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“You haven’t been single for New Year’s in more than a decade. And last year doesn’t count.”
No. It really doesn’t. Considering I was married. Same as I am now. Not that I’m going to clarify any of that. In fact, the best course of action is to nod quietly and let her have her say.
Only those little-sister Spidey Senses must be tingling because her head whips around, her eyes narrowing before returning to the road.
“What gives? You look guilty.”
“I’m not,” I squeak, guilt burning through me. Or maybe it’s the seat warmer overheating.
Misty’s car needs an upgrade.
She checks me again, and I channel my inner Liam, tucking away all my tells and giving her an even stare.
It must be enough.
“Fine. All I’m saying is, you’ve had a year of mourning your dead relationship. It’s time to move on. Tonight. And you’re not wearing the same dress you wore to your engagement party to do it.”
God, I hadn’t even realized it was the same dress, but she’s right.
I glance into the cluttered backseat and don’t see a bag. “So what am I wearing?”
“I got you a surprise. And you’re going to hate it, but… unless you want to spend New Year’s in that”— her lip curls —“smart pants suit, you’re going to wear it anyway.”
* * *
Liam
What the fuckam I doing here?
I don’t do parties. I don’t hang with the team. But all it took was four little words from Nichols on our way out of practice this morning—“Stormy will be there”—and my plans went from rewatching last night’s game over broiled salmon for one to cutting past a line that was wrapped around the corner so I can be the asshole telling the bouncer I’m on the list.
The music is loud, the bass heavy as a girl in a dress that’s barely there guides me in through a private hallway and directs me to the second level.
Half a dozen of my teammates are standing around the bar with wives and girlfriends I’ve met at various functions and occasionally seen outside the locker room after a game, but no Stormy.
This was a mistake. Boomer’s parked on a couch surrounded by bunnies, and Bowie’s got a girl beside him too. Static, Kellog, and Olsen are parked with a few guys I don’t know by the balcony. No Nichols.
Kellog laughs hard enough to bend over before straightening again, effectively closing off that semicircle of dudes. But in that brief break, I catch a flash of ice blue. Less than a sliver. But enough that something— instinct, maybe —has me closing in, my pulse starting to jack.
Static shifts to the left, and I catch the spill of wavy dark hair.
Another two steps and Olsen signals the passing server for another round.
I’ve found Nichols. He’s standing against the rail with his arm around Misty. And next to her is Stormy.
Now I get why that scant sliver of ice blue was all I saw of her dress… Becausethat’s all there fucking is.
9
Liam
This dress is, at most, a few scraps of shimmery thin fabric in the color of Stormy’s eyes, barely held together by a couple strands of sparkly beads over her shoulders and midway between her belly button and spectacular tits. It’s so short her legs look like they go for miles. And the shoes.
Damn.
Jesus, those shoes look like they ought to come with their own rating, and it’s taking every fucking thing I have not to imagine those glittering spiked heels at my thighs— I swallow hard. By my ears. Draped over my shoulders as I sink my tongue deep into—
Fuuuck. Shake it off, man.
