
Brandon’s brows lifted. “You’re violent.”
“I know it’s not your fault. But”—she patted his cheek—“balls, hammer, shattered into pieces.” A smile. “Don’t forget it.”
He shuddered. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”
She led him to the tables, pointed out his bowl, and then had him reach in and pull out a ticket without looking at it.
“Thank you,” she sing-songed, snagging it from his fingers, before flitting off to the microphone and quieting the crowd as he made his way back toward Fanny. Scar hadn’t threatened his balls if he distracted Fanny, so he was going to make the most of their evening.
He slid behind the bar, wrapped an arm around her waist, and started to bend over to resume their kiss when he heard his name over the speakers.
“. . . For dinner with a successful sports agent, Brandon Cunningham, VP at Prestige Media Group—”
Fan swatted him. “You’re a raffle prize?” she asked.
“It’s a long story. I’m helping out a friend.”
“. . . Insights from one of the best in the business, and he’ll even pay the tab.” The crowd laughed. “Our first prize winner of the evening is . . . Stephanie Douglas!”
The crowd applauded.
Brandon went stiff, though not as stiff as Fan. He glanced down at her, took in the shock on her face, the clenched jaw, he said, “I’m guessing you didn’t enter for my raffle prize.”
Her eyes narrowed. “No.”
“Who—”
He didn’t have to finish the question. “Ah. Scarlett at work.”
Fanny nodded brusquely.
His lips tipped up. “Good thing I’d already planned to take you to dinner. Two birds, one stone.”
Her eyes flashed. “We’re not going on a date.”
His brows lifted. “We’re not?”
She pushed out of his hold. “No, we’re not. I can’t. We can’t—”
“We are so going on a date,” he said, snagging her again. “Whether it’s from Scarlett’s intervention or of our own volition.”
A huff. “I’m going to—”
“Kiss me. And then go on a date with me.”
“That’s not happening,” she growled, swatting at his chest. “I can’t believe Scar did that. She needs to pick another ticket. It’s not fair. I didn’t enter for the prize, and someone else is going to miss out, and—”
He slanted his lips over hers, kissed her until they were both breathless.
“Go on a date with me,” he said. Or maybe begged.
Either way, it seemed to do the trick.
She softened. “Okay to the date, but no to the stealing a prize from someone who paid good money to be here and—”
“You’re accepting it.”
Brandon managed to tear his gaze from Fanny and glanced over at Scarlett.
“That’s not fair—”
Scar reached out and snagged Fanny from Brandon’s arms. She dropped her hands onto Fanny’s shoulders and shook her lightly. “Life has dealt you more than your fair share of unfair. You’re accepting this. You’re going on a date with Brandon, and you’re going to have a good time.”
“But someone else might want—”
Scarlett just crossed her arms and waited.
Fanny sighed. “You’re not going to change your mind, are you?”
“No.” Scar glared. “I don’t care if you throw a fit. You’re still going to do this. Not for me, for yourself. No more waffling and worrying, just go for it. Go for what you want.”
“You’re a terrible friend,” Fan muttered.
“I love you, too,” Scarlett said, completely undeterred by the muttering, “but you’re still doing this.”
Fanny’s eyes drifted up to his, as though expecting to find an answer in them, but Brandon wasn’t going to touch that with a ten-foot pole. This was between her and her friend. He’d already gotten his date. He couldn’t give a shit about it being the raffle prize, or having to have another dinner with another prizewinner.
Sighing, reading his reluctance to dive in, she turned back to Scar. “What are you doi
ng?”
Scarlett leaned in and spoke in her ear, saying something that Brandon couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, it seemed to have the desired effect because Fanny’s expression settled and softened. She pulled back, nodded, and then hugged Scar.
A moment later, Scarlett had drifted away, probably to cause more chaos somewhere else. Or well, not chaos, but to do whatever it took to get that money.
He sidled up to Fanny, slid an arm around her waist.
She didn’t pull away and that, more than anything else, was the biggest victory of the night. There was a chance at a future with her.
“So,” he murmured, running his fingers down her throat, “where should we go for our date tomorrow?”
“To—tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” he repeated, nuzzling her throat.
He had this in, the door was nudged a little wider, and he wasn’t going to give her the chance to slam it closed.
Chapter Fifteen
Fanny
She was exhausted.
It was the evening after the raffle, she’d hardly slept the night before, and only part of that was because of Scar’s shenanigans the previous evening.
The rest was nerves.
She’d driven home and laid in bed and hadn’t been able to sleep for hours.
It was so easy to be confident when all the yumminess of Brandon was in her vicinity, to lean into him when he slid an arm around her waist, to kiss him back when his lips found hers, but when he wasn’t there and she was in her bed alone, under the covers, and all was quiet, the old doubts had decided to creep in.
What if he got sick again?
What if he forgot again?
What if she got her heart broken again?
What if—
The scenarios were endless . . . and terrifying.
She’d been up until the sun had begun to rise, unable to sleep until she’d finally given in and walked to the kitchen, grabbing the scarf Brandon had given her, wrapping the only piece of him she had in her possession around her, and that was what it had taken for her finally fall asleep.
Obviously, she’d slept the day away, thanking God it was Saturday and she had no clinics to teach and could laze in bed.
Now, she was still in her bedroom, having gorged herself on caramels while she was getting ready for her date. Probably, she should deliberately dress all frumpy, just because he’d been so presumptuous with the whole date-asking, taking advantage of her being so discombobulated to get her to agree, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She wanted to bring her A-game.
She wanted his eyes to pop out of his head.
She wanted him to look at her with the tangle of heat and need that had danced across his dark brown eyes the night before.
So . . . she’d brought her A-game.
Sleek black stockings that stopped at mid-thigh. A lavender garter belt that she’d bought on a whim and never worn, the thin elastic bands making her shiver where they pressed into the skin on the front and back of her legs. Her bra was hardly more than a scrap of lace with absolutely no support. It looked pretty and the material brushed over her already sensitive nipples, causing desire to pool in her abdomen, moisture to flood her pussy.
The man wasn’t even here yet, and she wanted him.
Desperately.
Her hands shook as she stepped into her dress and tugged up the zipper, thankful that it was under her arm, and she wasn’t forced to contort herself to get it pulled up.
Then she was stepping into her stilettos, knowing her feet would be killing her in no time at all.
Worth it.
They made her legs look long and lean, and paired with her gorgeous black dress with its plunging neckline, short hem, and barely-there back, she knew she looked good. Combined with the full face of makeup, fake lashes, and long, loose curls down her back, she felt ready to take on the world when the doorbell rang.
She hustled to her bedroom and brushed her teeth in record time, thankful that her lipstick was the smudge-free variety, then moved downstairs and to the door . . . just as the bell rang again.
“Impatient,” she muttered, reaching to open it.
“Sorry,” Brandon said the moment it swung wide. “I wasn’t sure you’d heard the—holy fucking shit.” His jaw dropped open—literally open—and damn, that felt great for a number of reasons. First, she wasn’t the one with her mouth gaping open, ready to catch flies. For another, she got that tangle of heat and need. And lastly, his throat worked for a long moment before he spoke again, his voice all sexy rasp that slid over her exposed skin. “You are so fucking beautiful.”
“Yeah?” she whispered.
“Yeah.” He reached for her then stopped, as though he didn’t know where he could touch her.
If he could touch her.
She helped him cross that hurdle by stepping forward, not stopping until her body was flush with his. He looked good, too. Great, actually. He was wearing another one of those suits, and it showcased his long, lean lines. Mouthwateringly so.
But then she was against him and could see nothing but the strong delineation of his jaw, the soft cushions of his lips, the deep brown of his eyes.
He had a scar to the right of his eyebrow, one she hadn’t seen before, and she found herself reaching up and brushing her thumb over it. “What happened?” she whispered. He hadn’t had it when they’d been together.
His hand came up and covered hers, the roughness of his fingertips making her lean more heavily against him.
“I should tell you I got into a bar fight,” he murmured, his words ruffling her hair.
“Or stopped a little old lady from getting mugged?” She played along.
“Then saved a stray kitten from a tree?”
She nodded, shifting back enough to see his eyes, her lips curving upward when she saw the amusement dancing through those chocolate depths. “Exactly,” she said, slowly sliding her fingers down his temple, his cheek, his jaw, his throat until her palm rested on his shoulder. “So, you clearly won the fight, saved the old lady, and rescued the kitten, and . . . ?”
“Ran into a cabinet I didn’t close?” he chimed in.
Fanny froze. Then busted out laughing. “Seriously?” she asked through her guffaws.
“Unfortunately, yes.” He pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen into her face. “But I got six stitches and a lesson in why I should close them.”
“But the question is do you close them?”
A grin. “Yes, I learned that lesson, I promise.”
“Glad to hear my head is safe.”
He smiled down at her. “Should we go to dinner?”
Fan nodded, started to step out of his arms, then realized how much she hated the idea of not being held by him, even for just a couple of hours while they drove to the restaurant and ate. “Brandon?” she asked softly.
“Yeah, baby?” he asked, smoothing his hand over her hair.
“Do you want to go to dinner?”
His hand stopped, just for a moment, before weaving into her hair and gently tilting her head back. “Do you want to go to dinner?”
She shook her head.
“Thank fuck,” he muttered.
Shock had her blinking at him as he backed her into the house and shut the door behind him. Click went the lock. Then his mouth was on hers. She gasped, and he took advantage, slipping his tongue inside and kissing her until she forgot about the fact that her feet were already pinching in her heels, that her lungs needed air, that her heart threatened to pound out of her chest.
When he broke away, her pulse was thundering in her veins, her breathing in rapid gusts.
“Why . . . thank . . . fuck?” she gasped.
He grinned, not even out of breath when she was feeling like she’d run a goddamn marathon. “Because I don’t have to fight off all the other fuckers who would be looking at you tonight.”
That had her straightening, her brows dragging together. “I hope you’re not being serious.”
“Do you want me to cook you dinner?” he asked when he’d released her lips.
It was so silken, so quiet that it took her a moment to process. “Um, what?”
“Are you hungry?”
She was hungry for sure. But dinner was the last thing on her mind. But wait, she needed to remember what had sparked her annoyance a moment before. What was it? Oh—
“You’re not going to tell me how to dress,” she said, jabbing a finger into his chest. He’d hadn’t tried to before, but this was a different Brandon in a lot of ways—older, stronger, more intense—and she needed to set him straight right off the bat. If she wanted to run around San Francisco naked during Bay to Breakers, she damn well could. If she wanted to wear her sexy dress and not care who looked, then she damned well would.
“Of course not.”
The matter-of-fact way he said it took the wind out of her sails. She’d just been getting her mad on, and he responded with the correct answer.
“Oh,” she said.
“But I’m not going to pretend that I don’t have a claim.”
That made her brows lift.
“Is that going to be a problem?” he asked.
Fanny should say it was going to be, just out of principal. She was a strong, independent woman. The only one with a claim over her was her. But . . . she couldn’t lie and say a tiny part of her wasn’t thrilled with Brandon wanting her to be his, so long as—
“Is it going to be a problem when I claim you?” she asked archly.
He froze, his eyes got all melty, and he stepped closer. “No.” His mouth came to her ear, his tongue darting out to taste the lobe. “I’d be honored to be claimed by you.”
Her breath caught.
But she was that strong, independent woman.
Which meant that even though his eyes were warm and his tongue made her shiver, she still knew what she wanted.
And that was Brandon.
Oh fuck.