Get Over You (Dare Me Book 1)

by Skylar Hunter

  “Of course.” Bullshit. “I’m ready to leave if you are.”

  On our way out of the restaurant, the maître d’ wishes us a good night and encourages us to come back soon.

  I’ve already decided that our next date will be in the privacy of my home. Emerson just doesn’t know it yet.

  “Thanks for dinner, Reyes,” she says once we’re inside my SUV. “You rescued me from leftovers.”

  I chuckle. “Glad to be of service.”

  “I mean, it’s not that I minded having chicken for a second day,” she continues, clearly trying to make small talk without letting the conversation get too personal. “I’m a pretty good cook, so eating leftovers is never a hardship.”

  I toss her a grin. “That doesn’t sound like a humblebrag at all.”

  She laughs, and I can’t help soaking up the sound. I was afraid I wouldn’t hear it again after the way she fled the table with that wide-eyed look of panic. I know she doesn’t want to deal with the past, that much is clear. But I’ve spent nearly a decade wondering what the hell went wrong between us. I have questions, and I’m not walking away until I get some fucking answers.

  I glance at her as we pull onto the main road. “So when did you become such a good cook?”

  “When I moved off campus during my junior year,” she replies. “My best friend and I got an apartment together. We were too broke to eat out most of the time, and when the temperature dropped to freezing, stepping foot outside was the last thing we wanted to do. East Coast winters can be brutal.”

  “True,” I drawl smugly, “but I didn’t have that problem at Stanford.”

  She pokes her tongue out at me.

  I laugh. “Just saying.”

  “Whatever.” She eyes me with grudging envy. “So what was it like in warm, sunny California? The closest beach was, what, forty minutes away? Were you distracted by that?”

  My lips twitch. “Believe me, beaches were the least of my distractions during college.”

  “Of course,” she says wryly. “You must have been swarmed with beautiful girls. You probably had a revolving door of cheerleaders and sorority sisters in and out of your dorm room.”

  I glance at her, wondering if I only imagined the jealous undertone in her voice. She’s right about the girls, of course. As Stanford’s starting quarterback, I’d had more than my share of groupies and yeah, I’d banged more than a few. But Emerson doesn’t need to know that.

  Even if she did break my fucking heart.

  “Balancing football and a rigorous academic course load was enough of a distraction,” I tell her. “I didn’t have much time for others.”

  She seems relieved. “That’s right. You were pre-med, weren’t you?”

  I nod, switching lanes. “Senior year was probably the toughest, even though I had fewer classes. Between research projects, cramming for exams and getting ready for the NFL Draft, I had my hands pretty full.”

  “Poor boy,” Emerson commiserates with a sympathetic laugh. “What’d you do for fun?”

  “I got away sometimes. During the offseason, my friends and I went hiking or took weekend trips to Lake Tahoe.”

  Emerson smiles. “Sounds nice. I enjoyed having access to New York’s shopping and theater scene, but I missed going hiking like we used to when we were growing up. No matter how much I begged and bargained, I couldn’t get Zoe anywhere near a mountain range. Oh, wow, we got here fast,” she exclaims as I turn into the near-empty parking lot outside the Gazette office building. “Traffic was lighter this time.”

  I can’t tell if she’s surprised or disappointed. “Which one’s your car?”

  “Over there.” She points to a white Acura near the front entrance of the building.

  As I pull in beside her car, she reaches down for her leather handbag and then turns to me, biting her lush bottom lip that I’ve been dying to kiss all night.

  “Well, thanks again for dinner.” Her voice is slightly breathy. “I really enjoyed myself.”

  “Me, too.”

  She hesitates, then leans over to give me a friendly hug.

  After just a moment, I wrap my arms around her, holding her close.

  When she doesn’t pull away, I bury my face in her silky hair and close my eyes, inhaling that heady mix of citrus and honeysuckle that’s haunted me since Saturday night. I can feel the heat of her full breasts pressed against me through her shirt. Her heart is racing just as fast as mine.

  I draw back slowly and stare down at her.

  She stares right back at me, her green eyes glittering with heat that mirrors the hunger thickening my cock.

  Not wasting another second, I lean down and slant my mouth over hers.

  Her breath hitches at the contact, but she doesn’t resist or pull away. Her lips are unbelievably warm and plush, even softer than I remember.

  I cup the sides of her face, my tongue probing the seam of her lips. When they part for me, I slide inside her silky mouth and stroke my tongue against hers.

  She moans with pleasure, the throaty sound shooting straight to my tight balls.

  I bite down on her lower lip and lick the inside of her mouth in long, curling strokes that make her whimper. The taste of her is sweet and intoxicating, so fucking addictive I know I’ll never get enough.

  “Reyes . . .” She’s gripping my shoulders tight, her fingernails digging into my skin beneath the fabric of my shirt.

  Losing what scrap of control I have left, I crush her mouth beneath mine, sucking on her tongue and drinking down her ragged breaths. I’ve fantasized about this moment for so damn long. I should probably try to ease up a little, take things slow. But I need her too fucking badly to be gentle with her.

  I groan into her mouth as her arms circle my neck, her breasts mashing against my chest. I run my hands down her back, holding her so tightly to me she can barely move.

  I’m aching for her. Hard as a rock and burning up all over. I want nothing more than to be inside her, pounding balls-deep as she screams my name like she’s never been fucked before.

  I’m two seconds away from dragging her onto my lap when a car door slams nearby.

  Emerson gasps and wrenches her mouth from mine.

  We’re both panting loudly as we stare at each other.

  Her lips are swollen and her nipples are poking sharply through her shirt. She wants me just as much as I want her. No fucking doubt about it.

  I growl, “Em—”

  “I–I should go.” She pulls out of my arms and fumbles for the door handle.

  I watch in frustration as she jumps down from the SUV.

  “Have a good night,” I manage to mutter.

  “You, too.” Our eyes meet briefly, hotly, before she closes the door and turns to unlock her car, her head disappearing as she ducks inside.

  I sit there watching as she starts the engine and backs out of the parking space. With a shaky little wave out her window, she’s gone.

  And I’m left with a hollow ache in my chest and violently throbbing balls.

  Fan-fucking-tastic.

  Chapter Eight

  EMERSON

  The aftershocks of the kiss reverberate through me all the way home.

  I can’t stop touching my tingly lips, and the ache between my thighs is so acute that I have to squeeze them together as I drive.

  I’ve never wanted any man as badly as I want Reyes, never needed anyone more than my next breath. His taste and his scent linger in my senses, burning through my blood like a dangerously powerful drug shot into my veins. Even though I know I shouldn’t, I want more.

  By the time I get home, I need an ice-cold shower and some alone time with my vibrator.

  Zoe and her boyfriend are curled up on the couch together watching something on TV. They usually Netflix and chill at Liam’s place, so I’m a little surprised to see them.

  They glance over at me and smile. “Hey, Em.”

  “Hey, lovebirds.” I toss my keys on the foyer table and head toward the l
iving room. “What’re you watching?”

  “The Witcher,” they reply.

  I perch on the back of the nearby loveseat. “How is it?”

  “We just started the second episode.” Zoe pauses the show. “It’s pretty good so far.”

  Liam smirks at her. “I’d enjoy it even more if you stopped perving on Henry Cavill.”

  She grins. “Sorry, babe. You know he’s my favorite celebrity crush. But you have nothing to worry about,” she coos, rubbing her nose against his. “You’re my one and only.”

  I make gagging noises, causing the couple to laugh.

  Liam is average height with an athletic build and a nice tan. His hair is brownish blond and his eyes are pale blue. He’s a good-looking guy. Plus he makes my bestie happy, so he gets major bonus points.

  Zoe plants a smacking kiss on his cheek and tosses me a grin. “There’s Chinese takeout in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”

  “Thanks. I already ate.”

  “With Will and Troy?”

  Shit. “Yeah.”

  Something in my tone must give me away because Zoe stares at me, her eyes narrowed. “Where’d you guys go? McCray’s?”

  “Of course. Where else?” My lies are piling up, and I’m not proud of that.

  Liam grins at me. “I hear you and Reyes Malone used to— Ouch!” he yelps when Zoe elbows him in the ribs.

  “You weren’t supposed to say anything,” she hisses.

  “Oops. Sorry.” He rubs his chest, still grinning at me. “Did you really date Malone back in the day?”

  I nod reluctantly.

  “Holy shit.” Liam’s grin widens. “That’s fucking awesome.”

  I shrug and bite my lip.

  Zoe is watching me closely. “Have you heard from him since Saturday night?”

  I hesitate, then shake my head.

  I can tell she doesn’t believe me. But I’m not in the mood for an interrogation, so I push up from the loveseat and say, “I’ll let you two get back to your show.”

  Before Zoe can ask any more questions, I head off to my room.

  I have a date with my vibrator that can’t wait much longer.

  The cameras are rolling, and that’s the only damn reason I don’t lose my temper.

  Gritting my teeth, I paste on my most professional smile and discreetly extricate my hand from Jack Rollins’s overly friendly grasp.

  He flashes that slick smile that makes me want to punch him in the throat and kick him in the balls. “Okay, Emerson. With the minute we have left, tell us what you think of the Renegades’ playoff chances this season.”

  I smile harder, channeling my inner Rachel Nichols. “They still have a few holes that need to be filled before I’d consider them serious playoff contenders. On the positive side, the offense already looks a thousand percent better with the addition of a two-time MVP quarterback. Reyes Malone is a dual threat who excels at passing and rushing the football. His size and speed make him hard to defend, and his rocket arm is an absolute nightmare for defensive backs. With everything he brings to the table, there’s no question that he’s a serious game changer.”

  “But?” Jack prompts.

  “The Renegades’ defensive scheme is still pretty weak, and it’s hard to win championships without a strong defense.” I tap my notes smartly on the desk. “I guess we’ll all just have to wait and see about the playoffs. Anything’s possible when you’ve got an elite quarterback leading the charge.”

  “Amen!” Jack grins into the camera. “All right, Team Ticker nation, that’s all the time we have. Thanks for watching, and we’ll see you next time.”

  “And that’s a wrap!” Casey Segal announces from the glass-walled control room above the set. “Thanks, guys. Great show.”

  I scowl up at him.

  He grins sheepishly and tugs down the bill of his baseball cap before turning away to speak to the technical director.

  I remove the mic from my lapel, hand it to the production assistant and walk off the set.

  It’s been three weeks since I went to Casey to complain about Jack’s inappropriate behavior. He listened to my concerns and promised to have a chat with Jack. But so far he hasn’t, and I’m getting more and more frustrated. I wish I were brave enough to march down to human resources to file a complaint. At the very least, I should talk to my agent and let her run interference for me. But I haven’t worked up the courage yet.

  Truth be told, I’m afraid of the repercussions.

  I’m twenty-six years old and Jack’s a veteran in this business. He’s well revered and respected, a good ol’ boy of the highest order. If I accuse him of sexual harassment, there’s a very good chance I’ll lose this gig and get blackballed. I’m not ready to take that risk yet, so I’m willing to give Casey more time to set Jack straight.

  My cowardice fills me with self-loathing, which makes me even angrier as I stalk out of the television station twenty minutes later.

  “Whoa, what’s the hurry?” Jack teases, catching up with me. “It’s only ten-thirty in the morning. Surely you can’t have a hot date this early.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” I mutter under my breath.

  “Hey. Slow down.” He halts my steps with a hand on my arm.

  I jerk out of his grasp. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Whoa.” He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Calm down, gorgeous. I didn’t mean any harm.”

  Like hell!

  “What do you want, Jack?”

  “I just wanted to see if you’re free this evening. I thought we could grab a bite to eat, maybe take in a late movie?”

  I stare at him in disbelief, amazed by his sheer audacity. Not only is he twice my age, but he’s been sexually harassing me for the past six months. What makes him think I’d ever be interested in going out with him?

  “I don’t think so,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice low and calm. “I was planning on finishing up some work, then curling up with a good book.”

  He grins. “Want some company?”

  “No, thanks.” I turn and resume marching toward the parking lot.

  He falls in step beside me. “I hear you’ve been getting friendly with our new star quarterback. Someone spotted the two of you enjoying a romantic dinner last night.”

  My hackles go up. But I don’t respond, fishing my keys out of my handbag as we reach my car.

  “So it’s true?” he presses. “You and Reyes Malone are an item?”

  Gripping my key fob, I turn and tilt my head to one side, studying Jack’s perturbed expression. “That’s funny.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t recall inviting an inquisition into my personal life.”

  His face hardens. “I hope you realize the professional impropriety—”

  “Don’t you dare talk to me about professional impropriety!” I burst out furiously. “You’ve been hitting on me since the day we met, so you’re the last person to be lecturing anyone about unprofessional conduct!”

  He reddens and drops his eyes.

  “Last I checked, my love life isn’t open for public scrutiny,” I continue sharply. “And just for the fucking record, I’m not dating Reyes Malone. But if I were, rest assured that I’m fully capable of separating my personal interests from my professional obligations.” I press the key fob to unlock my car doors. “Unless you have something important to discuss with me, I have things to do.”

  A spiteful gleam enters his eyes. “For your sake, I’m glad to hear you’re not dating Malone. As you well know, he’s quite a hot commodity in this town. It won’t be long before he’ll have his hands full with more than just football, and I’d hate to see you hurt and publicly humiliated by a womanizing boyfriend.”

  My cheeks burn. Without another word, I wrench open the driver’s door and duck behind the wheel.

  Jack grins smugly and steps back, waving to me as I pull out of the parking space and roar off.

  “Asshole,” I grumble, flipping him off in th
e rearview mirror.

  With his smarmy smiles and roving eyes, Jack rubbed me the wrong way from the moment we met at a Renegades game four years ago. Fresh out of college, I’d been sent to cover the game for the Gazette.

  I was sitting in the press box when Jack sidled up to me and drawled, “Pardon me, miss, but are you sure you’re in the right place?”

  I’d stared at him in confusion. “Excuse me?”

  “Shouldn’t you be standing on the sidelines with the rest of the cheerleaders?”

  I’d stiffened in affront. “I’m not a cheerleader. I’m with the Piedmont Bay Gazette.”

  At his skeptical look, I’d pulled out my press badge and showed it to him. He’d had the nerve to look quaintly amused as other reporters sniggered.

  “My mistake, Miss Sartori.” Flashing that oily smile I would grow to detest, he’d drawled, “The sportswriters in this town are getting prettier and prettier. I must be in the right line of work after all.”

  It wasn’t the first time I’d been offended by a male journalist, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last. But that incident had gotten under my skin in a way the others hadn’t.

  As a journalism major at Princeton, I’d dreamed of excelling in the male-dominated world of sports reporting. Armed with a natural love of sports, I’d devoured every sports journal and encyclopedia—anything I could get my hands on that would satisfy my thirst for knowledge. I’d covered sports for The Daily Princetonian, honing my writing skills and building a portfolio that would land me a job at the Gazette after graduation.

  From day one I’d hit the ground running, accepting any and every assignment and working around the clock. Over time I’d gained the respect of my colleagues and editors, picking up a few awards along the way.

  Last year when the executive producer for Team Ticker contacted me about hosting a new show, I was over the moon. But when he told me that my co-host would be Jack Rollins, I was mortified at the prospect of working with the sexist douchebag who’d insulted me at the football game. I’d seriously considered turning down the offer. In the end, though, I couldn’t pass up an actual TV broadcasting gig. No journalist in her right mind would.