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TATUM
She was late.
Ms.Porter—the only title Sam offered to give me—was seven minutes late. Of course, some glorified personal shopper would think her time is more important. I had another early wake-up call and desperately needed to blow off some steam before I hit the sack.
I looked around the tiny bistro where Sam had made the reservation. Gold brushed lamps illuminated every alcove where two- and four-seater tables were tucked away. The ambiance was intimate and quiet. I preferred a little noise. It kept conversations private without having to whisper.
Sam knew that and had chosen this spot anyway. She was fucking with me.
I grabbed my glass of water and took a gulp, pretending it was beer.
The Red Cocks’ training camp would have ended for the day a few hours ago, but I hadn’t heard anything from Gid or Theo. I could have just as well called them myself, but I’d been preoccupied with a nap the moment I set foot in my new digs. To my surprise, the team wasn’t publicly breaking the news that they’d signed me until tomorrow. Instead, they decided to wait and shock the field reporters when they saw me in a jersey instead of firing off a tweet. But that didn’t stop word getting all the way up to Boston before I’d even left the Reds’ facilities this afternoon.
Dad had eyes and ears all over the league.
The restaurant door flew open, and a woman entered. Blonde hair wafted behind her like a tumbleweed as she scanned the room, visibly flustered. She exchanged a few words with the hostess, who led her back to my table.
Ah, shit, I thought, offering a polite smile as they approached. That must be the tardy Ms.Porter. She didn’t look anything like I’d imagined. I thought I was meeting a snooty, octogenarian wannabe Hamptons one-percenter. But the real Ms.Porter… My breath wheezed from my lungs as if I’d been flattened by a cornerback.
The hostess said something that prompted a smile from Ms.Porter that could’ve been splashed across the cover of Sports Illustrated.
I stood to greet her, but it wasn’t just manners. I wanted a minute to take her in because, hot damn. She was a stunner. Ivory skin, silky blonde hair, and baby blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when her pink lips widened to a broad smile. Pearl earrings dotted her lobes, and a matching necklace wrapped around the base of her throat. The most glorious set of lush breasts I’d ever seen peeked out from the fluttering V-neck. Even hidden beneath her dress, I could tell she had legs for days. Her smile was infectious, and her body was lean yet strong.
That’s where the poise ended.
She was in a fitted white dress splattered with … was that paint? Her pantyhose had a tear in the knee, and there was grout splattered across the toe of her high-heeled shoe.
“Mr.Bryant?” she asked, extending her arm.
“Tatum,” I said quickly, sliding my palm around her tiny hand. Her skin was like velvet. “Just Tatum. Mr.Bryant is my father.” Suddenly I couldn’t remember what I had been so worked up about. Her floral perfume must have been a powerful sedative. I caught a whiff as she lifted her chin to meet my gaze. I towered over her. My pulse slowed, and the irritation driving up my blood pressure dissipated. My voice dropped to a low rasp. “Pleasure to meet you, Ms.Porter.”
Her gaze flicked up and down. Her head barely reached my shoulders, but her eyes worked their way up to mine after a long detour across my chest and arms. “Wren,” she said seductively, copying my introduction with a coy smile. “Just Wren.”
Our handshake lingered, and I couldn’t help but peruse the graceful curve of her waist and hip. The hemline of her dress ended just past her left hand, which was adorned with a thin bracelet, but no diamond. No smooth band wrapped around her slim finger, marking her as unavailable. Electricity hummed in the air as I turned my attention back to her sky-blue eyes.
“Wren?” I asked, not quite sure I had heard her correctly. “Wren like—”
“The bird,” she said with a laugh. “Yeah. It’s always an ice breaker.”
My hand was still wrapped around hers, my thumb gently stroking her skin. Our eyes were locked. Her lips were parted as if she was frozen mid-sentence.
Someone cleared their throat, shattering the moment.
Wren slid her hand out of mine and apologized quickly to the waiter before dropping into her seat. Before heading to the bistro, I had thrown on a pair of skinny white jeans and a v-neck. It was the only clean thing left in my suitcase. I’d have to paw through the boxes the movers had neatly stacked in each room.
Now, I was cursing that the jeans were so damn tight. I discreetly adjusted myself and eased into my seat. Fucking pearl necklace. A vision of Wren beneath me, my hands replacing that necklace around her throat, bloomed in my vision. Her lips parted as she sucked in staccato breaths. Surrendering to me as I pleasured her.
The dreamy haze of sex was burst by the waiter who stopped by to take our drink orders, then hurried off, leaving us and the menus. Wren didn’t seem to be pursuing her dinner options quite as intently as I was. Instead, she was trying to study me.
“Have you been here before?” I asked.
A perky smile flashed across her light skin. “Yeah, actually. I bring a lot of clients here. It’s less intense than meeting in my office or immediately encroaching on their space.” She was practically bouncing in her seat, and the energy was infectious.
I couldn’t stifle the smile that broke across my face. She was so damn cute. It was like having dinner with a golden retriever. “What’s good?”
Pink tinged the apples of her cheeks. “I usually order something that’s not on the menu.” She cringed through a smile, a subtle way of telling me she was embarrassed to come off as high maintenance. “But everything here is amazing. You can’t go wrong no matter what you choose.”
I licked my lips and folded my hands together over my menu. Leaning across the crisp linens, I said, “Now I’m just a little curious what secret menu item you get since you claim everything on the menu is amazing.”
