She lets out a laugh, but it’s cold and tired and not the one I love to hear.
“This’ll blow over, Jules. There’s nothing to it.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I want to put my arms around her. I want to kiss her hair and feel her melt into me. Be the comfort I know she needs.
But we aren’t there yet, and this bullshit isn’t getting us any closer, that’s for sure.
“It’s just the perception. It’s—”
“It’s bullshit, but it’s part of the job you have.” I get it.
“Yeah.”
Last night she was throwing the F-word around again. Friends. I don’t like it, but with the shit she’s putting up with at work, all I want is to make things easier for her, not harder.
So we can play at just friends a little longer, but sooner or later it’s not going to be enough for either of us. That’s when we’ll bury the just between us, once and for all.
I rub a hand over my chest. Christ, I can’t wait.
But for now... “You get the Xbox game I sent you?”
She laughs, and it’s soft and warm and just for me. “I did. Soccer’s an interesting pick.”
I settle deeper against the headboards. “Figured neither one of us would have an unfair advantage. But you can only practice at it for one hour before we play online.”
“Worried I’m gonna shame you?”
Absolutely.
We talk some more, the conversation lightening as we skip around from Matty’s preschool crush to Rux’s new car to the salad Julia ate for dinner. When she gives in to her first yawn, I offer to drive over and tuck her in. And I get the laugh I was hoping for.
A few more days and I’ll get a yes.
“Wait—‘no’?” I shake my head and plant one fist on the kitchen counter as Julia spins into yet another excuse as to why we can’t meet up in person. Again.
It’s been another two weeks, and while our travel schedules haven’t exactly lined up, there have been opportunities. And now this.
“I mean, that sneeze. He could be coming down with a bug. Kids pick up everything, you know? I couldn’t live with myself if you got sick because of me. Especially in the middle of the season.”
Her words are rushed, almost pleading. A part of me wants to laugh at what a shit liar she is, because it’s kind of adorable—but the greater part of me is pissed. This isn’t about Matty having a bug. Just like three days ago wasn’t about Cammy needing a girls’ night in.
Cammy’s got Instagram too. I follow her, and the posts from that night were all about being bored out of her mind and wishing she hadn’t cancelled her plans.
Julia’s still talking about the various strains of flu going around when I cut her off.
“You’re dodging me. At least, dodging seeing me.” We’re talking more than ever, so I know it’s not like she isn’t interested. “What gives?”
Silence.
“Look, Greg, I want to see you. I do. I’m just… nervous.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. “Nervous about what?”
“Things have been so good with us. Maybe I’m just a little nervous about rocking the boat. I like what we have. I just… don’t want to mess it up.”
“Mess it up how?”
She sighs, and I imagine her biting her plush bottom lip, and those heavy-lidded eyes cutting away from me.
“No one crosses any lines when it’s just us talking. I mean, no one crosses any real lines. It’s not just the stuff going on with work. The perception stuff. It’s what might actually happen between us. I mean, we flirt and tease, and innuendo is practically your second language. But when it’s over the phone, it’s safe.”
“You’re worried I’ll cross the line if we see each other?”
That laugh. Damn.
“I’m worried you’ll cross all of them.”
She’s a smart woman, but this time she’s wrong. “Julia, give it a chance. I swear, I’ll let you set the tone. Trust me?”
If anyone’s going to cross the line, it’s her.
Julia
“You sound like you’re putting makeup on.”
I blink at my reflection in the compact I’m holding. “What? Greg, seriously, how did you know that?” I spin around in my seat, checking out the windows to see if maybe he’s in the car beside me—but no.
His chuckle is low. “Your words get a little slower, softer around the edges.”
There’s a thrill of satisfaction in knowing he’s listening so carefully.
“You nervous?”
He isn’t asking about the charity dinner I’ll be speaking at this evening, and I know it. He’s asking about seeing him.
About the two of us sharing space in the same room for the first time since the incident at Martin’s party.
“Are you?”
“Nah. Excited to see you. Want to get my hug on and see that sweet smile in person.”
“Yeah, I know how you feel.” I want to leave it at that, but I can’t. “But, um, Greg. This is us being friends. I mean, really, just friends.” I sigh, watching as we cut through the downtown traffic. “I feel bad even saying it, but you promised.”
“Don’t feel bad. And don’t worry. As insanely hot as what happened last time was, I’m not about to push for something you don’t want. I swore you’ll be the one who sets the tone, and I’ll follow. Promise.”
I relax into the deep backseat.
Then there’s nothing to worry about.
I arrive at the benefit early to meet with Georgina and Stuart. I’ve been to too many of these things to count, but even I’m taken aback by the elegance of the grand ballroom. Georgina waves to me from across the vast room, signaling toward Stuart, who’s already heading my way.
“Julia!” He greets me with bright eyes and an affectionate kiss. “Georgina has been telling everyone about Mr. Baxter’s attendance tonight. However you got him to agree, we’re in your debt.”
My smile is camera-ready as I answer. “We went to high school together and I saw him at our reunion last month. The timing happened to work.”
“Is he with you?”
“No. But I’m sure he’ll arrive soon.”
Stuart introduces me to a few of the key players for the benefit and shows me where I’ll need to stand and when to be ready. Soon the room begins to fill.
It’s a great turnout, and from all accounts, donations are expected to surpass our goal.
I’m talking with an older couple from Lake Forest when I happen to glance up, and whatever I was in the middle of saying dries on my tongue, the breath leaks from my lungs, and everything… just… stops.
Greg. He steps out of the elevator, wearing that brazenly confident, criminally sexy smile slanted across his mouth, looking completely devastating in the custom tux he warned me about last week. My heart starts to pound as he nods to someone passing by and shoots his cuffs, laughing at a joke I’m too far away to hear.
I can’t take my eyes off him. Not just because of the immaculate cut of his tux or seeing his perpetually wild hair smoothed back into a style so neat my fingers itch with the need to delve into it. But because this is the first time I’ve laid eyes on him since Martin’s party, and the impact of actually seeing him in person after a month and a half—as opposed to watching the footage from his games or having this larger-than-life man safely reduced to the rectangle on my phone—is overwhelming me in a way I should have expected… but didn’t.
God, he’s tall.
This is bad.
And broad.
Very bad.
He’s barely arrived, and already I feel the crazy pull that has nothing to do with thirteen years of friendship and everything to do with those scant few minutes we threw caution to the wind.
I’m stronger than this.
I know better.
I can’t believe how good his legs look when he walks.
Swallowing, I drag my eyes up but get stuck on the single button closing his jacket. His stomac
h is hard-packed perfection beneath that jacket. His chest too. And his shoulders. God, I shouldn’t be thinking about the rounded balls of his shoulders. I shouldn’t be mentally peeling him out of that tux or calling up the memories of those precious few moments when I got to touch him. I shouldn’t be staring at him at all.
My eyes creep higher. Up the thick column of his neck, over the clean-shaven lines of his solid jaw to his mouth. His dirty, dirty mouth.
My own mouth gets dry as I think about the gruff sound of his voice and the things he’s already said to me.
I follow the broken line of his masculine nose to his hard blue eyes… staring straight back at me.
Uh-oh.
10
Greg
I’M NOT EVEN all the way into the ballroom when I see her. Julia’s surrounded by couples decked out in their most elegant attire, but she blows them all away. Christ, she’s fucking gorgeous. She’s wearing a sheer dress in deep red that breaks a few inches above her knees and drapes close enough to her curves to hint at them without giving away exactly what’s there. It’s sexy and bold, while somehow keeping her modest at the same time. Her hair is pinned up in a not-too-neat twist that shows off the bare length of her neck… and she’s watching me. And not in an ooh look, my favorite pal just showed up way either.
Pals don’t catch their breath when they see you. They don’t let their eyes do that slow-crawl thing down your body and then, even slower, back up again. And they definitely don’t turn that particular shade of scarlet when they realize you’ve seen the whole thing and then turn away like maybe the singe marks on your tux will just go away if they pretend it didn’t happen.
Not a chance, Jules.
She just set the tone with that look, and I’m ready to follow. As in, I’m checking the exits, wondering whether the clasp on her dress is on the back or the side, and starting to speculate about what her lip gloss tastes like. Fine, I was thinking about that before I even left my building, but honestly, I thought I’d have longer to wait before Julia flat-out broke every rule she’d made with one single scorching look.
I don’t make it more than two feet when a woman dressed in some kind of black tent with rhinestones the size of my thumb around the neck stops in front of me, introducing herself as Georgina, the coordinator for the event.
She’s attractive, probably around fifty, and before I can take another step toward the ballroom or Julia within it, this little bulldozer hustles me toward a private room off to the side.
“Some of our biggest contributors are hockey fans, so we thought you might have a drink alone with them before the rest of the evening kicks off.”
I want to go find Julia before she can talk herself into believing that look was anything other than what it was. The deathblow to the just she keeps propping up between us.
But that’s not why we’re here. Or not the only reason, anyway.
I follow Georgina, and when I step into the Astor Room, I’m met with cheers. The guys surrounding me are dressed in custom tuxes on par with mine, but with studs and links that probably cost more than my first car. They walk over, offering handshakes and congratulations on our last win and the season in general.
It’s flattering, and if every molecule in my being wasn’t focused on getting back to Julia and finding out just how she intends to go forward from here, I’d be all about shooting the shit for awhile. As it is, I force myself to engage.
Nod.
Smile.
Thank you.
Repeat.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, signaling a text. It could be my little sister asking to score some tickets for her friends… or it could be Julia, trying to talk me out of what I just saw.
I want it to be Julia, just so I can tell her where to meet me, so we can put this charade behind us once and for all. Her career can handle a relationship. Even one with an athlete.
But pulling out my phone to check a text would be shitty. I don’t want to be that guy. So I give the contributors the time they bid on, talk up the charity we’re all supporting in the hopes that by the time they walk out tonight, they feel good enough to cut another check.
It’s not too long before Georgina is back. The guys clap me on the shoulder and shake my hand, thanking me for coming out and wishing me and the team luck through the rest of the season.
“Greg, I’ve got a few friends I’d love for you to meet.” Georgina the bulldozer hooks her arm through mine, no doubt ready to lead me around for the rest of the night. It’s the reason I’m here, at least on paper. But I need a minute.
“Actually, I’ve got a call I need to make. Mind if I hang back? I’ll find you when I’m through.”
I flash a smile and then wait for her to leave before walking over to the windows overlooking the river and pulling out my phone. There’s a single message from Julia.
Julia: It was an accident.
An accident. Like maybe if she’d realized I was walking in, she would have braced herself? The way just friends shouldn’t have to.
I’m already dialing.
“Greg,” she says. I can hear the apology in her voice alongside the din of the party. “I think you’re going to have to tease me or something, so I know we’re okay.”
“Tease you about what? The way you stripped me naked and did dirty things to me with your eyes?”
“Yeah, that.” She pauses. “Where are you?”
“Astor Room. Left of the elevators. But I’m about to go make the rounds with Georgina.”
“Right. Well, I’ll see you later then.”
“Julia?”
“Yes?”
“When you do… we’re going to talk about that look.”
Julia
I don’t want to talk about that look. In fact, up until ten seconds ago, I’d been doing a bang-up job of ensuring we haven’t had the opportunity to discuss it all evening. It’s a big ballroom, and if Greg happened to be at the north end, I managed to stay south. The few times I couldn’t stop our paths from crossing, I made sure to pull someone, anyone, along with me, thus ensuring the conversation stayed far, far away from the look that got away from me.
Until now, it had been working. Unfortunately, my conversation buffer just saw her fiancé come in, and the little traitor sprinted off, leaving me staring up at Greg. Nothing to distract me from this gorgeous man in his tuxedo and the trouble I’m having keeping my eyes to myself.
I’m surrounded by good-looking men on a regular basis, and it never gets to me. But with Greg, I can barely breathe. I can hardly look at him without heat spilling into my cheeks, and as to tearing my eyes away? Forget it.
Which is crazy. I’m not fifteen. This isn’t my first crush.
It’s not a crush at all.
It’s Greg, one of my oldest friends and the guy I just promised I wouldn’t objectify tonight. We’re friends. Just friends.
With no more hookups between us.
No more kissing.
No more flirting.
I shake my head, mentally amending the no-more-flirting clause, because this is Greg. Flirting is like breathing for him—an involuntary response, and one I sort of cherish.
But no more staring!
“Thought we discussed you avoiding me,” he says.
Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. Don’t—
God, he’s so handsome it hurts.
A waiter passes by, and I swipe a glass of white wine from his tray. “I’m not.”
He lets out a low laugh that slides right through to the deepest parts of me.
“Glad to hear it.” He steps closer, ducking his head so his next words are directed at me and me alone. We’re standing in the middle of hundreds of people, but when his eyes are on me like that, a glint of amusement edging a more serious intent, it feels like we’re alone. “Should we discuss that look?”
My cheeks burn hotter, and I toss back half my glass in one swallow. “It was just one look.”
I’m such a liar.
&n
bsp; He laughs again, letting up on the eye contact as he surveys the crowd. “There’s that just word again. I’m starting to think maybe you don’t think it means what it really means. And P.S. … it wasn’t just one.”
Geeze. This guy. “Greg, we’re past it. Everything is fine.”
So long as I don’t look at any part of him for more than a fraction of a second, we’re totally good.
“You’re sure?”
No. But I’m subscribing to the fake-it-’til-you-make-it school of thought here. “Absolutely.”
He rolls his shoulder in my peripheral vision. “Well, that’s a relief.”
“Good.” It’s definitely good. Right? I hazard another look at his face. “But out of curiosity, can I ask why?”
The corner of his mouth curves, and I feel the tug of it all the way through me.
“Because if you weren’t past it—if, for example, another one of those rogue looks got away from you while we were in the midst of this crowd—I could see where that might be a problem.”
I force myself to focus on the orchestra set up across the room. Only Greg isn’t done.
“But even if by some miracle they don’t catch the look in your eyes, and I do… then we’d have to worry about them seeing the look in mine. The one that says it’s only going to be a matter of seconds before I’ve got one hand in your hair and the other finding out what’s under that incredible dress.”
I try to swallow, but my throat makes a dry clicking sound, so I drain my glass.
Taking the empty from my hand, Greg returns it to a passing waiter.
He’s amused, the sexy jerk. He knew exactly what kind of effect that casual reference to getting under my dress would have.
“Good thing there’s zero chance of another one of those looks getting away from me. Ever.”
Okay, ever is probably a stretch, but he doesn’t have to snort about it. Cocky bastard.
I should let it go. Let him have his little laugh.
Taking the drink from his hand, I tap my index finger against the condensation-covered glass before bringing it to my lips. Club soda and lime.
Dirty Player Page 7