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Bexley’s eyes are huge, a mix of astonishment and horror as I fondle the man’s chest, sleek with oil and sweat and completely hairless.
“Want to do this?” Tattoo asks in a deep voice.
“She’d love to!” Rachel almost pushes me out of my chair. “Yes. Yes. Yes!”
“Fiona,” Bexley cries, her face full of concern. She knows full well I’ve never done anything like this before, never sought out the centre of attention. I’ve never enjoyed it, always passing the opportunity to others.
Maybe it’s because no one has ever picked me first.
Mase picked me. For whatever reason, he picked me. And so, instead of pushing Bexley ahead of me or letting still-screaming Rachel have the moment, I let Tattoo take my hand, and they boost me onto the stage.
“Are you married?” one of them asks.
I hesitate, and shoot a quick glance at Bexley in the audience before I shake my head.
“That’s good,” another says. “We’re a little gentle with the married ladies.”
“No gentle,” I manage, and one of them picks me up and swings me around.
They put me on a chair and then they dance around me. Six, beautiful, almost bare men—glistening chests, rock hard abs, muscular thighs with tiny little briefs.
I don’t know where to look.
I don’t know what to think. This isn’t me. A prick of apprehension teases and I tense.Now is not the time for this.
Not when I’m here, on stage, the centre of attention of thousands of screaming women who all want to be me. Plus, it’s being filmed for an episode of The Suitor.
Hands caress my shoulders and I can’t help but think of Mase, how his touch was soft and gentle, until I didn’t want it to be.
I lied when I said I wasn’t married. Maybe I should have said I was.
What am I doing on stage? I’m a married woman.
But Mase is the one who gave us the tickets. Mase wanted this to be fun for us. For me. If I know anything about him, Mase will think it’s great that I’m on stage here.
I laugh as I realize I can’t wait to tell him.
Mase
I’matatablefull of good friends talking baseball, with a hunk of perfectly cooked meat on the plate before me, a glass of California Cabernet from my family-owned vineyard, and all I can think about is Fiona.
I’ve got it bad.
I can’t stop thinking about the way she felt in my arms, the soft sounds she made, the silk of her skin. Her smile. Her laugh. The way she looked at me just before—
The waitress, stunning in a tight black dress—and who has been giving me the eye since we sat down—touches my shoulder as she drops off another basket of bread. I ignore her. Completely, utterly tune her out.
Across the table, Winston Manara, left-fielder for the Twins, leans forward and snaps his fingers. “Mase! Ace, what’s going on with you tonight?”
The only thing I can do is feign ignorance because Grayson is sitting right beside me and if I say one word about Fiona, he will be all over it. “What?”
Winston jerks his chin towards the departing girl. “Her. You should be all over her.Demonios, I’ll be all over her if she looks at me like that.”
I shrug, but before I can think of a good reason why not, my oldest friend, Tad, chimes in, “Please don’t give him any ideas. I’m crashing in his room tonight, and I’d like to get at least a few hours of sleep.”
Winston and Rafe Burrios played in the minors with Grayson and Emmett, so I invited them for tonight’s festivities. And I always included Tad whenever I could. I’d grown up with him but instead of reminding me of the bad parts of my childhood, Tad’s serious, no-nonsense demeanor somehow proved that someone could grow up with all the trappings I did, and still turn out okay.
He’s like my sidekick. A man-sized security blanket.
