“Oh, yeah? For all you know, I let all the rich football players who want to finger me in the front seat of their cars. Oh, by the way, thanks for setting me up with Shawn. We’re supposed to go look at houses next week.” She makes quotes with her fingers as she says, “look at houses,” and suddenly my blood is roaring for a whole different reason.
“The fuck?”
“I’m just saying. If house hunting is actually dating…”
“Okay. You’ve made your point.” I haul her out of her seat and into my lap. “Shawn is my best wide receiver but I will break every one of his fucking fingers if he puts them anywhere near you.”
She just laughs. “So, not a date, then?”
“With Shawn? Not even close.” And then I’m laughing, too, even as I lower my mouth to hers. This woman—this fucking woman with her big blue eyes and even bigger mouth—is going to be the death of me.
The fact that she might also be my salvation in the middle of the hell that is my life right now…well, that’s somewhere I’m pretty sure she’s not ready to go yet. But it’s a long night and, for the first time in a long time, I’m feeling optimistic.
Chapter 19
Emerson
Maybe I should have kept the dress.
It’s the first thought that runs through my head as Hunter leads me up the red carpeted stairs and into the gala. Reporters and photographers are everywhere, so many flashes going off that I’m half-blinded before we even reach the door. In fact, I probably would have fallen if Hunter hadn’t kept his arm securely around my waist the whole time.
Which is not something I’m going to think about. Just like I’m not going to think about the fact that the pictures will be tabloid fodder the world over by morning. That’s what you get when you go to a very public event with one of the world’s most famous men.
Why the hell I didn’t think about that before returning his YSL dress, I don’t know. Not being as dressed up as the other women at the gala is one thing. Embarrassing the man I’m growing to care about—and now it seems like he’s growing to care about me, too—in front of the whole world is quite another.
But it’s too late for regrets, so I hold my head high and let Hunter lead me through the throngs of paparazzi to the door. And then, when we’r
e over the threshold and out of sight, I pull his head down for a kiss that is half thank-you, half apology and all heat.
He goes all in, and I’m the one who finally pulls away first. As I do, I become conscious of the cheers behind us and I turn—just in time to realize that we might be in the building, but quite a few paps still have a clear view of us.
“Oh, shit.” I stare up at Hunter with wide eyes, but he just uses the arm around my waist to pull me flush against his chest. And then he dips me backward for another kiss.
The crowd outside goes wild, and there’s a few hoots and hollers from in here, as well.
“And that is what we, in professional sports, like to call the money shot,” he tells me when he finally lifts his head. His grin is wicked and sexy and just a little bit wild.
“That’s going to be everywhere tomorrow morning.”
His smile turns wolfish. “It damn well better be.”
Before I can ask him what he means, Tanner Green sidles up to me. A little thrill goes through me, but I shoot it down. He might be my favorite left tackle, ever, but no one here needs to know that.
“So you’re the reason I got my ass kicked three times on the field today.” He takes my hand in his and raises it to his lips. “I have to say, now that I’m finally meeting you, I can see why loverboy over there had his head in the clouds.”
“Head in the clouds?” I ask, turning to Hunter with my eyebrows raised.
“Lies, I tell you. All lies,” he says, reaching for the hand that Tanner is still holding.
But Tanner whisks me away. “Sorry, man,” he calls over his shoulder. “The dance floor is calling.”
And then the crowd is parting like the Red Sea as Tanner moves me toward the ballroom—and the dance floor. Not that I blame them. I think Hunter is huge, but Tanner’s got three inches and almost a hundred pounds on him. The man is a giant.
I glance behind me at Hunter one last time, and can’t help laughing at the frustrated look on his face. But then Tanner is whirling me onto the dance floor. Turns out, he’s as light on his feet on the dance floor as he is on the football field.
“So, tell me,” he says as he spins me out and then pulls me back in. “What kind of woman turns down a pair of Christian Louboutins? Does my man have no taste in ladies shoes or something?”
“For the record, it wasn’t the Louboutins that I objected to. I’m not stupid, after all. It was the diamond and sapphire earrings.”