Chapter 20
20
[Ruthie]
B olan is quick to find a babysitter for Tulane. To my surprise, it’s Ruby, Ford Sylver’s nanny. He isn’t going out like the rest of his teammates and Ruby is available.
I’ve told Bolan a few times he really doesn’t have to include me tonight, even though Cyrus asked me directly to attend.
“Stop,” he eventually says as we clean up the kitchen after dinner. “I love to dance. This will be fun.”
I am not much of a dancer. The last time I danced was with him and before that, I can’t remember.
“You can hardly walk across a flat surface without tripping,” I tease him, chuckling at how often this big, sturdy man is a little unsteady.
He kicks up his heel behind him like he’s reacting to a first kiss and laughs. “These flippers are hard to flip some days, but dancing is different. There’s no structure. You just let loose. ”
He does the White-man’s overbite and sways his hips, snapping his fingers to imitate his skills.
I laugh. I don’t know if everyone would agree there isn’t structure to dancing but who am I to argue with him. Plus, he’s very excited about the prospect of going out.
Which worries me that I’m holding him back. Having a wife might be cramping his style of hitting on random woman and having one-night stands. Then again, he’s been home every night after his games, hanging out with Tulane and me.
Slowly, Bolan stops dancing. “I can almost hear the gears clicking in your head. What are you thinking?” His shoulders droop while his brows pinch. “We don’t have to go, if you don’t want to.”
Disappointment fills his rugged voice.
“No. No, I want to go. It’s just—” I wasn’t certain how to explain myself, without making me sound needy, or him sound seedy.
Bolan steps closer to me and cups my shoulders. “Look. Let’s go for a little while. If you’re uncomfortable for any reason, we can leave.” His eyes scan my face. “Tonight’s a green, Ruthie. You’re safe with me.”
My eyes widen, but then soften. Being safe is half the problem. The good half . . . where I feel comfortable with Bolan. The bad half—I’m tired of playing life safe. I want that moment of reckless red back.
Instead of admitting the truth, I nod.
Bolan releases my shoulders and claps once. “Yes. Now get dressed, beautiful.”
When I enter the living room forty minutes later, Bolan is seated in the recliner. I swear he loves that chair. Tulane is in the corner of the room that’s become her play center with buckets of toys and books.
Bolan’s attention shifts from the television to me as I exit the hallway and quickly turns back for the game on the set .
Then his head snaps back in my direction, and his feet kick down on the lifted portion of the chair. He slowly stands, keeping his eyes on me while rubbing his hands down his dark-wash jeans. He’s also wearing a plain short-sleeve, button-down that makes him look like a cowboy-wannabe.
“Holy shit, Ruthie. You’re a fucking knockout.”
My cheeks heat at the compliment while I press a finger to my lips and glance at Tulane. “Little ears,” I admonish before swiping my hands over my hips. “Am I underdressed? He said line dancing.”
“You want to stay home and get undressed? Because that’s what I heard. That’s what I want,” he rambles, letting those safe eyes of his shift to dangerous as his gaze roams down my body. The appraisal heats my face again but another place on me is hot and bothered as well.
“Bolan.” I chuckle, assuming he’s joking with me. He wants to go out. He wants to be with his team, his new friends, and in the time it took me to get ready, I’m excited to go out as well. I love Tulane but I need some adult conversation.
He digs his teeth into his lower lip and steps closer to me. “Seriously, Ruthie. You steal my breath. White looks good on you.”
I glance down at the fitted cropped top that leaves a sliver of skin exposed above my high-rise jeans. The collar fits tight to my throat while the shirt is sleeveless.
“White?” I chuckle. “Really?”
“White means commitment.” His tone turns serious, forcing my gaze to meet his again. “You wore white when we got married, and I swear I could breathe for the first time in a year.” He exhales as if emphasizing his statement. “Maybe the first time ever.”
“Bolan,” I whisper. All the compliments. All the comments. If I wasn’t careful, being safe was going to get reckless, even dangerous like those eyes of his, because I could fall for him. The man I’m learning he is, not the college guy who kissed me or the clumsy yet cocky man who entered a ballroom.
The thought reminds me that I still haven’t told him we’d met once upon a time. Some days, I think the secret will never matter. Other days, I know secrets are the devil and I should just tell him.
When a sharp rap on the front door turns both our heads, my thoughts scatter. Tonight is not about the past. Tonight is for the present and living in it.
Bolan opens the door for Ruby and gives her a quick rundown of phone numbers and medical information for Tulane.
If I had any concerns about leaving Tulane for the first time, I’m put at ease because Tulane seems to remember Ruby. She walks right up to the older woman and hands her a plastic toy cow. As if we aren’t even in the room, Ruby leads Tulane to the scattered toys on the floor and folds down to play with her.
Bolan and I meet eyes, and he shrugs. “Guess we’ll be going.”
He steps over to Tulane and picks her up, pressing kisses all over her face before finally landing one on her nose. “I love you, Tulip. Bed at eight. No parties,” he teases.
Everything in me wants to tell Tulane the same thing. That I love her as well and promise her we’ll be home later. She won’t ever have to worry if we’ll be back.
Instead, I silently think my thoughts and give Tulane an extra squeeze before pressing a kiss on her cheek. “Be good, baby girl.”
Bolan offers Ruby a thank you for her time and I give her a final smile before we exit.
Once we leave the apartment, Bolan places his hand on my lower back, leading me to the staircase.
“You’re so good with her,” he states, as he’s told me many times .
“I adore her,” I state, afraid to admit my true feelings.
Bolan thunders down the stairs but I take my time in low heeled booties which causes him to stop and pause on the landing in the stairwell. He glances up at me again and those eyes shift once more.
“Ruthie, I—” He swallows like he’s trying to contain words. His shoulders lower when I stop one step up from him. “I just want to thank you again for all you’re doing for us.”
Something tells me that wasn’t what he was going to say, especially when he glances away but takes my hand giving it a squeeze.
“Let’s just have fun tonight, yeah?” I reply.
“Yeah.”
Gus Mackers is a country-western themed bar with a tall stage overlooking a large dance floor and comfortable sitting areas made for groups of patrons. Dining tables are on the opposite side of a square bar that divides the dancing area from a restaurant. A band plays live music.
And the place is packed for a weeknight in early March.
“Tourists,” Cyrus explains after waving Bolan and I over to a set of couches in an L-shape with a low, square table in front of it.
“Baseball lovers,” another team member corrects before Cyrus introduces me to everyone, eventually landing on the only other woman in the group.
“This is Lacey.” He waves toward a woman with sleek black hair and a welcoming face who pats the space beside her.
“Come sit by me. Us girls gotta stick together with this bunch.”
Bolan’s hand has been on my back, the heat of his fingers finding that sliver of exposed skin. For a second, it feels like his palm stiffens, like he doesn’t want me to sit by this Lacey person, but then he says, “Lacey is Cyrus’s wife.”
I turn my head from Bolan to Lacey, questioning why Cyrus didn’t introduce her as such. Ignoring my thoughts, I accept what Lacey said. Us girls need to stick together . So, I round the table and take the space she patted on the couch. Bolan remains standing, chatting with Cyrus and another teammate.
“Welcome to the club.” She lifts her glass toward me and notices my empty hands. “And we need to get you a drink. Pronto.”
As if hearing Lacey’s comment, the waitress arrives. I open my mouth to order when Bolan points in my direction and says, “She’ll have a gin and tonic.”
“Actually.” I point at myself. “I’ll have a margarita. Classic. On the rocks. With salt.”
“Damn, girl. Way to put him in his place,” Lacey chuckles, nudging me with her elbow.
Bolan blinks, and then turns back toward the waitress. His pouty lip expresses my order is my order.
“Actually, I’m not offended,” I admit to Lacey, finding small pleasure in Bolan remembering fine details. Like my toenail polish color. And one of my favorite drinks. “We met over gin and tonics.”
Not the truth. Not exactly a lie.
Lacey shifts in her seat. “Do tell. Everyone’s been wondering about the elusive Adler.”
“Elusive?” I snort. No one seems more like an open book than Bolan.
“Cyrus says he’s quiet. Focused. Driven. But a great team motivator. He isn’t getting into the drama on the team with Romero.” Lacey nods in the direction of another set of couches on the opposite side of the dance floor.
Romero Valdez and a collection of additional players are gathered there .
“Didn’t take them for line dancers,” Lacey mutters to herself.
“Why not?”
“Think clubbin’ is more their scene.” Lacey keeps her eyes on the other group. “Don’t know why they are here.”
“Team bonding,” I suggest positively.
Lacey chuckles. “I’ve never heard of a team more divided. I don’t know how Anchors’ management could keep him on the team after what he did to Ford.”
I heard about the scandal. The situation was one reason Bolan needed a wife. The Anchors only wanted a family man.
Lacey continues. “Never been more shocked than to learn Felicity slept with him.” She nods in the direction of Romero. She also sounds disappointed.
“Is she your friend?”
“Had been.” Her eyes narrow on a woman seated across the way, then those blue eyes shift back to me. “But one thing I can’t stand is a cheatin’ man. And I don’t hold a double standard, so it goes for women as well.” Her gaze flicks from me to Cyrus, and there’s a story I’m not certain I want to hear.
The waitress returns with a tray of drinks, handing me a margarita and Bolan a beer.
“Anyway,” Lacey draws out, lifting her glass again. “Here’s to the wives.”
I lift my glass and tap against hers before taking my first sip. My eyes lift and I find Bolan watching me as the salt on the rim hits my tongue and my mouth gets a burst of lime and tequila. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, even while someone speaks to him.
“He’s got it bad,” Lacey mutters beside me. “Must be nice.”
“What?” I turn toward her.
“Your man looking at you like he wants to be that margarita.”
I laugh. She has no idea, but then I think back to his comments earlier. How seeing me in white, he felt like he could breathe for the first time. Staring back at him a second, I recognize the feeling.
Being here, tonight; being with Bolan, in general, has felt freeing. He’s the fresh breath I’ve been longing for.
“You’re ridiculous,” I state, taking another sip of my drink and winking at her.
“And you’re my new best friend.” She clinks her glass against mine again. “Lacey and Ruthie. We have a nice ring to us.”
As I haven’t had a best girlfriend in . . . ever, I wasn’t certain what to say, but I could use someone in my corner.
Wives for the win .
Within minutes, the song “A Bar Song: Tipsy” by Shaboozey is sung. Bolan sets down his beer and starts clapping in rhythm to the beat.
“This is my song.” His hips sway and he stomps a foot. He’s walking backward toward the dance floor and pointing at me with finger guns that he shifts to beckoning fingers. “Come on, flower.”
Lacey snorts beside me. “You better go, flower . He looks like he wants to pluck your garden.”
I laugh, setting down my drink and shaking my head. “I don’t dance,” I say to Lacey while watching Bolan. I want to dance, I’m just not comfortable enough in my own skin.
“If your man wants to dance, girl, I’d dance. Before he finds someone else to be his partner.”
While I wouldn’t mind being Lacey’s new friend, her negative energy is making me itchy. Still, her speech motivates me to stand and skirt the low table to approach Bolan, who is still clapping his hands and stomping his foot more than dancing in the space closest to our area.
As I approach, he reaches out for my belt loop and tugs me closer to him, lining up our mid-sections. My hands crash on his chest, firm beneath a lightweight cotton shirt. Then he’s guiding me side-to-side with his hips and his finger in that loop.
“I’m not much of a dancer,” I shout over the music.
Bolan glances down between us, where there isn’t much space. “Yeah, you are, flower.”
I recall that slow dance in the dark ballroom again. Another moment with Bolan. How many moments will I get?
The question makes me realize I need to make the most of the ones I have with him, so I let Bolan lead me in his chaotic rhythm, laughing as he exaggerates our movements like he’s Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing .
Three songs later, the band slows down. I’m thirsty and breathless from laughing so hard.
As the first strum of the next song suggests it’s a slow one, people begin to exit the dance floor, and I turn for our section, but Bolan catches my wrist.
“Where you goin’, flower?” He gently pulls me to him, circling his arms around my lower back. My hands land on his broad shoulders. We haven’t been this close, this often, since that first dance, since that night.
Slowly, I lift my lids. “What are we doing?”
“Dancing.” His eyes widen like it’s obvious.
But I’m aflame from the heat of his body, and the rise and fall of his chest as his heart settles down from the previous gyrating. I can also sense the width of his hips and the expanse of his abs, solid and tight. As if my hands have their own will, they smooth down his biceps, enjoying the strength in them.
“Flower?” Bolan groans.
When I look up at him, he tugs me closer. Our hips move in sync with each other, like a lazy wave brushes the beach.
And I’m wet and hot and needy.
He lowers his head and runs his nose along the side of mine. His breath kisses my lips and my mouth waters for a connection.
Kiss me .
We came so close about a week ago. As much as I’m certain it isn’t a good idea, I also can’t promise I won’t kiss him back.
I want another shot of him. Make it a double .
Bolan continues to torture me, brushing his cheek against mine. The trimmed stubble on his face tickling my tender skin. His mouth comes near my ear, his breath another invisible kiss there.
Then he turns his head, his lips so close to my flesh, yet hovering over it. He inhales and I shiver, hitching my shoulder to my jaw.
“Something wrong, flower.” His voice is all-knowing.
“Tickles,” I admit.
“I seem to remember you have a sensitive spot.” He pulls back, pressing two fingers to his lips before placing them near my pulse point. “Right here.”
How can something so seemingly innocent have such an effect on me?
“Bolan,” I whisper, our eyes locked on one another.
“Want to drag you to a corner of this bar and just have my way with you, Ruthie.”
God, I think I want that as well.
“But I’m not tucking us in a corner again.” A tender reminder of that storm-lit ballroom.
“Or hiding us in the dark.” A gentle prompt about the balcony.
Bolan cups my jaw. “Stop me now or forever hold your peace.”
“My peace?” Something tells me I’ve been peaceful too long. Complacent really, and I need the chaos Bolan might bring me .
He pulls his head back. “That mean you’re choosing stop?” His brow twitches upward. His eyes questioning me.
Breathlessly, I beg, “Kiss me.”
With his lips suddenly on mine, I cling to him like I did in that darkened ballroom, clutching his shirt in my fists while his hands stay on my jaw. Our mouths move with their own practiced dance. Down to the corners. Sip at the lower one. Lick through the seam. Tongues meet in a frenzy of connection, swirling, twirling, like a full-body skirt spinning out of control. Or a flower opening up, blossoming.
Too quickly, the kiss is over. Bolan pulls back, but his forehead comes to mine.
“Still want to take you to that corner, beautiful. But I’m promising to behave myself.”
Don’t behave , I want to scream. Don’t hold back. But my responsible side supersedes the desire to drag him to a dark part of this bar.
Instead, we hang out for another round of drinks and another hour of dancing before I’m not certain I can feel my legs. Whether that’s from the exercise, or the alcohol, is to be determined.
When we get back to the apartment, Bolan sets his hand on my lower back again, holding me steady as we climb the stairs to the second floor. Once we near the door of the apartment, I stop just outside it.
“This is my place,” I tease, pointing at the number like I live separately from him. Like this is a date and he’s dropping me off.
“Funny that. This is my place, too.” He smiles at me, eyes sparkling that green-gold combination. He’s the one who is breathtaking. Or is it breath-giving, as I’m reminded how much I’ve laughed tonight. How free I’ve felt.
“I had fun tonight,” I say .
Bolan leans on the wall, just outside the door. “Yeah? Me too.”
“Well, good night.” I stick out my hand like I intend to shake his.
Bolan laughs, pressing off the wall, and taking my hand. Then he tugs me to him, pulling me into his chest, and hugging me.
We stand like this a moment, his arms around my shoulder and neck, and mine looped around his back.
Slowly, he releases me and cups my jaw like he did earlier. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want me to kiss you.”
Just look me in the eyes. Breathe .
Déjà vu, but I don’t have time to answer, my body doing the responding, as I cling to his shirt again and bring him to me. Or maybe he leans forward and takes what he sees in my eyes.
Yes. Kiss me .
One of his hands scoops around the back of my neck while the other finds the middle of my back, slipping his fingers just under the hem of my cropped shirt. I arch toward him, pressing my breasts to his chest and sliding my hand to his neck as well, fingers brushing over his short hair.
As our lips meet with urgency, a rush to connect, he tightens his hold on me, allowing me to feel what I’m doing to him. The bulge in his jeans presses into my lower belly, where I’m fluttering with my own arousal.
Bolan bends his knees a bit, like he intends to line us up and I hitch up my leg. He catches the back of my thigh in his hand and pulls me tighter against him.
Our lips move. Teeth nip. Tongues collide and crash.
Everything in this moment brings back memories of another one and Bolan abruptly pulls back.
His gaze pings back and forth at my eyes before his brows severely pinch. “Ruthie? ”
Without asking, I know the question and I open my mouth to answer just as the apartment door flings open.
Bolan and I both turn our heads although we don’t shift from our position with my raised knee at his hip and his hand on the back of my raised thigh. I’m still holding onto his neck, and he still has a hand on my lower ass.
Ruby clears her throat. “My apologies. Thought I heard a noise in the hallway.”
An awkward few seconds passes where I’m hoping she’ll close the door and forget what she sees, or rather, shuts the door and lets us continue where we left off.
Where I was about to reveal myself to Bolan.
Instead, Bolan releases my leg, and I stand on my own two feet, smoothing my hand over my belly which still flutters like a flock of birds are in there. He shifts to stand behind me, certain to be hiding his reaction to me. He slips an arm around my waist and kisses the top of my head from behind me.
“Can’t keep my hands off my wife,” he admits to the babysitter.
Ruby smiles. “I remember those days.” She sighs, swooning a bit. “And I hate to interrupt but you did promise by eleven and it’s eleven-fifteen.”
Bolan releases me and places a hand on the door to open it wider, allowing me to enter the apartment first. Quickly, he’s on his phone sending Ruby money through an app.
She gives us a brief overview of the night, praising Tulane as an angel, before closing the door behind her exit.
The moment outside that door is suddenly lost.
Bolan scratches at the back of his neck, lowers his gaze, and mutters to me. “Well, good night.”
And we both break into laughter as we’d just been caught making out by the babysitter.