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Even though we loved to hate each other, it’s not like I didn’t notice everything about her, too. Like how Blair loves coffee with her sugar and cream. I froze her bras enough to know she’s a 36D. She wears black framed glasses when she reads, and it’s the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen. But that was years ago, and I’m curious what’s changed.
“What other weird shit is there to know about you now?”
“I’m the one who sashayed in here with a cat tail butt plug in my ass,” she replies. “I think it’s your turn to confess.”
She’s got me there.
I should’ve known better than to try to out-kink Blair Monroe. Her fearlessness is one of the many ways she used to drive me insane. She became this game I couldn’t play, and now, I know if I try, I’ll lose my heart to her again.
I hated how I secretly fell in love with Blair.
I was committed to Reese. She had issues. She needed me, and I needed to focus on someone else who needed saving so I didn’t have to save myself. In college, I started to realize I was in trouble, and I didn’t want to admit who I was, so I pretended to be Reese’s hero instead.
But Blair never needed saving.
It’s like she didn’t need anyone, especially me.
But now? Now that she’s moaned into my kiss? Now that I’ve tasted her. Now that I know what a woman really feels like inside. She’s given every part of her beautiful body to me and I only want more.
Damn, I need to be careful.
I can’t afford to fall in love with Blair again. Literally, my bank account and an entire NFL franchise depend upon me not getting distracted.
Again.
“Fine,” I answer her. “What should I confess? That I’m a dude who loves pumpkin-spiced lattes? That I watch romcoms to cheer me up? That I’d rather read a book than go to a club? Or that I like folding laundry? It’s like meditation.”
She smiles, flipping her raven hair over her shoulder to clear the way for her final gargantuan bite of that burger. She’s so shameless she even lets the peanut butter drip down her chin, asking me with her mouth full.
“Confess what you’re afraid of.”
I want to kiss those messy lips, but instead, I answer, “Shoulder surgery next week.”
She gulps her burger down, her eyebrows shooting up.
“Surgery? Is that why you?—”
“Lost the Super Bowl?” I know everyone’s talking about how I fucked up. “I don’t know,” I confess to her, and that warm feeling of trusting my secrets with Blair feels dangerously good again. “Maybe. But we’ve been winning all season. We’ve been treating the tear with therapy until I could have this procedure done. But maybe it was me. Or maybe it was Hawke.”
“Hawke?”
I shove a bite of steak in, laughing. Since she’s so free around me, I’m free to talk with my mouth full, too.
“Damn,” I huff, “you really don’t watch football do you?” She shrugs, smiling. “Colton Hawke. He’s my best friend and wide receiver.” Mischief sparks across her eyes. “Don’t even,” I grin, raising my eyebrow, warning her.
She laughs, biting into a crispy onion ring. “That point’s too easy. I won’t take it.”
“Yeah, well.” I take a swig of beer. It’s the off-season, and hell, yes, I indulge. “I don’t know if it was my shoulder or Hawke’s hands. I threw the ball a little high; maybe I put too much gas on it, but Hawke had it. He always does. But the ball just flew through his grasp that time and the interception fucked us.”
“Is that why you’re in Charleston? For shoulder surgery?”
She wipes her face clean with a linen napkin before turning to stretch her legs across the bed, and that’s when I notice the small tattoo on her left ankle. It’s a stack of books.
“No,” I answer, wiping my mouth too. I’m full and getting hungry for her again. “I’m here visiting my brother. It’s my nephew’s tenth birthday, so I flew in for his party today and fly out tomorrow for Boston. That’s where one of the best surgeons is.” My stomach churns. “I hope.”
She’s quiet like she doesn’t want to push the subject. Either that or I’m distracting her with my body. The way Blair proudly devours me with her eyes is sexy as fuck.
“Your turn,” I tell her. “What are you afraid of?”
