Playing Mr. Perfect (The Bradens at Ridgeport #1)

Pepper

Drinks are flowing and the air feels electric in the VIP lounge of the Paris Lá Defense Arena, where dozens of men and women are moving to the beat, as captivated by my talented twin and her band as I am. Well, maybe a little more so, given that even across the crowded room I can feel Clay’s eyes on me. The heat of his gaze has had me in a choke hold since dinner. I fight the urge to look over, and fighting it makes me worry I’ll accidentally glance in his direction and those all-seeing eyes will catch me doing it, erroneously feeding into his belief that I’m just playing hard to get.

My nerves flame with the pressure not to look over.

I know he’s with my brothers-in-law and a handful of men and women who were here when we arrived. Another group had converged on Axsel right away, but a few others had flocked to Clay and Dash, thrilled to be among the American football players. I don’t know how Amber deals with it. Dash is retired and people still consider him public territory. At least Dash kept his distance from the ladies. Clay, on the other hand, hammed it up, putting his arm around the women as they took selfies.