Wylde

by Sawyer Bennett

  “What for?” she asks suspiciously.

  “Um… because that’s sort of polite manners,” I say with a laugh. “At the very least, most women wait inside for their date to come up and escort them out.”

  “I’m not most women,” she replies tartly.

  “No, ma’am, you are not,” I agree wholeheartedly as she reaches me. I take her hand, tuck it into the crook of my elbow, and lead her back to my truck. “May I say you look incredibly lovely this fine evening?”

  The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a warm glow all around us and making the bare skin on Clarke’s arms shimmer. I feel like instead of a wedding, we should be having a moonlit picnic by a lily-strewn pond while crickets chirp in the background.

  Or some romantic shit like that, which is odd, as I’m the least romantic dude in the world. But, for whatever reason, Clarke sort of inspires those thoughts, which is something that freaks me out a bit. I’m way out of my comfort zone here, yet… I’m looking forward to the evening ahead.

  When we reach my truck, Clarke looks at it with apprehension, as even with the running board, it’s quite the hike up.

  “Your chariot awaits,” I advise with a sweep of my arm. Clarke snorts in return.

  I open the door, then hold her hand as she delicately puts one sandaled foot on the running board and her other hand on the door. With one tiny bounce, she hoists herself into the seat, primly tucking her dress around her legs as I shut the door.

  ♦

  The evening is turning out to be a lot of fun, and Clarke’s actually letting her hair down a bit, but only in the metaphorical sense. I would kill to actually see it down in its full glory, and I wonder how far it’ll hang down her back.

  Most of the team also made this wedding as they did last week with Erik and Blue’s. In contrast to that one, Dax and Regan decided to have theirs in a small non-denominational church they attend sometimes.

  They went traditional on everything, sparing no expense or detail. Some would think it strange, given they’d already been married for several months, but their marriage came about in the most unconventional of manners. Dax married Regan to provide her health insurance as she battles an extremely rare blood disorder. They fell in love after that and now, Dax is giving her the wedding she’d always dreamed about.

  At least that’s what my best friend Tacker told me, who got it straight from his woman, Nora, who got it from Regan.

  Regardless, she has the classic white wedding dress that makes her look like a fairy-tale princess. Dax is dapper in a tuxedo. They don’t have a huge contingent of people at their sides. Regan chose Dax’s sister, Willow, to be her maid of honor.

  Or, rather, I guess it’s matron of honor as Willow eloped to Vegas with the team’s owner, Dominik Carlson, the day after the Vengeance won the Cup. They’ve since been on an extended honeymoon in the Maldives, having just made it back yesterday to attend this wedding.

  Dax chose Legend Bay, our team’s goalie, to be his best man, which caused a good-natured argument among Bishop and Erik, who both felt they were equal candidates. They were still grumbling about it ten minutes ago when I went to get refills on drinks for Clarke and me.

  The reception is at some ritzy country club Dax and Regan don’t belong to, but who will rent out their facilities to a Vengeance superstar with no qualms. They went over the top with a surf-and-turf dinner, open bar, and live band for us to dance away to all evening long.

  The one similarity to Erik and Blue’s wedding is Dax and Regan also have the Cup at their wedding reception, which they filled with champagne and dipped glasses in for their first toast.

  Clarke and I are seated at a table with Tacker, Nora, Bishop, and Brooke for the meal. Erik and Blue are not here as they’re still away on their honeymoon. Legend and Willow, along with their partners, sat at the bride and groom’s table.

  Since the meal has concluded, most people mingle around in between band sets of the finest cover songs, switching up tables to sit and chat. The traditional bride-and-groom dance has been completed with Peter Frampton singing Baby, I Love Your Way.

  Clarke is currently at our table beside Pepper and Willow, and she’s engaged in an animated discussion. Pepper is an author and writes children’s stories. Willow is a photojournalist. I figured they’d both get along with Clarke, and I see I’m correct.

  It was cool this past week when I’d found one of Pepper’s books on the shelves in Clarke’s store while I was browsing, and she’d freaked out I knew the author. On the way to the wedding, Clarke asked me if she thought it would be tacky if she asked Pepper to do a signing at the store. I assured her it would not. I’m confident Pepper would be glad to do it.

  The men have vacated the table, but we’re all standing in a cluster right beside it, reliving some of the Cup championship game, because yes… three weeks since the win and we’re still riding the high.

  A slow song starts playing—one I frankly don’t recognize—but Tacker turns his back on me in midsentence, then pulls Nora up from the table, interrupting a conversation she was having with Brooke.

  I glance over at Clarke. I haven’t had a moment alone with her since we got here. This reception proved to be about the worst place to take a date since it’s such a social event, and Clarke had met most of the people last weekend. She’s a natural extrovert, which I witnessed all week at her store as she greeted customers and carried on interesting conversations with them. She’s spent most of the evening talking with the women—Willow being the only one Clarke hadn’t met last weekend.

  But watching Tacker pull Nora in close to him for a dance, I realize I have the perfect opportunity for some alone time with Clarke. I haven’t forgotten she made it clear she’s only in this for the two dates I won from her.

  I move around the table, come up behind Pepper so Clarke sees me, and gift her with a charming smile. Her eyes rise to meet mine, causing Pepper and Willow to shift to see what has her attention.

  I hold my hand out. “Would you like to dance?”

  I half expect her to say, “not really,” which could very well be a joke, or, equally as plausible, could be the truth. To my pleasant surprise, she places her hand in mine and gracefully pushes out of her chair.

  The weight of stares as I lead her to the dance floor is palpable. Tonight, almost every one of my teammates has managed to pull me aside or catch me away from Clarke to inquire about being seen with the same woman more than once. I took a ton of ribbing from the guys, and I got a lot of sappy, romantic looks from their women. Brooke even managed to corner me to tell me how much she likes Clarke, and how she hopes we’ll be happy together.

  I didn’t have the heart or the guts to tell them Clarke doesn’t really want to be here, has some sort of grudge against men, and I’ll most likely never see her again.

  But at least I have this dance right now.

  The floor fills up with other couples, and I lead Clarke right to the middle. As a defenseman, I can be rough and tumble on the ice, but I’ve always been a smooth dancer. While I love clubbing and dancing to a much faster beat, there’s nothing wrong with a slow dance and a beautiful woman held captive in my arms.

  It’s the closest Clarke and I have been physically since we’ve met. I take advantage of the situation to wrap my arm completely around her, pulling her in close. When I take her hand in mine, she rests hers on my shoulder.

  At first, as we’re swaying, she doesn’t look at me. Pretending to be interested in her surroundings, she averts her eyes to the side, smiling at those who dance around us. That’s fine by me—at least for a bit. I don’t mind looking at her. Even with her glasses covering a good chunk of her face, there’s still plenty to stare at that’s awfully pretty.

  “So…” I finally drawl, trying to get her attention. She swings her gaze up. “Are you really going to stick to your guns and refuse to go out with me past this date?”

  She blinks in surprise. “You mean you want to go out with me again?”

&n
bsp; She sounds so stunned I take a quiet, reflective moment to ascertain if I truly do. The question was sort of spontaneous and now that I think about it, I have to wonder why I would want to.

  Clarke has kept me at arm’s length, only opening up in bits and pieces. I had to essentially force her to go out with me, and at this moment, I don’t even see sex as an option any time soon. Which, let’s face it, is my primary motivator in taking a woman out.

  And yet, I find myself admitting, “I’d very much like to take you out again. Without having to win it from you on a dare or a bet.”

  Her gaze slides away from mine, and she looks around the room. Chewing on her lower lip, she thinks about my offer. I can tell it’s this environment that has her doubting if she should.

  “Hey,” I say, putting my fingertips to her chin and forcing her eyes to mine. “Why don’t you tell me about whatever it is that’s holding you back? I know there’s something in particular.”

  Her eyes move to mine, and in a moment of brutal honesty I wasn’t expecting, she says, “Something happened to me in the national limelight by someone famous. It was incredibly hurtful and completely humiliating. Unfortunately, because of that experience, I tend to lump all famous people—celebrities, sports stars, what have you—into the same deceitful category. I know it’s not right. It’s not fair. But I just have incredible reservations about getting involved with someone who has the power to hurt me like that again.”

  I am so stunned I actually stop moving. My feet plant solidly on the dance floor, my hands finding my way to Clarke’s waist to hold her still. “What happened?” I ask, the concern in my tone evident.

  She lets out a deep sigh, shaking her head. “I really don’t want to get into it here—”

  Enough said. Taking her hand, I lead her from the dance floor.

  “Where are we going?” she asks, almost needing to jog to keep up with my long strides.

  “Somewhere private where we can talk,” I say, moving right to our table so we can grab her purse.

  Brooke, Pepper, and Willow are still sitting there, and they smile when we approach. I’m not sure what they see in my expression, but Pepper asks, “Is everything okay?”

  I offer a confident smile, but I’m on edge over Clarke’s ominous words. Even though I barely know her and have no clue what happened to her, I’m already planning the death of the man who hurt her.

  Strange.

  “Everything’s fine,” I assure Pepper, pulling Clarke into my side. “We’re just going to head out. Go somewhere for a cup of coffee.”

  All three women regard us with blank expressions, probably wondering if I’ve gone off the deep end since it’s unlikely Aaron Wylde ever had a cup of coffee with a woman unless it was before kicking her out of his bed in the morning.

  “See you around,” Clarke says to the women.

  “I’ll come by your store next week,” Pepper promises. “We’ll talk about setting up a signing.”

  “I’d love that,” Clarke replies with gratitude.

  “Give Dax and Regan our regards, regrets, whatever you call it,” I mutter, grabbing Clarke’s tiny purse and handing it to her. Then her hand is in mine, and we’re making our way out of the country club to find a private place to talk.

  CHAPTER 8

  Clarke

  The greater part of me doesn’t want to tell Aaron about what happened. It’s so humiliating and painful I’m sick to my stomach right now even thinking about it.

  But something happened this week with Aaron’s repeated visits to my store, sometimes to just quietly sit in my presence, that changed something in me. It made me realize Aaron’s not just out to score. I mean… look at the man. He could crook his finger… and a hundred gorgeous women would come running. I made the mistake of googling him one night, hoping to learn a bit about the sport he played, and I ended up learning stuff about him that I wish I hadn’t.

  He’s what would be considered the team’s player. While many of the Vengeance players are in committed relationships, Aaron’s the leader of the single guys. I don’t know how many photos I found of him online, all with different women.

  What I took from it, though, is I do believe he’s genuinely interested in me. And because of that, I feel I owe him the truth of why nothing will probably ever come of this, because I’m not sure I can ever trust him. I want him to know it’s not him… it’s me.

  So I’m going to swallow my pride, dredge up the horrific memories, and lay it out straight.

  Wylde keeps a hold of my hand as we leave the country club. He helps me into his massive truck and when he settles into the driver’s seat, he starts the engine and asks, “Where do you want to go so we can talk?”

  Smiling, I nod at his dashboard. “Crank that A/C. We can just sit here and talk.”

  “Don’t mind finding a bar for a drink or a coffee shop for some java if you want,” he suggests.

  “Actually… I don’t want to be in public when we talk about this because it’s not pleasant for me,” I explain.

  “And you don’t want to be a snotty mess around other people?” he guesses.

  I give him a sharp look. “I don’t cry over this. Not anymore. That still doesn’t make it pleasant, and it’s definitely not a conversation I’d have while sipping coffee or wine.”

  Duly chastised, Aaron’s expression turns somber. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light—”

  “No,” I blurt out, reaching out to touch his arm. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. But, as you can see, this entire thing sort of gets me riled up.”

  Aaron studies me before settling back against the driver’s door so he can more fully face me. With a sweep of his hand, he says, “Then just go ahead and get it out. Let’s talk right here in the privacy of my truck, and you can have whatever emotions you want knowing only I will see them and take them to my grave.”

  My lips press into a grim smile. “I wish you hadn’t turned out to be so nice,” I mutter. “You make this even more difficult.”

  He just smiles, indicating his patience to hear my entire story. I take a deep breath, then dive into my pain.

  “You know the show Celebrity Proposal?” I ask. The blankness on his face gives me the answer, so I take a moment to explain it. “It’s a popular network show where a famous single celebrity dates several common women with the goal being to fall in love and hopefully end up proposing to one.”

  Aaron’s brow furrows deeply. “Are you serious?”

  “Unfortunately, I am serious,” I reply dryly. “It’s like one of the top-watched shows in TV history. It’s sort of this whole pauper-to-princess type of mentality. That an average woman can hook a prince—or, in modern-day America, a celebrity.”

  Didn’t think it was possible, but Aaron’s eyebrows draw even closer together. “You know, it’s not lost on me that exactly describes you and me… not that I would consider you ‘common’ in any way, but I get what you’re saying about what this show tries to do.”

  I nod, twisting my fingers around one another. “Exactly. At any rate, I was invited to be on the show. My friend Veronica and I auditioned on a lark, and I really thought she’d get picked because even though I said these women are common and average, they really aren’t. They’re the most beautiful and gorgeous regular American women they can find.”

  “You’re beautiful and gorgeous,” he points out. “Granted… in a nonconventional, stand-out-in-a-crowd kind of way.”

  Aaron doesn’t realize he’s pretty much hitting the nail on the head on why I was chosen, and subsequently humiliated, but I’m too flattered by the fact he finds me beautiful to call him on it.

  “At any rate, I was young, stupid, and totally taken in by the producers when they invited me to be on the show. I was hesitant at first, but then easily seduced by their promises it would be the experience of a lifetime and true love always wins, etc. I was quite the romantic then.”

  If Aaron can’t tell by the bitterness in my voice, I�
�m not that romantic woman anymore.

  “So you went on the show?” he guesses.

  “Yeah,” I mutter, looking at my hands. “It was basically ten women, and we all lived in a house together. The celebrity single took us out on group dates, then single dates, and each week, he cut one woman from the show.”

  Aaron winces. “Ouch.”

  A laugh bubbles out. “Yeah… I thought I’d be one of the first to go. I didn’t look like the other women. Didn’t act like them. Was quiet. Didn’t demand attention. Wanted to discuss politics, not fashion. I didn’t fit in at all.”

  “I’m going to guess you didn’t get cut right away.” I can hear the slight bit of dread in his voice. He knows something bad happened, just not how bad.

  “I made it down to the final four,” I murmur, once again not able to hold his gaze. “And when you make it to that point, you go on an ‘overnight’ date where, as the producers told us, things might get… um… intimate… which was good for ratings, so we shouldn’t hold back.”

  Aaron shifts uncomfortably in his seat, but there’s no turning back for me. I have to tell him the rest of the ugly.

  I lift my head, locking eyes with him. “Just so you know, it wasn’t a game. I had real feelings for this guy, and I thought he returned them. It truly felt that way.”

  “Let me save you some pain in retelling this,” Aaron offers. “I’m going to guess you two got intimate, then it didn’t work out.”

  Oh, if only it were that simple. “I gave him my virginity.”

  Aaron stiffens, his frown turning downright scary.

  “And, as you might guess, he cut me from the show. But that’s not even the humiliating part.”

  “Not sure I want to know anymore,” Aaron growls.

  Too bad. He needs to understand. “The very night I was cut from the show, he went out with friends. Got drunk and told them all about our evening together. That I was a virgin, didn’t know what I was doing, and was so awful there was no way he could keep me around. He even told them he never wanted to keep me past the first round… that I would have been the first cut, but the producers pressured him to keep me so the below-average women would stay involved with the show. That I was good for ratings.”