Chapter 11 Scarlett
ELEVEN
Scarlett
Honestly, I can’t believe I got Mr. I Don’t Do Fun out here on an actual dance floor.
Get ready, Coach—that air-hockey victory was just the appetizer. I’m going to make him have fun if it kills both of us, even if it means dragging him onto this floor that’s sticky from spilled beer and who-knows-what-else.
I kick my white sneakers off to the side—but no socks, unfortunately, which leaves me barefoot on what is definitely not the cleanest floor in Charlotte.
“What are you doing?” Brendan asks, staring at my feet.
“What does it look like? I’m taking off my shoes so I can dance better.”
“But the floor is disgusting.” He grimaces, like he can see germs with his naked eye. “There’s probably beer spilled on it. And stains of questionable origin.”
I stare at him. “Does it look like I care right now? I want to dance.” I grab his hand and pull him toward me.
A woman I’ve never seen before dances over to us. She’s older than most of the crowd tonight, maybe in her sixties, with silver streaking her temples and decades past caring what people think about her dance moves. “I haven’t seen you two here before.”
“We’re just visiting.” I glance at Brendan, who looks annoyed that he’s being forced to socialize with a stranger. “Short weekend trip.”
“I could tell you were a couple the moment I spotted you. There’s just something about the way you act together.” She extends her hand. “I’m Joanne, by the way.”
I stop dancing to shake her hand. Either we’re incredibly convincing actors, or my attempt to hide my feelings isn’t working all that well.
“I’m Scarlett, and this is Brendan.”
Brendan’s mouth pulls into a tight line.
Undeterred by Brendan’s expression, which clearly says please leave, Joanne asks, “Are you married?”
“No,” Brendan replies.
She doesn’t take the hint, just keeps swaying as we talk. “Well, how long have you been dating? My hubby and I have been together for thirty-two years.” She nods toward the man nursing a beer at a nearby table, who looks like he’d rather get trampled by bulls than step foot out here.
“Oh, we just started dating this month.” I give Brendan a look that solemnly swears I’m up to no good.
We’re supposed to be a believable couple, dancing the night away, and right now he looks as stiff as a stone statue. “He finally worked up the courage to ask me out after years of watching me date other guys.”
He stares at me, his jaw clenching. “How many?”
He doesn’t need to know that aside from that one date with Jaxon, I really haven’t dated much. “It doesn’t matter now, does it, snuggle muffin?”
At the pet name, Brendan’s brow pulls into a deeply concerned frown.
“Actually,” I continue, ignoring his glare, “don’t we need to be practicing our dance for your sister’s wedding, baby cakes?” I turn to Joanne again. “Since he’s a groomsman, everyone will expect us to put on quite a show.”
“Oh, how romantic!” Joanne claps her hands. “I love weddings.”
“Maybe we can give you a little preview,” I suggest, keeping my eyes on Joanne.
“Wonderful! I’ll leave you two lovebirds to practice.” Joanne dances away to rejoin her husband, leaving me to face Brendan’s unamused gaze.
“You told her we had a wedding dance?” He drops his head and looks at the floor. “Scarlett, we don’t have a dance.”
“We do now, Brendan Marco.” I take his hands, stepping away from him slightly. His face shifts to mildly alarmed. “After all, we can’t let Joanne down.”
“Scarlett.” He shakes his head, and I can tell he’s second-guessing his decision to come tonight. “You’re completely crazy.”
I grin wildly. “Only with you.” Maybe I’m imagining it, but his mouth quirks just the tiniest bit, like I’m slowly chipping away at his walls.
It’s true, though. I’m not crazy when I’m in Sully’s Beach; I can’t afford to be. Circumstances have forced me to be the responsible one. Otherwise, my entire family falls apart.
A new song starts, and I sway back and forth, trying to get him to loosen up even though I’m nowhere near the beat.
His eyes stray over my shoulder to the tables where the team is watching us. “Would you just forget about being a coach for like five minutes?”
I take his other hand and guide it around my back.
His eyes snap back to me, like he’s surprised I could read his thoughts so easily. “I wasn’t…”
“Listen, you owe me one dance. As much as you hate this, we need to prove to Joanne and everyone else that we’re an actual couple, going to an actual wedding.”
“So we’re doing this for them?”
“No, we’re doing it for us. I know you’re a good dancer. You just hide it behind that intimidating coach face.”
His hand slides to my lower back, making my skin prickle. “How do you know?”
“Because this isn’t my first time dancing with you.”
Maybe it’s the trigger of that memory on the beach, but in the surprise of the century, he twirls me in a lazy circle, then pulls me into him close.
One hand moves to the small of my back, and the other folds against mine as he rocks me back and forth.
For a few breathless moments, we don’t say anything.
His gaze travels over me, making heat soar through my body. It all feels too real, too much like it did that night. The faint scent of his cologne, his hand pressing me against him.
“Now who’s looking a little too serious?” he says, interrupting the memory.
I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the flush on my face. “For Joanne’s benefit,” I insist, even though the heat is climbing my neck, and my reckless heart is trying to escape through my chest.
“Then let’s give Joanne the big finale,” he murmurs in my ear, sending a shiver through my body.
He spins me out and back in before attempting to dip me, but I stumble slightly and feel the sharp twist of my ankle before I can catch myself. I gasp, bracing for the fall, but Brendan grabs me around the waist, his palm holding me against him.
For a second, I’m only aware of how close we are, his fingers brushing over a sliver of bare skin where my top reaches my jeans. The contact wakes up every nerve ending inside me.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and his jaw clenches before he sets me on my feet.
If it had been anyone else catching me, I would have stepped away immediately and laughed off my clumsiness. But this is Brendan.
“You okay?” he asks, studying me.
I swallow. “I honestly don’t know yet.”
If he’s talking about the damage he’s doing to my heart, then no, I’m not okay.
Brendan glances at my ankle. “We need to get you back to the hotel and put some ice on that.”
“Now? What about our milkshakes? I can’t abandon perfectly good food.”
“You’re hurt, and you’re worried about a milkshake?”
I shrug. “Priorities, Marco.”
“You’re impossible,” he says, pulling out a chair for me off to the side. He helps me sit before boxing up our order and paying our bill.
When he returns, he hands me my shake. “Happy now?”
I take a sip of what’s now a half-melted chocolate drink. “Completely.”
He glances down at my bare feet, spins around, and searches for my shoes. Grabbing them from where I tossed them earlier, he kneels in front of me.
I frown as he takes my foot. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t even look at me. “Helping you get your shoes back on.”
“But my feet are filthy now. Remember your lecture about the floor and all the questionable spills?”
Without flinching, he slides a shoe on. “You can’t walk back to the hotel barefoot.”
Then he does the same for my other foot, being extra gentle around the tender ankle, and all I can do is watch him silently.
“Thank you.” I catch his wrist, stilling him. He touched my disgusting, bar-floor feet without flinching. Nothing stops this man.
He looks up at me from where he’s still kneeling. “Only for you, Scarlett.”
For a moment neither of us moves. Then he grabs my elbow to steady me, and I wince slightly as I put weight on my foot.
“You’re pale.” He searches my face. “Don’t tell me you’re fine.”
“I’m totally fine,” I say, trying to mask the pain.
“Let me see you walk, then.” He nods. “Go ahead.”
I attempt a step, but it’s more like a poorly disguised limp I’m pretending doesn’t hurt.
He watches me, then steps in front of me. “You call that walking?”
“Give me a few more steps to walk it off.” I try to sidestep him, but the pain shoots through my foot as soon as I try to move.
He catches me around the waist before I can get past him. Even in pain, his touch is enough of a distraction to dull the throbbing. “I’m not arguing with you about this, even if you are too proud to accept help.”
“Fine,” I huff. “But only because you’re not letting this go.” I hook my arm around his neck and we shuffle toward the door. The parking lot feels like it’s miles away.
“This is never going to work.” He stops, turning toward me. “Will you hold this?”
He hands me the bag of leftovers. “Sure, but what…”
Before I can finish, he scoops me up in his arms like I’m featherlight, one arm under my knees and the other around my back.
“What are you doing?”
“Someone has to take care of you.” His voice is matter-of-fact, as if carrying a woman across a parking lot is something he does every Saturday. “I can’t let you limp all the way back to the hotel.”
I go quiet, unable to meet his eyes as he literally carries me across the dark parking lot, through the lobby, and past the front desk clerk, who only lifts an eyebrow when she sees us.
When we reach my room, he sets me down like I’m made of glass.
“I can handle it from here,” I say, fumbling for my key.
“Hand it over, Rossi.” He wiggles his fingers for the card.
“Seriously, I can hop from here. Or crawl if necessary. I’m very resourceful.”
“You’re not crawling anywhere.” He takes the key and opens the door, then I’m in the air again as he hauls me to my bed.
This would be way more fun if there was an actual romantic reason he was carrying me to bed. But a twisted ankle, unfortunately, is not one of them.
He takes off his suit coat, draping it across a chair. “I need some ice. Don’t move.”
“Where would I go?” I gesture to my ankle. “It’s not like I’m running away anytime soon.”
He disappears with an ice bucket and returns a few minutes later, grabbing a hand towel and wet washcloth from my bathroom.
His sleeves are still rolled up, showing off those sculpted forearms I can’t seem to ignore.
Then he props my leg on a pillow, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he takes the washcloth and cleans my feet.
He’s so cautious with me it’s almost more startling than the pain from my injury.
A man who can command an entire hockey team, reduced to washing my feet. Tonight was supposed to be about having fun, not taking care of me. But here I am, wishing he was in my room for a different reason entirely.
If he’s this gentle with my feet, I can only imagine how gentle he’d be with the rest of me.
He dries my feet, then wraps some ice in a towel and presses it to my ankle.
I suck in air through my teeth. “Wow, that’s cold!”
I pull my ankle back, but he’s quicker.
“You’re not getting out of this, Rossi.” He gives me a look as he presses the ice against my ankle again.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the pain. “Remember when you taught me to wrap my ankle after I twisted it during that beach volleyball game in high school?”
His mouth twitches. “You mean, when you insisted you didn’t need help then either?”
“I wasn’t hurt.”
“You could barely walk.” He adjusts the ice. “Some things never change.”
I can see the shadow of stubble along his jaw, hair falling over his forehead, the way his arms flex as he rests a hand on the bed.
He leans in slightly, only a fraction, but just enough that I can smell a hint of his cologne—something expensive and clean.
The room is quiet, and for a moment he reminds me of the boy who talked me into midnight swims and staying until the carnival closed down for the night.
We saw each other almost every night that summer before he left for the Marines.
Spent late nights looking at the stars in the back of my brother’s truck, sharing elephant ears at the carnival, chasing down sunsets while the wind from his car windows tousled my hair.
He glances at me, and I wonder if he’s thinking of it too—how we’re still that same boy and girl.
“Scarlett—” His eyes drop to my mouth.
For one moment, I think I see something behind his gaze. Then his phone buzzes from his pocket, and the moment is gone.
He blinks, then pulls out his phone. “That’s probably the team, checking if we made it back.” He reads the screen, types something quickly, then pockets it.
“You don’t have to stay, Bren. Honestly, I’m kind of a mess right now. And you’ve done enough for one night.”
“Well, you’re my mess now.” He stands, looking over my ankle once more. “And I want to help you. I’ll keep my phone on all night.”
He pauses at the doorway, gripping the knob. “And, Scarlett? Thanks for tonight. It was…fun.”
And then he’s gone, closing the door softly behind him. I fall back against the pillows and press my palms against my eyes, letting out a groan.
“Dang you, Brendan Marco,” I say to the empty room. I reach for a pillow and press it against my face, letting out a muffled scream.
And it’s not because of my ankle.
“Twelve years,” I say into the pillow. “Of wanting a man I can’t have, who carries me to bed like some kind of romantic hero. Why can’t I forget about you?”
I know why. I just don’t like the answer.