Scoring Off the Field (WAGS series) Page 6

  Closing his eyes, he blocked out the sensual sight of his best friend in bra and panties. His best friend. Contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t led around by his dick. It’d been three weeks since he’d gotten laid. Between Tennyson announcing her intentions to leave, being busy with football, and worrying over his performance, he’d been abstinent much longer than usual. That had to be the reason why he stood here wondering how her clit would quiver and flinch under his tongue.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow his number-one priority was getting a woman under him. Then this momentary…lapse would be an aberration that had never happened.

  Clenching his jaw, he straightened from the doorjamb and entered the room, forcing his gaze to remain above her shoulders. “Tenny,” he called. When she didn’t move, he tried again, louder, adding more of a bark to his voice. “Tennyson.”

  Still nothing. He was going to have to touch her.

  FML.

  Setting the glass and bottle on the bedside table, he leaned over, eyes still trained on her face, and shook her shoulder. Ignoring the silken skin under his fingers. “Tennyson,” he growled, not a little anger at himself roughening the tone.

  “Huh?” Her lashes fluttered before finally lifting. “What happened?”

  In spite of the confusion and irritation swirling in his chest, the corner of his mouth kicked up. She might be completely shit-faced, but God, she was cute.

  “Sit up, babe.” He retrieved the glass and aspirin. Popping the cap open, he shook three of the pills onto his palm. “Take these and drink the water. All of it. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

  Groaning, she sat up. “Don’t call me that,” she grumbled, accepting the tablets.

  “Don’t call you what?” he asked, when she’d swallowed the medicine. “All of it,” he reminded her, nodding at the water still remaining in the glass.

  “Babe. That’s what you call all your women.”

  He stared at her, speechless, as she downed the rest of the drink. Did he…? Maybe. But what did it matter to her? Better yet, why did it matter?

  “I’m tired.” The weariness in her voice snapped his attention back to her, and wordlessly, he took the glass and rounded the bed. Tugging the top blanket and sheet back, he waited as she crawled up the mattress.

  Crawled.

  This time he couldn’t stop his gaze from sweeping the elegant slope of her spine or the firm, full flesh of her ass. Smothering a growl, he briefly closed his eyes, shutting out the carnal image. But it was branded on the back of his lids. Taunting him. Turning his dick into a steel spike.

  Only when he heard her settle down did he risk looking down at her again. Desperate to cover all that skin, he pulled the blanket up to her shoulders.

  “It’s hot in here,” she said, shoving the covers to her waist.

  Well, that explained why she’d stripped. But, considering he had the air-conditioning on, it was probably the tequila talking. Sighing, he turned. That he felt like he’d just gone five rounds with Tyson Fury didn’t escape him.

  “I told Sophia not to bring me here,” Tenny whispered. “I didn’t want to come to your house.”

  He halted, surprise and not a little hurt flashing through him. “Why not?” he demanded, a part of him recognizing the wrongness of interrogating a drunk woman when the odds were she wouldn’t remember a damn thing that had gone down the next morning. Including any confessions.

  “Because.”

  He waited for her to continue. But all he got was a soft, little snore. His fingers curled into his palms, and he resisted the urge to shake her awake and answer his question. Instead he went to the bathroom, refilled the glass, and set it on the bedside table. Then he left, quietly closing the door behind him.

  Yeah, suddenly, he didn’t want to hear the answer.

  Chapter Five

  God, if You love me, please take me out now.

  Tennyson moaned, rolling over. Or tried to. When her head threatened to explode into a bajillion pieces, she stopped moving. And deeply inhaled. Then gagged on her own breath that tasted somewhere between unwashed butt crack and hairy, unwashed butt crack. Yech. Though her lashes seemed fused together with superglue, she lifted them and whimpered, immediately regretting her decision. So that’s how Scott Summers, aka Cyclops, felt when fire erupted from his eyes. Huh.

  Sometime later—maybe minutes, hours, days—she awoke again. The sunlight pouring into the room from the window across from her didn’t pierce her eyeballs like thousands of needles, so she must feel a little better than the first time she’d attempted to lift her lids. Her breath could still choke a fire-breathing dragon, though.

  Moaning, she gingerly shifted until she sat on the edge of the bed. The room didn’t spin, and only contracted and expanded once. Progress. Slowly, she glanced around.

  Wait. This wasn’t her apartment.

  How did she end up at Dom’s house?

  As if the question twisted the knob on the door to her memory, fragments from the previous evening started to trickle through the fog encasing her brain.

  Margaritas. Tequila shots. Sing-a-long of “Circle of Life.” Trying to size up Dom’s dick.

  Oh Jesus H. Christ.

  Slapping a palm over her eyes, she groaned. What had she done?

  Cool air whispered over her bare shoulders and chest. Wait. Bare shoulders and chest…

  What in the hell happened to her clothes?

  As if only too happy to supply the answers, her mind flashed an image of her stripping and falling onto the bed in her bra and panties. Followed by a picture of Dom standing over her.

  Had she asked God to take her out? No, she now needed Him to obliterate her in a bolt of lightning so nothing of her humiliated carcass remained.

  Never again. She was never touching another drop of alcohol again.

  Dragging herself to her feet, she inched along toward the bathroom. Forty-five minutes later, she emerged from the bedroom, showered, dressed in a T-shirt and yoga pants, and damp hair in a messy top bun. Claiming to feel human was a stretch, but at least microwaved death was no longer an option.

  Gripping the railing, she crept down the staircase, following the mouthwatering aroma of frying bacon. An hour ago, she wouldn’t have believed she’d crave anything to eat, but now her stomach rumbled for food. And not just any food. Bacon.

  Entering the kitchen, she spotted Dom at the stove in his customary day-off outfit—T-shirt, low-hanging sweatpants, and bare feet. His muscles rippled and danced under the shirt’s tight cotton as he cooked. The tousled, wavy hair brushed his solid jaw, and that quick, she was jealous of the dark brown strands. Her fingertips itched to trace the stubborn line up to the carnal, full bottom lip.

  She shook her head. “Damn,” she muttered, clutching at her temples. That had been a huge mistake.

  Dom glanced up and over his shoulder. She forced herself to meet his gaze, apprehension over what she would find there skittering through her. Though she recalled some of her behavior the night before, she still didn’t remember everything. And God knows what else she’d done or said. Nerves cramped her belly. Well, God knew, and so did Dom.

  Jesus, the last time she’d been around him drunk had scarred her and caused friction in their relationship. One would think she’d have learned her lesson.

  But as she stared into his eyes, she didn’t see speculation, anger, or—thank the Lord—pity. She obviously hadn’t revealed anything…like how much she wanted him more than bacon.

  “I’m guessing you’re feeling okay since you’re vertical,” he greeted with an arch of his eyebrow.

  She grimaced, moving farther into the room and carefully sitting on one of the chairs at the large oval breakfast table.

  “‘Okay’ would be optimistic,” she said. “I’m alive. I think.”

  He returned to scrambling eggs and flipping bacon. “That means the aspirin helped.”

  “Yeah, thanks for that and…everything.” The words came out sounding more like a question tha
n a statement, since she was uncertain what “everything” actually entailed.

  He shot her a look and snorted. “Now who has the faulty forgettery?”

  “Very funny,” she grumbled. “Speaking of last night…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did I…do anything I need to apologize for?” she hedged.

  He flicked off the burner knobs and turned to fully face her, arms crossed over his chest. “Like what?”

  “Dom,” she moaned.

  “You mean like scaring the hell out of me by showing up wasted out of your mind? Or do you mean trying to check out my dick to find out what direction it pointed?” he suggested.

  Oh hell.

  “Or maybe you’re talking about passing out on me?” he added.

  Wincing, she lifted a shoulder in an apologetic shrug. “Sorry. If it’s any consolation, I’ve already sworn not to get drunk ever again.”

  Silently, she sighed in relief. He hadn’t mentioned her ending up in her underwear. Maybe she’d undressed herself after he put her to bed…

  “Or do you mean stripping down to your bra and panties and flashing your tits at me?”

  She gasped, her head jerking up. Ignoring the protesting throbbing in her temples, she gaped at him. “I didn’t.”

  He arched that damn eyebrow again. “Strip?”

  “Flash my breasts at you,” she whispered, mortified. Oh hell, had she? She couldn’t remem—

  “I’m kidding,” he chuckled. “No flashing.”

  “Asshole.” But the relief coursing through her stole the fire from the insult.

  Still laughing, he piled food on two plates and brought them to the table. The next few minutes, a comfortable silence reigned between them as they tucked into the pretty decent eggs, bacon, and toast. When she’d had her fill, he reached over and scooped the rest of her food onto his plate.

  Business as usual.

  “What’re your plans for the day?” He pushed away from the table and, moments later, returned with two mugs of coffee, hers with cream and no sugar just the way she liked it.

  “Nothing much for the morning and afternoon, but you have a lunch date scheduled with Brian at eleven thirty,” she said, naming his agent. “And a telephone interview with Maxim at two. Followed by a four o’clock meeting at your attorney’s to sign the final contract for the shoe endorsement.” She eyed him over the rim of her coffee cup. “I uploaded it all into your phone’s calendar.”

  “So much for a day off.” He leaned back in his chair. “You want to come with me to meet Brian?”

  She shook her head, scrunching up her nose. “He’s a cool guy, but he has this bad habit of talking to my boobs. No thanks.”

  At the mention of the part of her anatomy that had been the bane of her existence since she turned twelve, his gaze dropped, and she froze, her coffee cup halfway to the table. Something flashed across his face—something too quick to identify—but her heart stuttered, then started pounding against her rib cage.

  “Dom?”

  He picked up his mug and drank from it, not answering her but studying the brew inside the cup as if it held the day’s lottery numbers.

  “I didn’t know he made you uncomfortable,” he finally said, standing and collecting their plates. Not once did he meet her eyes. Unease slid through her. “I’ll talk to him about it. Or is there something you’re not telling me? I can fire him.”

  “No, nothing terrible, other than wandering eyes. I don’t want to cause any trouble,” she murmured, turning in her chair. “Dom,” she hesitated. “Are you sure nothing else happened last night?”

  “I’m sure.” He rinsed the dishes and loaded them in the dishwasher. She frowned, the disquiet not easing. But before she could question him further, he said, “You mentioned you have nothing planned for this morning and afternoon. So you got something going this evening?”

  Well, damn. She hated lying to him…

  No, she didn’t. “Nope.”

  “You know you can’t lie for shit, right?” Eyes narrowed, he scrutinized her, and she met it with a carefully innocent expression. Just in case, she widened her eyes a bit more, and he snorted in disgust. “Please.”

  “What?” She stood from the table and headed toward the kitchen entrance. “I have to get going. Give me a ride home?”

  Her fast movement jarred her head and sent the dull throb to full on Thor’s-Hammer-Against-the-Skull. But better to deal with the headache than admit that she had plans to meet Adam tonight. She just wasn’t having that discussion with Dom.

  “Fine.” Pause. “Then we can finish our conversation.”

  “I’ll call an Uber.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” came his cheerful reply. As if that jovial tone could hide the steel beneath it.

  She rolled her eyes and continued up the stairs. No doubt he planned to try to get more information about her plans out of her. But she had avoidance down to a fine art.

  She’d been a master at it for years.

  Chapter Six

  Adam Rutheridge was everything he’d claimed on his dating profile.

  Tall, a little on the slender side, but still cute in that intellectual, Clark Kent way. Black-rimmed glasses; spiky hair with an undercut; conservatively dressed in a sports coat, dress shirt, and khakis with another of those adorable bowties—this time tiny sleeping blue kittens against a brick-red background. Hip but not too preppy. Nice. Polite. Attentive.

  And so damn boring, she was about to fake choking on her antipasto so she could escape. Only the thought of the ambulance bill kept her from grabbing for her throat and falling out in a violent, paroxysmal fit.

  But if he regaled her once more with tales of how his brilliant British Blue Shorthair Charlie could play “Chopsticks” on Adam’s baby grand piano, she would consider the money well spent.

  She’d had such high hopes for HappilyEverAdam. Had made dinner reservations for them at Assagio’s, one of the best restaurants in Seattle. She should know, since she’d arranged for Dom to take his dates here often enough. But no such luck. Looks like she would be repurposing the short, form-fitting black cocktail dress she’d bought specifically for this date. She eyed the tiny cup of Italian salad dressing next to her plate. Spilling it on the gorgeous dress would be a shame, but…

  “I’ve had Charlie since she was a kitten. Bought her when I lived in New York, and we’ve been together ever since. I’m thinking about getting another cat to keep her company since I’m now traveling a lot for my job as a pharmaceutical rep. But,” he chuckled, shrugging and adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “What are the odds of finding another cat who can play ‘Chopsticks’…”

  “Right,” she absently agreed, reaching for the dressing. The little black number would be taking one for the team…

  “Wow, what a coincidence. Fancy meeting you here, Tenny.” She froze, Dom’s familiar voice aborting her wardrobe emergency.

  Shock socked the air from her lungs, and she could only stare in confusion and disbelief at the sight of her friend standing next to her table. She blinked. Stared some more. Nope, she wasn’t imagining him. Or the statuesque redhead in the tiny gold dress, either.

  Son. Of. A. Bitch.

  On second thought, that wasn’t really fair to his mother.

  Bastard.

  “What are you doing here?” she blurted, finally finding her voice.

  “OMG,” Adam blurted out at the same time, gawking at Dom. “Dominic Anderson! I can’t believe it!” he practically yelled. Apparently, Adam had one more interest besides his cat’s musical tastes. Football. Greeeaaat.

  Dom turned to her, and the fall of his hair hid his face from everyone but her as he mouthed, “OMG.” His irritating smirk tightened a bit at the corners of his mouth as his gaze dropped down and skated over her bare shoulders and the deep V of her dress. What a hypocrite. He had the nerve to be disapproving while his date’s hem played hide and seek with her hoo-haa. As quick as the look of displeasure app
eared, it vanished by the time he turned and stretched a hand toward Adam, replaced by the charming grin that’d had several toothpaste companies calling, begging to have him be the face of their brand. Thoroughly captivated—or snowed—Adam rose from the table, his chair screeching across the floor in his haste. But he didn’t seem to notice as he grabbed Dom’s hand and pumped it with the excitement Tennyson had assumed he reserved only for his British Blue.

  “Nice to meet you…” Dom paused, and Adam delightedly filled in the space.

  “Adam. Adam Rutheridge.”

  “Nice to meet you, Adam.” Dom turned to his date, a hand settled on the small of her back. Tennyson tried really hard not to resent her for the small, solicitous touch. “This is Julia Rowland. Julia, Adam Rutheridge and Tennyson Clark.”

  “Ooh. How cute,” Julia cooed. “A Streetcar Named Desire is one of my favorite films.”

  A Streetcar Named… Hell. “Actually,” Tennyson said, struggling to not fall out of her chair and roll on the floor laughing, “that’s Tennessee Williams. I’m named after the poet, Alfred, Lord Tennyson.” At the other woman’s blank stare, Tennyson lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “‘Maud’ and ‘The Kraken’?” Nothing. “‘Charge of the Light Brigade?’ Into the valley of Death rode the… Never mind.”

  “No worries, Julia. People make that mistake all the time,” Dom assured his date. And didn’t once glance down at Tennyson as he uttered the blatant lie. “Hey, how about we join you two?”

  Damn. She’d known it was coming.

  “I’m sure you and Julia—” she began.

  “That would be amazing,” Adam crowed, interrupting and overriding her.

  You can’t punch him in the throat. You can’t punch him in the throat.

  As if by magic, two waiters appeared with extra chairs that they settled on either side of her. Dom lowered in the seat to her left, while his date sat in the one on Tennyson’s right. A pout turned her crimson lips downward. Probably because she couldn’t cuddle next to Dom during the meal. It seemed Tennyson wasn’t the only one eating a healthy serving of disappointment tonight.