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“I don’t know why I’m wasting my breath,” Brittany sneers. “I’m going home. Delete my number.”
He runs a frustrated hand through his thick, wavy, luxurious hair. And this man does not have plugs either, all that sexy is his. “Fuck.” He turns and gives me a quick once-over. I take a quick look down and notice his shoes are black and polished, with no pointy toe. Confident and low maintenance.
I note a few important details while he assesses me, the error that cost him the hot sure-thing. First of all, his eyes are bloodshot and his focus is divided, which could very well explain his inability to discern me from the dark-haired Barbie doll storming away. His nose is a little red and he seems pale. His brow is also glistening just a smidge. I also note the very obvious lump jacking up the front of his dress pants. I feel some satisfaction that my kissing skills are decent enough to give him a woody.
Finally, and most important, this brick house of a man is smokin’ hot, even if he is sick, based on Brittany’s bathroom reports. Like on a scale of one to ten he’s a seven million.
He clears his throat. “I’m really sorry I sexually harassed you and coughed on you. I’ve been popping cold meds like candy tonight and I think I had one too many scotches. I honestly thought you were her, even though clearly you’re not.”
Well that’s rude.
He gestures to my body and then my face as he expels a quick breath. “I mean, you’re, wow, just—hot.”
Or maybe he’s not that rude.
“Anyway, she’s a friend of the family, so I have to fix this. I need to go. You might want to take some vitamin C or something when you get home.”
With that unnecessary, but somewhat appreciated, explanation he turns around and jogs down the hall.
I guess I should be flattered that he mistook me for a supermodel, even if he is hammered and drugged.
Chapter 2: The Impact of Flu Medication and Alcohol
BANCROFT
I take one last look at the woman I accidentally molested before I follow Brittany’s swishing hair and swaying ass down the hall and through the foyer. If Brittany wasn’t my date, and I hadn’t promised my mother I’d give going out with her an honest shot, I’d be inclined to go back and get that girl’s number. She’s got a nice mouth. In the very short time I kissed her, I imagined putting things other than my tongue in it. Not very refined of me, but honest nonetheless.
I don’t call after Brittany once I’m in the foyer. I know too many people and I think, based on her recent reaction, she’s likely to throw a fit, drawing attention I don’t need. What I should’ve done was canceled tonight, on account of being sick as a dog this past week. But I didn’t want to upset my mother by canceling the date, or piss Armstrong off by missing the engagement party, so I loaded up on a variety of drugs and bit the bullet. Now I’d have to smooth things over with Brittany.
Pretty much the second I picked Brittany up, she alluded to coming back to my place later.
I’ve heard some rumors about her and her mouth—and not just about her penchant for gossip, which I’m also familiar with, since I’ve known Brittany most of my life.
The selfie of her sucking on the lollipop was a pretty solid indicator that a nightcap would not just involve talking. When I ran into that woman in the hall, I assumed it was Brittany making her move and figured I might as well get it over with. I should’ve known better than to jump on that opportunity, since it would likely cause more unnecessary issues, but the cold meds and the drinks tonight are messing with my ability to make rational, well-thought-out decisions, hence my making out with some random woman in the hall.
Besides, bringing Brittany was a favor, orchestrated by my mother. Apparently Brittany’s date ditched her at the last minute and my mother thought it would be the perfect opportunity to swoop in and play matchmaker. Normally, I don’t bend to my mother’s whims when it comes to my dating life, but, a little over a year ago, the importance of family was pretty much thrown in my face all at once. She had a health scare, one that resulted in a battery of tests and lot of anxiety. It was during the middle of the championships, so I couldn’t come home at all while she was in and out of the hospital. To make matters worse, not long after that, my grandmother passed away. She was an incredible woman; her loss shook us all. She’d been very much the glue in our family. So, ever since I moved back to New York, my mother has been on me about dating and settling down. I have a lot of guilt about not being there for her when she needed me so I caved when she suggested the date with Brittany. It also got me out of the charity bachelor auction that she was going to volunteer me for, but I had to agree to a second date. According to her, Brittany comes from “good breeding,” which in the world I was raised in, is more important than it should be.
I understand that my mother’s views on relationships aren’t uncommon based on her upbringing, and there may have been a time when I would’ve probably shared her ideals. But I’ve spent the last seven years playing professional rugby, and it’s changed my views on a lot of things. Relationships, and how they function, or rather dysfunction, being one of them.
I don’t make eye contact with anyone as I maintain a brisk, but casual stroll toward the elevators. It’s taking more effort than I expected to stay on a straight path. People kept handing me scotch tonight, it was hard to say no, especially in this crowd.
Brittany’s too-high shoes prevent her from making a speedy escape. She walks like she’s on the runway no matter where she goes. It’s a little ridiculous. She reaches the elevator just as the doors open, so I have to pick up my pace. She keeps jamming the button, but I shove my arm in before the doors can close all the way and step inside.
“Thanks for holding the elevator for me.” I should rein in the attitude, but I’m annoyed at the negative turn in my evening. And the cold meds I took a few hours ago are already wearing off. I feel like garbage.
She makes a disgruntled sound, crosses her arms over her chest and stares straight ahead.
I don’t feel like dealing with this. I could manage when she was being flirty and alluding to things she wanted to do later. Now she’s being an overdramatic princess, and I don’t do overdramatic princesses. Although, I can understand her current discontent even if the hissy fit seems unnecessary. Mistake or not, I did stick my tongue in someone else’s mouth when I’m supposed to be her date.
I lean against the opposite wall as the elevator descends. “I’m sorry about that other girl. I thought it was you.”
“I’m not going home with you tonight,” she huffs.
I shove my hands in my pockets. If she still wanted to come back to my place, I’d have more concerns than I already do about her. There’s no fucking way I’d sleep with her anyway, because I like my balls where they are and I’m not interested in losing them to her father if he found out I screwed his daughter the first time I took her out. “That’s probably a good idea. I’m still not feeling a hundred percent.”
I have a business trip coming up in a few days and a meeting tomorrow morning. I don’t have time for this. I’m still in recovery mode from this cold and flu double slam I’ve been hit with and I can’t afford to feel like this when I’m getting on a plane in the near future.
“I can’t believe you thought she was me. I’m prettier than her, aren’t I?” She lifts her chin and sniffs, her offense clear.
