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And as much as I want to tell myself it’s just a physical attraction with nothing more to it, I have a sharp feeling deep in my chest that isn’t true. And that it’s only a matter of time until I accept it.
My gaze sweeps over the dancing crowd below once more as I take another pull from my beer, and my muscles tense as my eyes do a double take at a figure at the bar. Part of me thinks I’m imagining things, that the flashing colors around the club are just a trick of the light. But there’s no mistaking that face, that smile, even from this distance.
Like my thoughts had summoned her presence, it’s hard to miss Willow leaning against the bar on the side section, her face visible to me from where I’m sitting up above. I lean forward, just a little, unable to tear my gaze away as I watch her grin and chat with two girls she is squeezed in between, laughing, and I find myself wishing I could hear the sound of her laugh rather than the music deafening me to it.
I take another long sip of the beer, licking my lips afterwards as my gaze remains fixed on her. Fuck, I can’t bring myself to look away, watching intently, and that’s exactly how Caden catches me as he leans forward on the couch next to me, elbows resting on his thighs.
“You gonna keep watching her from a distance or make a move?” his gruff voice asks, almost sounding bored.
Across from us, Leo snorts. “That’s all he can bring himself to do where Willow is concerned.”
Next to him, JJ snickers. His eyes are glazed over from the alcohol, but amusement still dances in them. “I think she makes him nervous.”
My expression falls flat. “You’re an idiot,” I deadpan. It only makes him laugh more.
His words are meaningless. Willow doesn’t make me nervous; I just have a history of not being the most pleasant conversationalist, and that’s not something I’ve ever really thought twice about. Until now—until her. She’s got the kind of smile that does something indescribable to my chest—the same smile I told her, fucking stupidly, she does too much of.
It was a throwaway comment, said in the heat of the moment because despite the adrenaline of winning a game, the post-game interviews always dampened my mood. I’d assumed an interview with her would feel the same. It hadn’t—not completely. And that threw me in for a loop. I didn’t like it, so I made a stupid remark.
“We’re friends with plenty of reporters.” At my still flat expression, Leo amends his statement, “Okay, well, maybe you’re not.”
Caden scoffs next to me. “Maxwell looks like he wants to be more than just friends with her.” He then fixes me with a look. “Which wouldn’t be a smart idea.”
JJ frowns. “Why not?” he asks, like he’s put off on my behalf.
“She’s a fresh faced NFL reporter,” Leo explains easily. “It’d look bad for her if she was involved with an athlete she works closely with. Maxwell wouldn’t face much backlash, but she would.”
My jaw tightens at his words. Isn’t that exactly what Willow had told me that night at the charity function, when I had done something as simple and innocent as offer her a ride home? They were all right, I know. It frustrates me, but Iknow. But it doesn’t stop me from thinking about her, fantasizing about her when I probably shouldn’t. Sparkling eyes, radiant smile, and hair my fingers itch to run through—telling myself not to think about her has been damn near impossible.
I finish the last of my beer, still watching Willow down at the bar. To my friends, I ask gruffly, “So you’re saying I shouldn’t go down there and talk to her?”
They are silent for all of three seconds before Leo asks, “Do you want to talk to her, or fuck her?”
The thought of having her underneath me, splitting her open with my cock while I taste her mouth has my blood rushing straight to my groin. My jaw clenches for a moment before I say levelly, “Both.”
Even if she’s off limits. The forbidden aspect of it all doesn’t make her more enticing—she does that all on her own effortlessly.
“Be charming,” JJ suggests.
Caden snorts again. “As if he knows how to do that,” he jests dryly.
I shoot him a glare. Talk about hypocrisy; the guy might be more emotionally stunted than I am, and that’s saying something. “I was a dick to her during our first interview,” I remind JJ. “I don’t think being charming will get me too far with her.”
“Actions speak louder than words,” Leo says. The guy might be the most intuitive when it comes to a woman’s feelings as he raises his daughter on his own. “You can apologize for your behavior all you want, but you might win her over by showing her a change. Being pleasant during one interview isn’t going to cut it. Go down there, buy her and her friends a drink, start a conversation. You know,” Leo raises an eyebrow pointedly, “Be human.”
My lips curl in distaste at his obvious teasing, though I can make out the truth in his words, too. I don’t get a chance to think about his words for too long, because when I look toward Willow again, she isn’t at the bar anymore. Her two friends are laughing, looking toward the dance floor, and I follow their line of sight until it lands on a view that leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
Willow is dancing with some guy—some nameless, insignificant man—who has his hands all over her as they move together to the beat of the fast-paced song. There isn’t an inch of space between them, and the blood in my veins boils to the point of pain, stinging deep in my bones as a fire erupts in my chest that catches me off guard.
I know exactly what this sensation is, but I refuse to acknowledge it. I’m too busy watching the guy’s hands slide down Willow’s sides before reaching her hips, her thighs, and then touching her inner thighs as she leans her head back against his shoulder. The fucker is enjoying himself too much, and the sight of them tightens my grip on the beer bottle, threatening to shatter it right in my palm.
I fucking hate what I’m looking at. The feeling is visceral and sharp, but it’s there and I can’t ignore it. It only calms down somewhat when the song changes and Willow pulls away from the guy, turning to say something to him before she’s pushing her way out of the crowd and the guy turns toward a group of guys. His buddies, most likely.
My gaze zeros in on Willow as she returns to her friends at the bar, her smile lazy and perhaps a little drunk as she talks to them. Is she telling them about the guy? Is she going to dance with him again? Let him take her home?
I don’t sit around to think about the two of them long. With my beer finished, I get up from the couch and start heading toward the stairs to exit the VIP area. Up here, bottle girls come up to give us our drinks, but that doesn’t do me any good with Willow all the way down there at the bar, with guys probably coming up to her to buy her drinks or ask her to dance.
The security guard unhooks the velvet rope for me before I trudge down the stairs, the thud of my shoes against the steps silenced by the music as I make my way down. I don’t immerse myself into the crowd just yet, walking along the edges of it, my gaze fixed on the length of the bar. A few people glance my way, but are otherwise too drunk to approach me, which is just as well. My only focus right now is the redhead at the bar, hoping she hasn’t moved away—or worse, found some other asshole to dance with.
