Page 2 of The Groupie

“Bingo.” Finn points at me. “Taking women home for the night can get tricky.”

“As it turns out, she’s not a believer in one-night-only,” I mutter. “Now, I need to lay low and get off her radar—and everyone else’s radar, for that matter.”

“Sure, you do. I give you ten seconds.”

“Seriously, I don’t need the complication of ladies thinking I’m a bachelor ripe for the plucking, hovering around me to get a chance at me like I’m some kind of hockey-playing brass ring—the wedding kind.”

“So that means if a girl doesn’t want to marry you or doesn’t know who you are, she’s okay for flirting?” Sheila says.

I shrug. “I don’t want to become a monk, but I need a clean slate of some kind, or I’ll need to hire security.”

She rolls her eyes.

“You love the attention,” Jonas says. “Isn’t this award a dream come true for a committed bachelor?”

“I was doing fine on my own, thank you very much. The kind of attention I’m getting now is the unwanted kind and a complication in my previously simple and perfect life.”

In truth, my mother warned me this might happen. But I’ve been having too much fun for the past five years to notice any problems. The ladies I’ve met have, for the most part, been as fun-loving and free-wheeling as I am. I’ve never spent more than a handful of nights with any of them; most of the time, it’s one-and-done. Now that Candice put a target on my back as the most eligible bachelor in Boston, the ultimate marriage material to quote her article, I’ve been getting more attention—but from a different kind of lady. The marriage and family kind. Shit. That’s way too complicated to deal with.

“Good luck finding the lady who doesn’t know who you are,” Finn says. “Not in the places you travel. You’d have to change your entire strategy for hooking up.” His grin is wide enough to make me want to slap him, but I nod because he’s right. Shit.

I think about the sad truth and take a breath of resignation. “Exactly. I need to lie low for a while. Even if that means I become a temporary monk.”

“There must be a woman or two left in this town who still doesn’t know you from a tree trunk,” Finn says. “Maybe someone’s grandma.” He laughs.

“Fuck you.”

Sheila pats my back. “We’ll find someone for you.”

“No worries, kiddo. I can stand a rearrangement of my focus for a while. I’ll ride this out with my dick in my pants and stay out of trouble.” Last thing I need is Candice following through with her threat to do a follow-up article, or heaven forbid, to go through with her plan to team up with a charity and auction me off. Shit. I had to bribe her not to mention the auction to Delaney. The PR lady for the Brawlers could care less whether I want to be auctioned off or not.

I don’t mention to the group that it’s been a few weeks already since I’ve kissed a woman and made her blush. The lack of female company makes me itchy, like I’m missing a few fingers or my balls.

Sheila pats my back again as I sign her fucking magazine. She sees right through me because we’re old friends now, though we started our relationship in bed a few years ago. She’s a fan—a self-described Boston Brawlers groupie and the Queen of the Tea Party, where her group of friends hangs out to watch games and stay to party with the players.

While I’m trying not to cry in my beer, I feel a draft and a zing of something run down my spine. I look up and see a woman walk into the bar. My mouth opens and goes instantly dry.

A woman?

I mean a fucking vision. If someone spied on my wet dreams and created the ultimate hot sexy lady for the sole purpose of tempting me into doing anything and everything she wants, this would be that woman.

She flicks long, lush dark hair over her shoulder and checks out the place with brilliant dark fringed eyes. And her body? It’s the kind that would make Barbie dolls jealous. Last but not least, by anyone’s score, she has a fucking sexy world-conquering attitude that I can see in the tilt of her chin, the glint in her eye, and the way she carries herself with perfectly squared shoulders. She has the kind of confidence a lot of women don’t have when walking into a bar alone. Make that—no woman I’ve ever met.

That’s who just walked in the fucking door. Shit. She’s heading this way.

Keep your fucking butt in this seat, and do not flirt with her. Do not even look at her.

No more complications.

No fucking flirting.