Page 9 of Filthy Player
“I’m sorry.” His voice was a deep rumble, and I fought the urge to shiver. He was so tall, broad-shouldered with a narrow waist. He looked damn good in that shirt, too. The sincerity in his apology made me feel ridiculously silly things. Things like hope and lust.
Now I was the stupid one.
“For what?” I finally asked, trying to glare at him. “Saying it or me hearing it?”
“Both.”
At least he was honest. “Fair enough. Forgiven. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.”
I stepped to the side and he swung an arm out, blocking my path. I could have moved around him, but I was curious. What else could he possibly say to me?
“You might think I’m a dick, but I’m not. What I said wasn’t right, even if you didn’t hear it. I’m not an asshole, Paige, even if I did act like it. I just got carried away with the guys, but I am sorry.”
“No worries. I should have had more self-control. It’s not like it’s the worst thing I’ve heard working here.”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice going tight. “But you shouldn’t have to, and that doesn’t make what I said right either.”
Wow. I hadn’t expected that at all. Maybe the sexy man wasn’t the prick I’d made him out to be.
“Like I said,” I smiled this time, softening my words, “you’re forgiven. Now if you’ll excuse me.” I gestured toward his outstretched arm that was currently inches from my bare stomach. He could pull me to him in a second, wrap his arms around me, press his lips to mine—and woah…
What?
I shook my head to clear the vision but unfortunately, like my manners and work ethic, it was ingrained somewhere deep, somewhere I knew I’d be replaying it later.
“I have orders ready to be delivered to tables,” I said, staring at his hand. “I really do need to get back to work.”
“Have a good night, Paige.”
His arm fell and he walked away, leaving me staring at thick, muscled thighs and a perfectly firm backside tucked nicely into well-fitted black suit pants.
Maybe I should have listened to Hannah.
A night with Beaux would certainly be memorable and a great way to get over my dry spell.
And what kind of guy apologized in such a genuine way? No guy I’d ever met.
Whatever. I needed money, and I needed a job, and I needed to take care of my dad.
Nothing else mattered. Not for me.
***
After I graduated from the University of North Carolina with a communications degree, I’d stayed in Charlotte to work for a local news station. I did a lot of fetching coffee, typing up taglines for the news screen, and making sure guests had everything they needed in their dressing rooms. Essentially, I’d been a poorly paid, glorified assistant. I didn’t mind. The journalism and communications field was a tough one to break into. It could have taken me years to become a headline reporter, sitting behind the desk on the five and six o’clock news.
While I’d been prepared for the challenge, I also didn’t regret quitting my job or moving home to take care of my dad. He’d insisted he didn’t need it, and I’d insisted he was wrong.
Stubborn as a mule, he’d said to me.
Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I’d replied.
While there wasn’t regret, I definitely had days, mostly when I was sitting in the office of his garage, paying bills with money we didn’t have, taking care of customers, that I missed the life I had.
Now, I was back on my own, taking care of everything and everyone by myself, and working in the garage, doing all the things my dad had taught me by the time I was fourteen to ensure I’d be able to take care of my car and myself. My days consisted of changing oil, re-aligning brakes, swapping out spark plugs, changing flat tires, and passing off the more difficult automotive tasks I couldn’t handle to our mechanics.
It took me forever to scrub motor oil out from beneath my nails and I’d given up trying. It was easier to keep them clipped short than soak them in stale gasoline before I went to Ride’Em Rough.
There were also days, like that morning, when I couldn’t stop thinking about the night before.
