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Shawn threw off the same hurt Marc had a few years ago. Corey didn’t exactly understand losing it all suddenly, but he knew what Marc had gone through.
“I don’t, but you know what playing like utter shit feels like too, right?” Corey asked, and he saw the small almost smile Shawn gave him. “If you ever want to talk to someone who’s been there, I’m sure Marc would love it. You can’t have forgotten how much that fucker loves the sound of his own voice.”
Shawn fought the laugh but had to clear his throat with a fake cough. “You come here for a drink or just to bullshit?”
It took two minutes to have his beer and her wine in hand and head back to Bridget. “So, you want to say hi to Daily?”
Bridget nodded, but multiple guys came up to say hello before they could head that way. It took twenty minutes and another round of drinks to get to Daily.
“Gorgeous,” Daily greeted with arms wide open. Corey watched Bridget step into his embrace without comment.
“Hi, Ryan,” Bridget said shyly.
“When will you leave this douche bag and trade up?” Daily asked.
Corey rolled his eyes before turning his attention to Taran.
He had spent the night looking at a woman who was made up to perfection, but Taran’s clean-scrubbed face punched him in the gut. There was nothing showy about her. She wasn’t dressing to impress, and she wasn’t made up to attract anyone, yet he didn’t want to look away. Her eyes met his, full of questions. And he wasn’t sure why she cared.
“Bridge?” Corey prompted when he realized that it would be rude if he waited any longer. “Taran Murphy, Bridget Adams.” He introduced the two women, not giving either a label. While the three people around him made small talk, Corey looked for any distraction. Any reason to get the hell away from Taran.
Taran tried not to glare at the beautiful woman standing in front of her. It wasn’t often—in fact never—that Taran cared about her appearance. Nor did she ever compare herself to women around her, but standing next to the bombshell who’d arrived with Corey made her want to hide. Especially since Bridget looked ready to walk a runway in Milan and Taran looked ready to walk the garbage to the curb.
“Bridge,” Corey said, and Taran watched with a sinking stomach as he leaned down and said something softly in Bridget’s ear. The woman’s large brown eyes glanced around before she finally smiled at Corey.
“Excuse us.” he nodded to Daily before walking away.
Taran tried not to care that Corey had ignored her completely the entire time he was at the table. It shouldn’t matter. She’d asked him to leave her alone, and he was. As she watched Corey, who looked fantastic in his tan shirt and dress pants that enhanced every asset of his six-foot-three frame, she didn’t feel happy.
But she didn’t feel nothing either.
“Hot damn,” Ryan said from beside her, and Taran turned, but his eyes were on the ass of the woman walking away with Corey. Ryan’s knuckle came up to his mouth as he bit down on it. “Every time I see her, it’s like my walking wet dream came to life.”
“You see her a lot?” Taran asked, and she heard the bite in her tone.
Ryan turned his attention back to her with a look of confusion. “Uh. Damn. Sorry. Sometimes I forget you’re female.”
That was precisely Taran’s goal when she worked on a story. She wanted people to forget she was female—forget she was a journalist. Heck, most of the time, Taran was happy if they forgot she was there. She acted and dressed to fit in around her. Not to stand out. And typically, when she heard those types of comments, she was thrilled about a job well done. Tonight, she glanced down at her ugly cutoffs and the sweatshirt that was three sizes too big and felt unattractive. But she couldn’t be hurt at this moment. Nor could she keep acting like she cared about any of this.
“It’s okay, Daily, I forget you’re human and not an ape most of the time,” she joked, making sure he knew she didn’t care that he was blatantly checking out another woman.
Daily threw his head back and laughed. His black hair was slicked back as he usually wore it. About a month ago, he’d been voted hottest bad boy in baseball. She understood why. Full sleeves of tattoos covered both arms, and his deep-set eyes always had that spark of trouble. He had broad shoulders and just enough scruff to announce that he didn’t give a shit about shaving this week. Though the team often demanded the guys wear suits, Daily lived in worn jeans and tight T-shirts.
A lot of women would love a chance to sit and talk with him. All she wanted to do was leave, but she couldn’t go yet. Leaving now felt like Corey and his date were driving her away. Even if that was true, she didn’t want anyone to know it.
“You don’t have a plan for next month’s article yet?” Daily asked again, and then his dark eyes cut across the room.
Taran followed his gaze to where Bridget was bending over the pool table to take a shot, and she looked away. Unwilling to watch Corey and his date anymore, she had to get over it. Corey Matthews was a gorgeous, famous athlete, and he was going to have women around him all the time.
“Ry—I never plan the next article before I finish the one I’m working on. One person at a time,” Taran explained, which was accurate, apart from September. Her neck tingled as she thought about the signed contract from Corey Matthews. Before the trip was over, Taran would have to talk to him about it. After she finished this article with Tillerson, she wouldn’t have a reason to see Corey again. And she couldn’t leave that agreement for a story hanging.
He paused and took a sip of his drink. “So, what do you do if someone doesn’t just jump out at you when it’s time to write the article?”
“Sometimes my editor makes suggestions or agents reach out to me. But for the most part, I see who’s hot in the sports world. Whether it’s because they’re playing really well, or poorly, or just had a big scandal. Whoever people are talking about, I go after them.”
“And you get full say?” he asked.
“Not really. My editor might veto something or insist I write about a particular athlete,” Taran said. “And then if I want to keep my job, I do it.”
