Tell me something I don’t know. I give his shoulder another squeeze. “Great. Let’s get something to eat.”
Gray gives a long groan. “Oh, man, I’ve been looking forward to this. We’re hitting up Cochon, right?” His eyes gleam at theprospect of eating at one of New Orleans’s best restaurants. And, frankly, my stomach growls too.
“Yep. I told them we’re coming, and they’re planning something good for us. I believe I heard mention of thewhole hog.”
Gray groans again. “I might cry.”
He often gets weepy over food, so I don’t blink an eye. “Meet me outside the locker rooms in thirty?”
Gray is staying at my place tonight before he heads back home with his team.
He gives a nod and starts to trot off, but then turns back. “Oh, hey, Fi’s also gonna be staying the week with us. That coolwith you?”
Everything inside me stops—my heart, my breath. Then it all kicks up again, hard and insistent.
Fiona Mackenzie. Ivy’s little sister. And I do mean little. Five foot three if she’s an inch, her frame is petite but curvy.She caught my attention and kept it from the first time I laid eyes on her two years ago.
Bright green eyes, wild blond hair, smiling full lips and a lilting laugh that, whenever I hear it, makes my dick hard. Thisis how I picture Fi—when I allow myself to picture her in the lonely hours of the night.
I haven’t allowed myself in quite some time. Dreaming of Fi is a special type of torture. Sure, she’s beautiful, but morethan that, she’s one of the most direct people I’ve ever met.
As someone whose career depends on analyzing false plays and misdirection, being around her is like stepping out of the stiflingdarkness and into a fresh, sunny day. Every time I’m in her presence I can breathe easier, see clearer. And I crave that morethan I’d like to admit.
I’d say she was the girl who got away, but we were never that close. Fi has failed to notice me past the casual friendlinessof an acquaintance.
Fiona Mackenzie. In the same house. For a week.
Gray is waiting for me to respond. I give him a nod. “Looking forward to it.” And suddenly I am. More than I’ve ever anticipatedanything in my life.
One
Fiona
Truth? I like men. Scratch that. Ilovemen. I love their strength, their deeper voices, the simple way they come at a problem. I love their loyalty. I love the waytheir wrist bones are wide and solid, and that their hips are straight and narrow. Hell, I even love watching their Adam’sapples bob when they swallow.
And, yeah, I’m talking in generalities. Because I’ve met my share of shitty men.
But on the whole, I am a big fan of the male gender.
Which is why I’m slightly bummed to be man-free at the moment. I had a great boyfriend during college. Jake. He was hot andeasygoing. Maybe too easy. He basically loved everyone. Sure, I was his girlfriend, but if I wasn’t around? No problem. Plentyof other people to hang with.
He didn’t cheat. He just didn’t really care enough. And after seeing what my sister, Ivy, has with her guy? That kind of all-encompassing, I-have-to-be-with-you devotion? I want morethan casual dating. I want to be someone’s necessity, and for them to be mine.
Of course, I’m not going to find that at this tiny little club on a Tuesday night. But I’m not here for the men—most of whomare clearly on the prowl for a quick hookup.
I’m here for the music. The band has a funky trip-hop sound that I love, and the atmosphere is mellow.
Since busting my ass to finish college and starting a job now plagued by a sneaky, idea-stealing coworker, who I want to kill,I need mellow.
I slouch down in the bench seat—nestled at a far corner table—drink my Manhattan and enjoy the moment.
I’ve decided I also love San Francisco, which is where I am now, using my vacation time to visit my sister and her husband.Unfortunately, Ivy and Gray had no desire to come out with me tonight because they have a new baby who wakes up every twohours. Yeah, not going to say I love the sleeping habits of babies, no matter how cute and awesome said baby is.
I suppress a shudder. My life might be frustrating at the moment, and I might be a tinge lonely, but at least I’m not walkingaround sleep-deprived. Instead, I’m listening to a singer crooning about stars, her voice smooth as poured syrup. The cocktailis smoky-sweet on my tongue and warm in my veins. I’m so relaxed at this point that I almost miss the man sitting to my right.
I really don’t know what prompts me to turn and look his way. Maybe it’s because the set ends and my attention diverts fromthe stage. Or maybe I feel his gaze, because it’s on me, steady and unblinking.
Not one to shy away, I stare back and take him in. He’s not my type.
