by Tracy Wolff
“There is that,” she agrees as she pulls newspaper out of the top of the box. “Oh my God! Is this what I think it is?”
“I don’t know. What is it?” I put down the box I just picked up and lean over her shoulder to take a look. “Oh, there it is.”
“There it is?” Her voice is little more than a squeak. “There it is? That implies you lost it at some point and I know you didn’t lose it. Because…do you know what this is?”
“Of course I know what it is—I won it, after all. And I didn’t lose it. I just…lost track of it?”
“You lost track of it? It’s your Heisman trophy! How can you just lose track of your Heisman trophy?”
“I don’t know. I gave it to Heather right after I won it. Figured she deserved it as much as I did since she’s the one who was there at the beginning, catching all my practice throws after my dad died and football was the only thing keeping me sane.”
The memory forms a lump in my throat and I clear it a little, try to swallow down the sharp pain that slams through me when I least expect it. I must not do a very good job of it, though, because Emerson puts the trophy on a nearby table and then wraps her arms around my waist, pulling me close.
“I wish she was here,” I whisper, as I hold Emerson tight against me. Even six weeks after her funeral, losing Heather feels an awful lot like I imagine the phantom pain of losing a limb must feel like. I know she’s not here anymore, but I expect her to be—and every time I think of something I want to say to her, it’s like losing her all over again.
“I wish she was, too,” Emerson answers, her arms tight around my waist.
It’s not enough to take the ache away—nothing is—but it’s enough to soothe the sharp pain slicing through me, enough to have it fading back to bearable again. “What time is it?” I ask. “I’ve got to pick the kids up—”
“Actually, I arranged for Marta to pick them up today. I know it’s her day off, but she volunteered because of the move and I took her up on it. Figured it’d be better all the way around to keep their routine as normal as we possibly can.”
I’m overwhelmed all over again, have to clear my throat for the second time in as many minutes as I gaze down at the miraculous woman who’s agreed to be my wife. Eight weeks ago I had no idea she existed and now…now she’s moving in here with me, taking me on, my crazy career and two grieving kids—and making it all look simple. It’s hard to imagine how I got this lucky.
“Hey, come here,” I say, grabbing hold of her hand and gently tugging her over to the only chair in the room that isn’t currently covered with boxes. I sit and pull her down onto my lap.
She squirms a little before settling down against me. “I’m not having sex with you right now, Golden Boy. Marta and the kids will be here any minute and I don’t think catching us naked is quite the image we want to put into any of their heads—”
I kiss her then, partly to shut her up and partly because the feel of her thighs on mine makes me feel all kinds of down and dirty. She squirms a little more, but seconds later, her arms wind around my neck and she’s kissing me back. It’s the best feeling in the world.
I pull back way too soon, though, because there’s something on my mind and I’m not going to be able to settle until I talk to her about it. “Are you sure about this?” I ask as I tuck her crazy red curls behind her ear.
Her eyes go wide. “Are you not sure? Because, I’ve got to tell you, you’ve got really crappy timing—”
“Oh, I’m sure,” I answer. “But you’re taking on a lot and I don’t feel like you’re getting much in return. I just…I want you to be absolutely sure that this is what you want.”
“Don’t you mean that you’re what I want? You and the kids?”
“Yeah, actually. That’s exactly what I mean.” I don’t want to let her go—I don’t think I even can let her go at this point—but if she wants to slow things down, I’ll do my best to make that happen. “I want you to feel good about whatever decision—”
“I do feel good,” she interrupts, going so far as to put a hand over my mouth to shut me up. “And yes, it’s a lot. You’re a lot. But I love you and I love Brent and Lucy and I want us to be a family.”
I kiss her palm then pull her hand gently, inexorably, away from my mouth. “Are you su—”
“I’m sure enough to move into this damn house that has a pool and a hot tub and is twenty freaking feet from the Pacific Ocean. It doesn’t get any surer than that. So stop asking and kiss me again. By my calculations, we’ve got about twenty-five minutes before Marta and the kids show up and I expect you to put those minutes to good use. After all, this is one of the few rooms we haven’t christened yet and I expect you to do something about that.”
I’ve already got my hand under her shirt and my fingers working at her bra strap. “Far be it from me to disappoint a lady.”
She laughs as she tugs at my own shirt. “Somehow I knew you’d come around, Golden Boy.”
I laugh at the nickname. But as I slide my hand along her gorgeous, curvy thigh, I can’t help thinking how fitting the old name is. Because, despite everything—despite all the pain and rage and fear that came with losing Heather—I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little bit golden right now. Because I do. Finding Emerson has changed everything for me.
And while I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve her, I don’t care. She had her chance to get away and she didn’t take it, so now…now I’m keeping her. Forever.
For Marni, because you are the absolute best! I love you lots!
Acknowledgments
As always, there are so many people to thank when it comes to the writing and publishing of a book—so many moving parts that I’m so grateful not to have to do alone.
First of all, I need to thank my fans. Thank you so much for your excitement over my books. Thank you for buying them, reading them, leaving me comments about them, asking questions about them, coming to see me at book signings, etc. But most of all, thank you so, so much for being such wonderful, amazing people. I adore you all.
Second, I need to thank my amazing agent, Emily Sylvan Kim. You take the best care of me and my career and I’m grateful every day that I found you.
And finally, I have to thank my wonderful, brilliant, lovely editor, Sue Grimshaw, and the fabulous and magnificent Gina Wachtel. Sue and Gina, thanks so much for sticking by me through everything. You are absolutely the best and I love you more than I can ever say. Thanks to everyone else at Random House, as well, for doing such wonderful things for my books. xoxoxo
BY TRACY WOLFF
Lightning Novels
Down & Dirty
Hot & Heavy (coming soon)
Ethan Frost Novels
Ruined
Addicted
Exposed
Flawed
Hotwired
Accelerate
Other books
Full Exposure
Tie Me Down
Play Me (serialization)
Lovegame
EXTREME RISK SERIES
Shredded
Shattered
Slashed
PHOTO: © KEVIN GOURLEY
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author TRACY WOLFF lives in Texas and teaches writing at her local community college. She is married and the mother of three young sons.
tracywolffbooks.com
Facebook.com/TracyWolffAuthor
Twitter: @TracyWolff
Read on for an excerpt from
Hot & Heavy
by Tracy Wolff
Coming soon from Loveswept
Chapter 1
Sage
I’m bored. Like, really bored. I’ve spent most of the night at this ridiculous bachelorette party with people I barely know and I’m so ready for the night to be over. Normally, I have a strict only go to the parties of people I care about rule, but what was I supposed to do when Skye invited me to this thing? Say no?
Not super impressive considering we w
ork together. Even less impressive considering, while my mom is off trying to reaffirm who she is by climbing a mountain in Tibet, I’m the boss. And the boss can’t blow off an employee invitation, no matter how much he or she wants to. Not when the business is as small and personal as ours is.
Which is why I’m sitting here in the middle of this miserable little bar watching women in penis hats swill drinks and talk dirty about whatever man happens to pass by the table…
I’m pretty sure I’m the only sober one at this point—obvious by my lack of penis hat and ability to keep my mouth shut no matter who walks by. But I figure that’s fair. Being the boss means I had to come. But there is no boss code that says I have to wear a penis hat or drink out of a penis straw. And even if there was…that’s one code I’d have no trouble breaking.
“You need another drink,” Autumn—one of the other instructors at my mom’s yoga studio—tells me with a giggle. “Come on. Let’s go to the bar.”
I don’t want to go to the bar. And I sure as hell don’t want another drink. Even though I’m not planning on driving tonight, as Skye has a limousine booked, I usually have a two-drink limit when I’m at a bar. If I’ve learned anything through the years, it’s that everything’s easier when you’re stone-cold sober—which is why it’s been an hour since I’ve had anything to drink but water.
Still, I follow her. It’s not that hard of a choice, considering the rest of our party has just started singing dick songs. Not enough to drink out of a dick and eat dick cake and wear a giant dick on their heads. They need to sing a homage to the damn things, too. Maybe it’s time to say to hell with the limo and grab a Lyft instead…
I’m halfway to the bar when I see him. I’m so annoyed that I almost don’t pay attention, but—let’s be honest—I’d have to be dead not to notice this guy. Notice him, hell, just having him in the room is suddenly taking up all the oxygen.
Or maybe it’s just that I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
But can you blame me? With a fallen-angel face, eyes that glitter like black diamonds, and a stubble covered jaw that’s sharp enough I can feel the cut from here, he’s the hottest thing in this place. Tall, dark and drop-dead freaking gorgeous. And that’s before you take into account the shoulders wider than my zip code and biceps to die for.
Is it wrong that I want to lick him? I wonder as I shift to get a better look. Because I do. I really, really do. Those narrow hips. That too long, silky hair. The big hands that wrap all the way around his beer bottle and then some. He’s like a personal playground designed especially for me. No wonder it feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of this place.
And that’s before he glances up, his eyes meeting mine across the dimly lit bar.
Normally, I’d look away. I’m not the type to eye-fuck a stranger in a bar. But the moment our gazes lock, I forget about normal. Forget about usual. And instead try to keep my panties from dropping straight to the floor.
It’s harder than it should be, considering I’m wearing skinny jeans.
And that’s before he smiles, a wide, come-hither kind of grin that hits me straight in the feels…plus a few other, oh-so-memorable parts. He shifts a little, rests his elbows behind him on the bar. Stretches his long, long, looooong legs out in front of him. And looks for all the world like he doesn’t have a care in the world. And like he expects me to approach him.
Which is totally not going to happen. I’ve already made prolonged eye contact with the guy. Actually walking up to him—a gorgeous stranger who obviously has an ego to match—is so not going to happen. I mean, it’s not that I’m ugly or anything. I have a reasonable amount of confidence in my own attractiveness. But there’s attractive and then there’s whatever that guy is and I am so not in his class. Hell, I’m not even in the same competition…
“What do you want to drink, Sage?” Autumn asks and there’s a hint of impatience in her voice, like she’s asked the question before. It snaps me out of my trance—I swear, it’s like I’ve been dicknotized or something—and I decide what the hell.
“I’ll have another lemon drop,” I tell her, breaking my self-imposed limit. One more won’t hurt; I’ll still be the most sober woman at the party. And since it’s not like I’m going anywhere any time soon, since Skye and her group seem dug in for the long haul, I might as well loosen up just a little. Not enough to be okay wearing a penis hat by any means, but maybe just enough to make flirty eyes with the hottest guy in the place.
Maybe.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m back at my table and doing just that. All around me, the others are getting steadily drunker—so drunk, in fact, that Skye just crowned another instructor “Priscilla, Queen of the Dicksert.” I have no idea where the title comes from considering her name is Lela, but it’s not like I’m about to ask. I don’t want to know what goes on in these women’s minds on the best days, let alone right now.
Across the bar from me, Mr. Tall, Dark and So Fucking Hot I Get Burned Just Looking at Him is obviously amused. Whether by my attempts to flirt with him when he’s so clearly out of my league or by my table’s increasingly ridiculous antics, I’m not sure. I tell myself it’s the latter as I bat my eyes at him, but the truth is I’m just not sure.
“Whoaaaaa,” Autumn says, plopping down in the empty seat beside mine. “Who. Is. That?”
“Who?” I ask, but she’s not buying the whole me playing dumb thing. Then again, I wouldn’t if I was in her position either.
“The guy I would totally have noticed earlier if I wasn’t sitting on the other side of the table,” she tells me. “You know, the hottie over there who can’t take his eyes off of you.”
“I think you’re confused.”
“Really?” She raises one skeptical brow. “Because from where I’m sitting, that man looks like he wants to eat you alive. In a very, very good way.”
“Yeah, well, I, he, just…” I stutter through a totally unintelligible list of words before finally just shutting up and reaching for my drink. I down what’s left in one long swallow.
She laughs. Cackles, actually, and all but rubs her hands together in glee like some kind of Disney villain. “You should go talk to him.”
“I’m not going to go talk to him.”
“You should totally go talk to him. Right, Skye?” she asks, raising her voice to enlist the help of tonight’s bride-to-be.
“Absolutely,” Skye says without even asking what Autumn is talking about.
“See?” she says, turning back to me. “Skye agrees and so does everyone else. Right, everyone?”
“Right,” choruses one of Skye’s friends, whose name I don’t even know.
“They have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure, we do!” Skye says, and she’s so happily drunk that she’s bouncing up and down in her seat. “You need another drink.”
“I don’t—”
“You do!” she interrupts, raising her hand to signal our waitress. When she doesn’t get immediate attention, she pushes at her own drink, sliding it down the table to me. “Here, drink this one.”
I stare at the bright blue concoction distrustfully. “No, thanks—”
“Come on,” she says, whining a little in the way only happy drunk people can. “Drink it.”
“I’m not really interested—”
“Drink it!” she squawks, loudly enough to have not just the people at our table staring at me, but everyone around us, too.
“Okay, okay.” I accept the thing to avoid causing any more of a scene than we already have, then take a cautious sip. Despite its electric color, it’s actually quite smooth and I take a second sip, then a third.
I don’t finish it because I know my limits, but I can feel my muscles relaxing a little. Feel my normal inhibitions growing just a little less rigid. And that’s when Autumn moves in for the kill.
“He’s still looking at you,” she hisses with a less than subtle chin jerk at Mr. Tall, Dark and So Fucking Hot I Get Burned
Just Looking at Him (who will henceforth be called Mr. Tall Dark and So Fucking Hot because the rest is a mouthful even in my own head). He’s still kicked back on the barstool, his long well-muscled legs spread out in front of him as he chats casually with the man next to him. A man who is also sexy as hell, I realize, when I finally manage to pull my gaze away from Mr. Tall Dark and So Fucking Hot’s broad shoulders and tight abs.
“Maybe he’s looking at you,” I answer, doing my best to ignore the flutter way down deep inside of me.
“Yeah, right,” she says with a snort. “If that was the case, married woman or not, I’d already be sitting on his very delectable lap. But he is one hundred percent looking at you. If you don’t do something about it, I am never going to let you live it down.”
“I guess I’m just going to have to live with that, because—”
“Live with what?” Skye interjects loudly. Suddenly, everyone at the table is looking at me.
“Live with the fact that that very hot guy over there obviously wants to get to know her,” Autumn answers in a stage whisper so loud I’m afraid it can be heard in the entire bar, despite the eighties music emanating from the upscale jukebox in the corner.
“What guy?” Skye asks, her voice going even louder as she starts looking over the bar. “Where is—oh. There he is.” Her eyes go wide.
“He sure is,” echoes Dawn, the woman sitting across from her. “Wowza.”
Wowza? Seriously? I feel like I’ve slipped into an alternate universe or a bad porn movie, especially when the entire table—all ten women—turn around to stare at him. Because that’s not obvious at all.