by Violet Blaze
Scottie looks terrified.
“As much as I would love to go out on a date with that gorgeous, gorgeous man, I think it's best if you do. Della, I won't let you talk yourself into another stint of unhappiness just because you think it's what everyone wants you to do. I don't want you to do it. Hey.” She reaches out and snatches my phone from my hand, forcing me to look into the vibrant green of her eyes. “Are you listening to me?”
“Did you not …” I lean forward so Scottie can't hear, the plastic of his medical grade sterile couch crinkling beneath me. “Did you not hear about last night? If that's not letting go, I don't know what is.”
“Fucking some guy in a lion mask doesn't count as making a life change,” Ariana shouts purposely, making both Scottie and me blush.
“And going on one fixed date with an NFL player will rock my world?”
“Just go,” Ariana says as she passes the winning raffle stub to me. I must have accidentally left it last time I was here. “I have a feeling about this.” I narrow my eyes at her because Ariana swears she's psychic. Maybe she's just perceptive because an awful lot of her predictions seem to come true. “If nothing else, I think it'll be fun, give you some time to think. Della.”
“What?” I groan with a roll of my eyes. I should've known better than to come over here.
“Don't marry Walter.”
“You're marrying Walter?” Scottie asks from the kitchen, pushing his glasses up his nose and frowning over at me. “Do you understand what that man's company does? They grow genetically modified crops and douse them with pesticides—and then they sue smalltime farmers when their mutated crop blows seeds into neighboring fields. Is that the kind of person you want to spend the rest of your life with?”
“Scottie, you're preaching again,” Ariana warns, but once the man gets on one of his rants, there's no stopping him. Unfortunately, he usually makes a good point.
“Walter Virgil is a plague on this country, one of the super elite cockroaches that subjugates and subdues the American people.” I give Ariana a look, but she's still staring at me like her gaze alone will be enough to bend me to her will.
She's usually right.
“I'm getting a puppy,” I tell them as I stand up from the couch and start toward the front door. “Someone that will listen to me, but won't talk back.”
“Plus there's the whole unconditional love thing that you definitely won't be getting here,” Ariana jokes as Scottie starts chopping up vegetables for whatever vegan dish he's making tonight. I envy his conviction.
“I'm leaving. Good-bye. Love you guys.”
Somehow on my way home, I really do end up stopping at the animal shelter.
And head home with a squirmy puppy in my lap.
I am such a sucker for happy endings.
“You are killing me here,” I tell the dog as he frolics and plays in the grass like he doesn't have a care in the world. I guess he doesn't considering he's not the one that has to pick up little puppy doodles off the white carpet. “It's potty time,” I croon, knowing the other dog owners are giving me scathing looks. It's like when people try to tell other people how to discipline their kid in public, only worse because pretty much everyone at this park knows more about dogs than I do. “Come on, kid.”
I bend down and stroke my hand over the silky soft ears of the mixed whatever-the-hell-it-is that I adopted from the shelter last week. The woman at the adoption counter said he was an English Pointer/Red Heeler mix, but who knows? Maybe I'll order him a DNA test or something.
Standing up, I stretch my arms over my head and enjoy the cool breeze drifting through the trees above my head. I'm blessed to have a dog park directly across the street from me. It's quiet and mellow and usually filled with quasi-famous people trying to avoid the tourist heavy Plaza area.
“I like your dog.”
The words are innocuous enough, but the voice behind them sends chills down my spine. I know that voice?! I think, wondering for a moment if I'm going to turn around and find Lion Man standing behind me. But then I realize that Lion Man never actually spoke to me while we were having sex.
I spin around, a tad theatrically if I'm being honest, and spot not Lion Man but Rhoden Richards. Mr. Big Dick himself. He's leaning against the trunk of a large oak tree and smiling, a tennis ball clutched in his left hand, the dark tattoos on his right arm peeking out from under the sleeve of his Adders t-shirt.
“Fucking crap,” I say and then cringe when Rhoden laughs and pulls that muscular arm of his back, launching the bright green ball into the blueness of the sky. One of the dogs breaks off the pack milling in the center of the park and takes off like a shot. From here, it looks like a husky, but at this speed, it's nothing but a gray and white blur. Plus, I'm crap when it comes to identifying dog breeds.
Rhoden returns his attention back to my face, those dark eyes of his scanning me from head to toe. It's a smug-faced, masculine sort of once-over, nothing special or surprising about it until he blinks stupidly and does it again. And again. A spark of recognition lights his dark eyes, sending a chill down my spine.
“Big Dick,” I say and then feel the blood drain from my face when I realize I've used that terrible nickname of his. I meant to say Mr. Richards. Crap. I'm really heading for an epic fail today, aren't, I? “What are you doing here?”
“Doing here?” he echoes, still looking like he's seen the ghost of Bloody Mary emerge from his mirror. The way he's looking at me is … disturbing. “You … you're Della Garland, Reuben's daughter.” A pause as his dog drops the ball in the grass and slaps its white paws in excitement. “Didn't you win that charity thing, too?”
There's suspicion in his voice now, but I don't mind. He's justified in wondering why the daughter of the team's owner just happened to snag the prize that thousands of other people were clamoring for. Goddamn it, Ariana.
I study Rhoden's face for a long moment, the dark stubble on his chin and cheeks, the warm glow in his dark eyes, the square jaw and full ripe lips. I'm not a very observant person, but …
There's a really long moment there where I just stare at him. And stare. And stare.
And then I pull my phone from my pocket and finally remember to Google Rhoden Richards.
Dozens of pictures pop up from last Friday, pictures of Rhoden leaving the masquerade ball … in a pair of … black jeans and boots.
My pulse starts to thump in my throat and I glance up sharply.
“You—” he starts again, but I don't wait around to hear what he has to say, snatching my new dog up (at three months, he's already practically too big to carry) and making a run for it. “Della!” Rhoden calls, jogging up to me as easily as if I were crawling instead of sprinting for my life with a squirming puppy in my arms.
I get a whole lot of tongue in my panting mouth in that moment and let's just say, it's distinctly not Rhoden Richards'.
Although, apparently, that tongue the other night was.
I slept with Rhoden Richards.
I slept with Big Dick.
I slept with that football dick.
My comfy outdoor slippers scrape across the pavement as I wish suddenly that I'd worn heels, sauntered over to the dog park in four inch stilettos like some of the women around here. Maybe if I were wearing something other than a pair of Target jeans and a turtleneck, I'd feel more confident speaking to the man I just had wild, passionate sex with.
Rhoden Richards. How could I not see that it was Rhoden Richards?
Now that I try really hard to remember all the details, it feels like I should've recognized him. There was that stupid bandage covering his tattoo, a Roman numeral nine etched into the skin above his left hip, the Adonis-muscles, the five o'clock shadow, the mouth, the eyes … need I go on? No wonder he went to such careful lengths to hide his back; the tattoos there would've given him away.
“It was you, wasn't it?” he asks although he clearly already knows. His words flood with heat and desire, making me wish I was naked and i
n his bed instead of sprinting down the sidewalk with a giant dog smacking me in the crotch with his tail.
Rhoden's dog trots happily beside me, like this is some kind of game.
“Can you slow down, please?” he asks, reaching out and taking the dog from my arms. He sets the puppy down on the ground and hands the leash over to me, a smile taking over that cocksure mouth of his. “What's the big rush all of a sudden?” He leans in close, way too close, close enough that I can smell the bourbon-oak-vanilla scent.
My cheeks flame a brilliant red.
“I didn't know you lived around here,” I blurt instead, but that's a lie because I did actually know that Rhoden Richards had recently purchased a place nearby. Ariana told me, of course, because she follows the man on every social media platform and news outlet known to man. “I did live here first, you know,” I add, just in case he needs to know that I'm not, like, stalking him or something.
Oh my God, or maybe he's stalking me?
I take the dog's leash from his palm, our skin brushing together briefly. That touch alone is enough to bring back a sensory overload of heat and warmth, skin and mouth and cock. My breath catches and then Rhoden's grabbing me around the wrist with his fingers.
“What a fucking coincidence,” he says, putting words to something I'd just really rather not talk about. “Meeting like this. Did you know that was me?”
“I have no idea what you're talking about,” I tell him—another lie. How could I ever forget? But I decide it's best to play dumb, get the hell out of here, and hope I never see the man in person again. Despite my father owning the team, this is literally the first time I've actually met Rhoden. I've seen him on TVs and computers, the Jumbotron, the field, in the distance at press conferences. But never in person. Never like this. “Can you please let go of my wrist?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” he growls in that lion voice of his, pulling me a step closer. I try to resist but the man is a mountain of muscle and I'm wearing these stupid slippers that fall off my feet at every opportunity. “Why'd you pick the lioness?” he asks, confusing the hell out of me.
His gaze is whisky and honey, his mouth a generous swell of heat that I want on every inch of my body.
“Wh-what?” I ask, enthralled by his attention, by the way his eyes dart to my pulse and then back to my face again. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” he whispers, pulling me even closer. “That was you, at the party. Me and you,” he corrects and I go hot from head to toe. The feel of him stretching me wide, melding his body into mine, fingertips grazing across my skin … it was ecstasy. Pure and simple. “So why did you pick the lioness?”
“I … I don't know.” I think for a long moment. “It just felt right. Strong, powerful, wild. All the things I want to be but aren't.”
“Oh,” Rhoden purrs—literally fucking purrs (WHO DOES THAT?!)—as he sweeps his gaze over me again. “You felt like all of those things to me.”
“I didn't know it was you, okay?” I mutter, getting defensive because I'm so completely out of my element here. “It just … you had the lion mask.”
“Mmm,” Rhoden croons, letting his thumb rub a hot circle on my wrist. When he lets go of me, a cold chill sweeps down my spine. “I don't believe in coincidences,” he tells me, and I have no clue what to make of that.
“What?”
“You heard me,” he says, standing up tall. Thank God I'm five eight or he'd be a giant. Big Dick. Wow. The rumors really are true. Eight inches of hard, thick, velvety … no. No, no, no.
“I have to go,” I tell him, pulse thundering. But honestly? The last thing in the world I want right now is to go. I want to stay here with Rhoden, hear him purr at me like a cat. Does that make me crazy?
His dog barks at me and I jump.
Rhoden just lets that smile of his melt into a slash of liquid sex on his face.
“Now that I know it's you, I'm looking forward to that date.”
“I'm not going,” I tell him and turn away, taking … that puppy I really need to name already with me. “Sorry.”
Rhoden walks after me, his long strides putting him at my side in half a block. His scent wraps around me, threatening to strangle the hormones right out of me. And here I am, smelling like dog, my black turtleneck covered in white and orange hair from the puppy.
“Was I that awful?” he whispers, tucking his fingers into the pockets of his dark jeans. They look kind of like … Target jeans? And I know my Target jeans. “Because I don't usually get any complaints in that department.”
“The purpose of those masks was to leave our identities at the door. I don't know what you're getting at but … that wasn't Della Garland in that bed with you.” There I said it. Admitted it. But why did it sound so sad? Time to go home and write up a blog post, start mentally preparing myself for tomorrow's dinner with Dad. He's still pissed at me over the way I handled the proposal. Time for some serious damage control. Oh, and I need to talk to him about the Adders.
“Well, that was definitely Rhoden Richards in you,” he says as blatantly as possible. I almost faint, and not in a sexy swoony way, but in a totally embarrassed crash to the pavement kind of way. “What are the chances we'd see each other here? At a dog park? And how old is that dog? You can't have had him more than a few weeks; I've been coming here everyday for a year.”
“I got him last week,” I admit and Rhoden whistles, moving to stand in front of me. His shoulders are so wide and his arms are … criminal. There's something about the way he wrinkles his nose a little when he's looking sexy like that that gets me.
“Think about it, Della. You're the daughter of the man that owns my team; you win the charity giveaway; we meet and screw each other at a masquerade ball of all places. And then, then I meet you here. In the dog park. If I didn't already believe in fate, I would now.”
“I'm not sure what you're getting at,” I start as Rhoden takes me in like I'm some kind of supermodel. Clearly, he's had plenty of those. It's all over the news. “What do you want with me?”
“You're joking, right?” he asks, reaching out and touching my hair. He tangles it around his fingers like it's silk and not some frizzy mess. “Do you remember the same night I do? Della, you're amazing.”
“I don't remember doing any of the work,” I blurt before I can stop myself, and watch in horror as his gaze melts all over me, coating me a tingly layer of hormones. I feel like I'm on fire, like I need someone to put me out. Rhoden reaches over to me and rests his fingertips a scant millimeter from my skin, just like he did at the party. And then he drags them down, not touching me, but making me crazy all the same.
“Chemistry,” he tells me with that sickeningly sexy smile. “We have chemistry, Della Garland.”
As soon as Rhoden drops his hands by his sides, I see Walter exit the lobby of my building. He has flowers in his hand and a frown on his face. Shit. My entire body freezes and I swallow hard as Rhoden glances over his shoulder.
When he turns back to me, he raises an eyebrow.
“Friend of yours?” I pray to God that Walter won't see me, but luck of luck, he manages to look exactly my way, immediately starting towards us. Maybe Rhoden's right, maybe fate really does exist? If so he/she is an asshole.
“Della,” Walter says, sweeping in around Rhoden and pausing next to me. “I was afraid I'd missed you.” Another of those lifeless kisses on my cheek, and then Walter hands me a bouquet of roses which I'm allergic to. Hmm. I hold the flowers away from my body and try to smile. But then I remember that Rhoden Richards is standing in front of me, and that he's Lion Man and that we had ridiculously passionate and completely anonymous sex.
Aaaand … then I remember I'm not wearing my engagement ring.
“Walter,” I say, tucking the fingers of my left hand into my pocket before he notices. “This is—”
Walter interrupts me, which I hate.
“Rhoden Richards.” His voice is cold as hell. It scares the crap out of me
. I've always thought of Walter as kind of … harmless. But in reality? I think I may have misjudged him terribly. “This is an interesting coincidence.”
Rhoden looks at me and then turns his attention to Walter.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asks, completely and utterly oblivious to the situation. Or maybe he really does know who Walter is and is playing dumb? I can't figure the man out.
“This is Walter Virgil,” I start and before I can stop him, hear the man blurt out, “Della's fiancé.”
There's a really, sticky awkward moment of silence.
“Fiancé?” Rhoden growls. And no, I'm not being romance-novel-chic here. The man growls. He lets noises tear from his throat like a possessive animal. “Wow. When did you become such a lucky man, Mr. Virgin?”
“Virgil,” Walter snaps, his lip curling a little. I feel like there's some history between these two that I'm missing out on. Walter gathers himself together like he always does and runs his hands down the front of his suit jacket. “We got engaged last Thursday, actually.” When he wraps an arm around my shoulders, I stiffen up.
Rhoden notices.
The look he gives me … it's almost like he feels sorry for me. And I hate that. I really, really hate it.
“Thursday, huh?” he asks and I panic when I think he's about to mention the party. “I was nailing some hot chick in a lion mask on Thursday.”
Walter gapes at Rhoden's blatant rudeness and then glares at his back as the man whistles and moves around us to head back to the dog park. When he passes by, his shoulder and arm brush mine quite intimately. I don't think that was a mistake.
“I can't wait for our date, Della,” he whispers in a racy purr, and I shiver, like he's somehow managed to find an erogenous zone on my ear with just his words. “Excuse me, Mr. Virgin.”
I stare at his retreating back for a moment before I turn back to Walter.
But he's not looking at me. Instead, he's staring down at the dog.
Who's shitting on his shoes.
Great.
What a morning.