Taking a Shot

by Taryn Leigh Taylor

  She didn’t move a single step.

  He exhaled with relief.

  “Dance?” It was the most reasonable way to get his hands on her, considering the circumstances.

  “I don’t know if we should.” She shook her head even as she set her clipboard on the nearest table.

  “That didn’t stop you last night.”

  Cue that adorable frown. “That wasn’t dancing.”

  He tugged her close, his palms riding the curve of her hips. It felt good to touch her again.

  “Watch your hands there, slick.”

  “This is me watching my hands,” he assured her, his voice rough with thoughts of all the places he’d rather put them. “And don’t call me slick, because that’s what my sister calls my brother-in-law, and I really don’t want either of them in my head when I’m thinking dirty thoughts about what I wish we were doing instead of dancing.”

  She bit her lip at his confession, and hesitantly positioned her arms around his neck, almost as if she didn’t quite trust herself. Or at least, that’s what he decided to believe.

  He allowed himself the pleasure of a deep breath as he tugged her a little closer.

  “Strawberries,” he murmured.

  “What?” Her eyes snapped to his, and her cheeks reddened.

  “You smell like strawberries.”

  “It’s just my Chapstick.”

  His eyes dropped to her lips without conscious volition. Plump and pink, they parted on a shaky sigh that made him want to kiss all that strawberry-flavoured sheen off them so she could reapply it and he could do it all over again.

  “Brett, don’t.”

  Oh man. That was the stuff. He couldn’t stop his feral smile as he flicked his eyes up to hers. “Say my name again.”

  Her eyes were heavy-lidded, and her fingers brushed the hair at the nape of his neck. He let himself press closer than he should, just for a second, just so she could feel what she did to him, how much he wanted her.

  “Brett.”

  Fuck yeah.

  His fingers flexed against her hips, digging into her skin as he fought the urge to give in to the intense pull between them. This wasn’t the time or the place. But he knew there was no way in hell he was going to let her go without tasting his name on her lips.

  Dangerous. That’s what this was.

  You didn’t fuck with the owner’s daughter. Literally or figuratively.

  Not when your hockey career was already on thin ice. Still, he couldn’t keep himself from indulging in another bout of sweet torture. Having her in his arms, thighs shifting against his, the brush of her hair against his jaw if he turned his head just so…

  How was he supposed to walk away from that?

  “May I cut in?”

  “Yep. Yes.”

  Apparently, that was not a problem for Chelsea.

  She pulled herself free so the leggy blonde could take her place, and he didn’t like that she was walking out on him again. Donor, she mouthed at him, and he let himself be slightly mollified by that, taking her hint and turning on his best PR smile for the woman in his arms.

  …

  It was official. She was a coward. Chelsea meandered her way through the other dancers as though she wasn’t going anywhere in particular, and certainly not making her escape from the ballroom that suddenly felt far too warm, and far too full of people. So much for all the badass cred she’d earned last night.

  When she finally made it to the door, she picked up her pace, heading straight for the bathroom, bracing her hands on either side of the sink as she stared at her face in the mirror.

  She looked…aroused. Pink cheeks. Heavy-lidded eyes. Were her lips a little puffy, or was that just her imagination?

  Her brain was doing its best to list every single reason she should forget Brett Sillinger’s name, but her body…

  Her body remembered. Every second of what they’d done together last night. Every touch, every kiss, every bit of anonymous pleasure. Her skin came alive at the memory.

  She hadn’t been Chelsea last night; she’d been free of her chronic need to control every detail. She’d learned what it was to be in the moment. Unburdened by checklists, just going with the flow. But that wasn’t her, day to day. That wasn’t the woman who ran these events. That wasn’t the Chelsea her friends and family knew.

  She was not the type that won the attention of handsome, sought-after hockey players.

  He might be flirting with her now, because he only knew her as her daring alter-ego, but in real life, she was too tame for a man like Brett. A man who went to fancy parties and danced with Priscilla Bing, the timber heiress who’d been caught skinny dipping in an Italian fountain. Not the girl with the clipboard.

  Her clipboard. That’s what she needed. Distraction in the form of routine. Work would fix this. Not hiding in the bathroom.

  With a deep breath, she smoothed a wayward piece of hair back into place, lifted her chin, and headed back to the party.

  Chelsea glanced around the beautiful ballroom full of smiling faces and raised champagne glasses, wishing for just a moment that she and her team weren’t quite so good at their jobs.

  The DJ had the dance floor full, the catering staff had already cleared all of the dishes and they were prepping the tables on the far side of the room for the dessert buffet that would start in a couple of minutes. There was absolutely nothing for her to do but locate her clipboard and enjoy watching her event run like a well-oiled machine. Oh, there’d be a few more hiccups before the night was through—there always were—but she’d learned to enjoy these moments when everything lined up perfectly.

  Tonight, she took no satisfaction in it. Tonight, she needed distraction from the way she kept scanning the crowd, looking for someone…uh, something. Surely there was something at this party that needed fixing. Maybe if she found Shanna, they could—

  A man in a suit stepped in front of her, blocking her path.

  Careful what you wish for.

  “I don’t have time to deal with this right now,” she lied.

  “Tough. We’re making the announcement.”

  Her brother’s words stopped her. The slamming-into-a-brick-wall kind of stop.

  Chelsea cleared her throat, hoping to dislodge the sudden lump there, as she wiped clammy palms against her crepe-silk-covered hips. “But the silent auction hasn’t even closed yet, and—”

  Andrew shook his head, and dread settled in her belly. “Not the winners. Dad wants to announce my promotion.”

  “I thought…” Chelsea took a deep breath. “I thought you guys had decided to put out a press release about that on Monday.”

  “Things change. You’ve got to go with the flow. I spent the past twenty minutes talking to the Timber King, while Grant Preston has been clamoring for my attention. These two are primed for the picking, and if I can stoke the fires of their rivalry with a little…public push in the right direction, our next fundraiser is going to be record-breaking. Especially when they find out I’m the director.”

  “Casino night.”

  “What?”

  “The foundation’s event next month.” Chelsea’s throat hurt, and the words came out quietly. He didn’t even care enough to remember what events they had planned, let alone to spare a thought about the people they were helping. He just liked schmoozing. “It’s a casino night. To raise money in support of several local veterans’ charities we’ve partnered with.”

  “Right. That one. Anyway…”

  Andrew droned on about all the reasons they needed to announce his new position tonight.

  “I can’t just change everything. The DJ’s already playing.”

  Andrew rolled his eyes. “So we tell him to stop.”

  Of course. Because that’s how her brother thought this stuff worked. He just did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Never mind all the hard work and preparation that he didn’t help with.

  “Just because it’s not written down, that doesn’t mean it’
s impossible. You know life doesn’t only happen because you put it on a to-do list, right? Tell me you know that,” her brother said, pushing.

  “And you have to know that events like this have a bunch of working pieces that need to come together seamlessly. That pre-planning is key, because you can’t just disrupt everything on a whim. They’re going to start setting up the dessert buffet in minutes.”

  “Spoken by an uptight woman who could use a little more whim-following in her life. You need to look up sometimes, sis. There’s a whole world out there. Every now and then, you have to read the room, not your stupid clipboard.”

  “That stupid clipboard is the reason this party is going off without a hitch.” It would have been more impressive if she’d had the stupid clipboard in her hands right now. Last time she remembered having it was before Brett had pulled her onto the dance floor, his hands gripping her hips as they swayed to the music, his big body making her feel things that she—

  “I know, and what you’re doing is important. But here’s the thing—you have to adapt sometimes. Take advantage of opportunities you didn’t plan for. Or, you know, I can go tell Dad that you couldn’t pull off a simple speech.”

  The problem with being related to your arch-nemesis was that he knew all your weak points.

  “Fine,” she conceded. “I’ll get the caterers to circulate with the desserts before they bring out the buffet table they’d planned. That will keep the people mingling instead of lining up, which will be better for…the big announcement.”

  “You’re the best, Chelsea. I will leave the details in your capable hands. As long as you have everything ready to go in the next five minutes.”

  “Five minutes! But I—”

  “Grant! Good to see you. How’s Marcie? And the kids?”

  Andrew was already gone, off to charm more donors with his golden tongue, leaving the grunt work to her. As always.

  She was on her way back to the kitchen to stall the dessert buffet when she caught sight of Shanna. She put her friend in charge of letting the DJ know what was about to happen while she took care of the rest.

  “Okay everyone,” she announced as she stepped into the bustling kitchen. “Change of plans.”

  By the time Chelsea was leading a mini-army of vest-and-bowtie-bedecked waiters with trays full of desserts back to the ballroom, the dance floor was empty.

  As per her instructions, the serving staff circulated through the room, and Chelsea surveyed the orderly scene from her vantage point near the door, trying to focus on the smooth deployment of the hitch Andrew and her dad had tossed her way, and not on the sudden gush of disappointment flooding her chest. She wasn’t sure why the prospect of hearing her failure formally announced was so daunting. The element of surprise, she supposed. She’d thought she had another day to come to grips before—

  “Can I get everyone’s attention?”

  The ballroom stilled at the sound of Craig London’s voice over the microphone. Her dad knew how to command a room, she had to give him that.

  “Tonight, I have the honor of making a very special announcement.”

  Just breathe, Chelsea reminded herself.

  “But first, I’d like to bring my son up on stage with me. Andrew London, everyone!”

  Andrew waved at the crowd as he walked up to join her father by the microphone.

  Nope. She couldn’t do it. She needed to—

  “Hey, I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to tell you, you were right.”

  The knot in her stomach loosened when Brett smiled at her. She was vaguely cognizant that the crowd was laughing at something her father had said, but mostly she was aware of Brett. How tall he was. How good he smelled. How he was exactly the distraction she needed right now.

  And then he proved it, leaning closer, taking up all the space in her world.

  “Right about what?” she asked, the words shaky with the sudden urge to grab him by the tie and see if their mouths fit together as well as she remembered.

  “The fairy tale. Little Red Riding Hood.”

  “Oh?” She pretended it didn’t matter that he remembered minute specifics of their flirting from the night before.

  “Yeah. It’s not the one where I blow you.” He leaned a little closer, and she knew it wasn’t an accident that the back of his hand brushed hers. “It’s the one where I’m in bed, and you tell me how big I am, and I say, ‘All the better to fu—”

  Chelsea grabbed him by the wrist and headed for the door, pulling him along behind her.

  Chapter Eight

  Chelsea didn’t stop until she’d ducked through the burgundy velvet curtains of one of the little alcoves that dotted the length of the hotel corridor. Then she turned to face him, and pulled him close, wrapping her arms around his neck and capturing his wicked mouth with hers.

  She’d surprised him, and his forward momentum carried them hard against the wall, though he managed to get an arm up to save her the brunt of the collision with the cream-and-gold striped wallpaper, never breaking their kiss. One thing she had to give Brett credit for, he was a hell of a multi-tasker.

  And for anyone keeping score, their mouths did fit together as perfectly as she’d remembered.

  Brett leaned in, one hand braced against the wall, the other buried in her hair, holding her head still as he attacked her mouth with a long, slow kiss that brought her to the edge of sanity and had her running her hands down his body in her quest for his belt buckle.

  As if by mutual agreement, they stopped kissing for a moment, their foreheads pressed together as they both looked down to watch her progress.

  “I jacked off in the shower this morning remembering how fucking sexy you looked when you came, the way you sounded. How it felt when you melted all over me.”

  Oh jeez. The words lit her up.

  What was it about this man that had her losing her head? He turned her on like he had a switch. Her hands were shaking with need by the time she breached his waistband, and he swore as she palmed his erection.

  So hard. For her.

  Again, power flickered along her skin and he growled, this animalistic sound of pleasure that made her wet.

  His hips started to rock, and she tightened her grip on him.

  The rasp of their breathing and the thunder of her pulse echoed in her ears.

  Brett lowered his head, dragged his lips along her neck.

  “She couldn’t have gotten far. I found her clipboard on one of the tables.”

  Shit.

  They froze at the sound of the voice that Chelsea recognized instantly as Shanna’s. Usually, she appreciated her friend’s eagle-eyed attention to detail, but tonight it was…rather inconvenient.

  Brett pulled his marauding fingers from her hair, and Chelsea’s elegant low side bun plopped drunkenly onto her shoulder.

  “Go back and do another sweep of the ballroom. If you can’t find her, grab Jenny to help with the dessert issue. I’m going to see if she’s gone to talk to the coat check staff.”

  Hiccup. Just like she’d wished for earlier. Now, she just wanted it to go away. She wanted to forget the party, the problems, the promotion. She wanted to recapture some of that heat, some of that freedom from last night.

  “Chelsea?”

  The sound of her name on his lips startled her, a forceful reminder that this wasn’t the same as last night. They weren’t strangers anymore.

  “You’re gonna need to unhand the merchandise now, or this catering trouble won’t be the only mess you’ll have to clean up tonight.”

  At the realization that she still had her fingers wrapped around his penis, she snatched her hand back.

  Her eyes were wide when she lifted them to Brett’s, but he looked insufferably unruffled even as he tucked himself back into his pants and zipped up.

  “They know we’re missing.”

  “Well, they know you’re missing. My cover’s still intact.”

  She started pulling pins from her hair so she could restore
some semblance of order. “Well, it won’t be for long. You have to go back to the party. I have to fix my hair before anyone sees me or they’ll suspect. And we can’t walk back in together.”

  “I am in no condition to go out there.”

  She paused in her task, frowning at him. “Your hair looks fine.”

  “It’s not my hair I’m worried about.” The sardonic raise of his brow made her feel like an idiot as his meaning sank in.

  Her eyes dropped to the bulge of his erection, still straining against his pants.

  Chelsea swallowed. I am not turned on, I am not turned on.

  “I’m gonna need to hang out for a few more minutes, here in the… What is this place anyway?”

  Her gaze snapped up from his…situation, taking in the tiny, oddly-shaped space that featured an ornamental mirror, an uncomfortable but lovely chair and the bust of some moustachioed hotelier of yore. “It’s an alcove.”

  Brett nodded, making a similar perusal of the space. “Why?”

  “No idea. Maybe fancy businessmen need a curtained-off area to read the Wall Street Journal.”

  “Well if that’s all fancy businessmen are doing in alcoves, they’re really missing out.”

  The joke was like a bucket of cold water. It made Chelsea realize the compromising position she’d just put them both in. Last night had been a one-off. A perfect moment that existed outside reality, where they both worked for her dad. Where she needed to maintain a professional distance from the players to ensure she had a good working relationship with all of them at events like this.

  “Oh, God. I just molested you in an alcove during a work function.” Chelsea dropped her head against his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

  Brett ran his hands up and down her bare arms in a soothing reassurance that she didn’t deserve. “Hey, I know you can’t see my face right now, but trust me, this is my ‘not complaining’ expression.”

  That startled a laugh from her, but it was bittersweet. It took everything she had to pull away. She leaned back and slid down the wall until she was sitting on the carpet.

  “We can’t do this.” This was dangerous. Stupid. He was supposed to be one night of release, to get this restless uneasiness that she couldn’t shake out of her system. Instead, the opposite had happened. He’d invaded her blood.