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She stood there, unable to move for the sticky dampness clinging to her skin and hair. Great. Just what she needed—a layer of alcohol and soda on top of drab and dull. “This is so not my night,” she mumbled, wiping liquid from her cheek.
“Damn,” a familiar male voice said. “You okay?”
A drool-worthy—and dry—Brad appeared in front of her. And she resembled a drenched rat. “I’m fine,” she said. “Just wet.”
Brad grinned. “A man shouldn’t leave a woman wet and unattended now, should he?”
She would have blushed at the innuendo, but he didn’t give her a chance. “Let’s get you to a bathroom,” he said, grabbing her hand to pull her through the crowd.
They maneuvered through the maze of tables, chairs and people. Amanda couldn’t help but notice Brad’s backside looked as hot in Levi’s as it did in baseball pants. Long before she’d finished her inspection, they stopped in front of the ladies’ room.
“Thanks,” she said, tugging to retrieve her hand from his grasp.
He held on a second longer. “I’ll wait for you here.”
She didn’t argue. She just wanted to clean up. Inside the restroom, Amanda examined her reflection in the long expanse of mirrors and cringed.
With the help of paper towels, the brush from her purse and the hand dryer, she managed to repair her appearance in short time. Even so, she didn’t want to go back out into the throng. She was done with too much noise and too many people. She would much rather be snuggled in bed watching a good movie than pretending to enjoy the bar scene.
But she needed a story. She needed to go back out there and make nice with the team. She needed to face Brad. Her stomach fluttered and she pressed her hand to her midsection. Good lord, the man got to her. One look from his baby blues and her knees were like noodles.
She couldn’t let her nerves get to her. Amanda took a deep breath and shoved away from the sink, forcing herself to start walking. And as promised, Brad was waiting for her on the other side of the door. He rested one broad shoulder against the wall, arms crossed over that broad, T-shirt-clad chest.
The minute he saw her, he straightened, the corners of his lips lifting as he gave her a quick, but thorough, once-over. “You look good as new,” he said.
“Thanks for the help navigating. Size makes a difference,” she said, then realizing the implication of what she’d said felt her cheeks warm. Afraid her attraction to Brad was written all over her face, she lowered her lashes, trying to erase the evidence with several blinks.
Before she could refocus, before she knew what was happening, Brad pulled her close. He leaned down, his mouth next to her ear, his breath warm on her neck. “Incoming traffic,” he said. “You were almost trampled again.”
Being pressed so close to Brad was nothing less than explosive. In some remote corner of her mind, Amanda was aware of a large group of women squeezing past them. Remote because it was near impossible to think of anything but Brad’s legs resting against hers, and the intimate touch of his hand low on her back. She wanted his hand to venture south, to cup her backside. Maybe he’d caress her thigh, encourage it to wrap around his leg so that their sexiest parts would be pressed together.
A shiver of excitement raced down her spine, and her body ached in all the right places. No, the wrong places, she reminded herself. Brad was off limits. Too bad the reality check did nothing to stop the awareness ripping through her body, heating her from head to toe.
Somehow, Amanda forced herself to take a step back. He resumed his position against the wall, his expression a mixture of temptation and amusement, as if he knew she was running scared. Which, of course, she was. And it was stupid. Why run?
Well, except for the fact that she had a reputation to protect—her own and that of the other female journalists who took grief for simply being women. Falling all over Brad wouldn’t do much for her professionally, even if it might be enjoyable.
Anything she might have said was cut off by a female voice. “Hey, Amanda. I didn’t know you were coming tonight. I’m so excited you’re here.”
Amanda turned to see Laura, the pretty blond groupie who could be no older than twenty-two or twenty-three. She greeted Brad, then said to Amanda, “Wait for me. I have a table with a bunch of the guys. You can join us.”
This was a perfect escape, actually. Amanda could use a minute away from Brad to cool off a little. “Sounds good.”
“Excellent,” Laura said. “Back in a second.”
“Hanging with the groupies now?” Brad inquired.
A defensive response slipped out. “You do. Why not me?”
