Triple Power Play (Obsessed Players Club #1)

4. Aurora

FOUR

AURORA

Two Years Later

This is a mistake.

I can’t do this.

I have no choice. I have to do this.

To make matters worse, I’m late. Late to meet my first substantial client in nearly two years.

My clicking heels come to a halt on the sidewalk. There’s no turning back now. There he is—leaning against an idling limo, arms crossed over his broad chest, giving off a vibe of annoyance as he drums his fingers on his bulging biceps.

Great.

And, of course, my date is gorgeous—in an older, unrefined, rugged kind of way. In an all-black suit with dark wavy hair, Ethan Blackwood oozes confidence, a demeanor that teeters on the edge of arrogance.

Why couldn’t he be ugly? Ease my crushing self-doubt and insecurity for once?

He’s tall, a handful of inches over six feet, and has the undeniable physique of a professional athlete, well-defined muscles stretching the fabric of his tailored suit. Since we’re attending a charity gala hosted by LA’s professional hockey team, the Huskies, I shouldn’t be surprised by any of this.

I set myself up for this disaster.

His surly behavior is almost endearing, but I’m far too nervous, my bubbly mask struggling to stay affixed. Reentering thedating scene after a disastrous relationship has me walking on eggshells. Add the high likelihood of seeing my worst mistake at the gala tonight, and I’m wavering on the precipice of a panic attack.

I take a deep breath and urge myself to focus. I push aside thoughts of attractive older men, my tumultuous ex, and the shitty nursing home where my grandmother is currently confined.

I can do this. I’ve meticulously perfected each and every aspect of my appearance, all for tonight’s purpose.

Dressing for revenge and killing this date.

The model image is simply a prerequisite for the job. It’s all a front, a mirage, a fantasy I maintain to pay the bills. It takes all the money I earn to sustain the facade of a luxurious lifestyle while supporting the only family I have left—my grandmother.

That’s what makes tonight imperative. For months, I’ve bounced from one shitty modeling gig to another, earning barely enough to buy groceries, nevertheless pay rent.

Escorting is my last hope.

Even with the negative stigma, the money is impossible to pass up, especially after the year I endured. Funeral expenses and medical bills are no joke. Don’t get me started on the unfathomable cost of my grandmother’s rehabilitativenursing home.

Their use of the word rehabilitative should be criminal—the place is a dump.

Despite the tightness in my chest, I’m fascinated by the man who stands before me. He’s the stereotypical tall, dark, and handsome, but what captivates me most is the intensity in his stormy gray eyes.

Then, he speaks, and I’m even more enthralled.

“Shit. They weren’t exaggerating when they said you were stunning.” His voice is pure sex, deep and throaty.

Maybe a distraction is exactly what I need—a reckless and broody distraction.

No, don’t even consider it.

He extends his hand to assist me into the limo, and my heart takes a dive at the brush of our fingers. His palms are rough and callused. He’s more than a suit. He puts in work.

“Thank you.” I flash him a flirty smile. “You must be Ethan.”

We settle into the backseat, and I make a point of running my gaze over him, hoping my boldness flatters him and hides my nervousness. It’s not entirely trumped-up. There’s something about him I can’t quite put my finger on.

A tempting danger lurks behind his eyes.

He hits me with a cocky smirk. “If I’m not, you’re in trouble. Do you make a habit of getting into the back of limos with strange men?” He lifts a brow. It’s playful, but there’s a hint of disapproval in his words.

“I wouldn’t call you a strange man.” I cock a brow right back at him with enough sass to keep the banter going.

He winks, brushing a thumb over his bottom lip. “Debatable.”

A giggle erupts from my chest then abruptly dies.

A wedding band. He’s married.

I avert my gaze to hide my shock and disappointment, but it’s too late.

He scowls, and the playful mood vanishes so fast, I wither along with it.

But damn, his brooding only amplifies his sexiness. His eyes are smoldering with dominance and a hint of threat.

Why does that not frighten me? Instead, it arouses me.

Bad thoughts.

I take a moment to remind myself I’m an escort. My clients serve as a means of financial support, not as romantic prospects. Ethan isn’t my former client, who turned out to be long-term…and unhinged, but that’s beside the point.

It has been a while, but I’ve played this game a handful of times with professional athletes, all of whom could’ve been married, unbeknownst to me.

But Ethan’s blatant display of commitment—that’s unfamiliar territory I can’t ignore. Right?

I’m offering the Girlfriend Experience to a married man.

Maybe I’ve become too sensitive for this job since my breakup or bitter after my ex ghosted me when I needed him the most.

The silence in the back of the limo is deafening, and to someone with anxiety, uncomfortable silence is itchy . My skin burns from it, and my thoughts play tricks on me.

“Regarding the ring…am I pretending to be your wife tonight?” My tone is subdued, but no matter how hard I try, it doesn’t hide my self-consciousness. “I must have missed that in the contract.”

“You’re a date,” he says, engrossed in his phone. “Nothing more.”

Ouch. His harshness has my heart rate skyrocketing and my stomach churning.

“Is she… Your wife… Is she dead?”

“Nope. She’s very much alive.” Not even a glance.

So much for the flirty banter.

The exciting atmosphere of only a few moments ago has soured. My mind is blown, and my doubts race toward dread with every second we get closer to the event.

How am I supposed to walk into this gala hanging from the arm of tall, dark, and dissatisfied with my infamous ex in the same room?

I need to set my emotions aside and salvage this date. It’s literally my job and my only source of financial support. I’ve spent every dime I saved from my former client and can no longer live off my roommate.

I’m twenty-one. It’s a gala, and I’m wearing a sexy black dress. This is supposed to be fun. Exciting. I can do this. I have to do this.

The limo comes to a halt, marking our arrival. The door swings open, and the bustling sounds of downtown LA shatter the silence.

My nervous excitement takes over.

Ethan steps out of the vehicle and offers his hand to assist me. His fingers envelop mine, and, to my shock, he doesn’t release me. My heart stops, only to start up again ten times faster when our eyes meet, and I’m struck by the familiar vulnerability mirrored in his gaze.

I force myself to look away and move my feet.

Well-dressed hockey executives and players make their way on the red carpet, posing for photos with their dates. Some are known faces, although I hardly recognize them outside their uniform and gear.

One person I don’t see is my ex, and a momentary sense of relief washes over me.

Then, I remember every player must attend the Children’s Charity Gala, and my stomach plummets, along with my newfound courage.

Warm fingers tighten around mine, as if Ethan can read my anxious thoughts. I give him an appreciative smile, and he offers a reassuring wink.

Maybe tonight won’t be a disaster.