CHAPTER 17 Dex Bradley
The Worst Dates
After dinner, we head to the family room. It feels like the next natural step, like you have a late-night dinner after you get the kid down, and then you head to the family room and turn on a show or whatever—only the television remains off, and conversation is on instead.
“Did you ever see yourself married to someone eleven years younger than you?” she asks.
She’s sitting on the couch, and I opted for the recliner. I suddenly wish I was a little closer to her.
I laugh. “I never saw myself married to anyone, period, so no. What about you? You came to Vegas to get married, right?”
“Jordan was twenty-six, and truthfully, he just wasn’t ready for marriage. He shouldn’t have been there.”
“Want me to kick his ass?” I ask, surprised at the rage that seems to ripple through me that this guy who wasn’t good enough for her hurt her.
But if he hadn’t hurt her, I wouldn’t be sitting here with her right now.
She chuckles. “Kind of. But honestly, I think that’ll take care of itself at the reunion.”
“You said that’s in October, right?”
She nods. “I just got word that the show will start airing the Monday after we film the reunion.”
“You okay?” I ask carefully. I take a sip from my whiskey, opting instead to save the champagne for her since she seemed to like it, but she didn’t bring her glass over.
“Yeah. I’m okay. Truthfully, I had fun with Jordan. It’s not like the dates with him were the worst dates I’ve ever been on.”
I raise a brow. “You haven’t talked much about him or the show. You can, you know.”
“I know.” She sighs, and she averts her gaze to the view out the window—a classic Dex move, if I’m being honest. “I thought I had fallen for him. It was a crazy few weeks. A whirlwind, really. It all started with a mix and mingle where we got to meet the whole cast. We did these speed dates where we picked six people we felt a connection with after two minutes. We had to rank them from one to six, and then producers matched us with three mutuals. We had talk time with those three, and whichever two the producers felt had the best chemistry got to move on. We had longer dates with each of them, and if we matched on our top pick with the other person, we got a fantasy date with that person. We always had mix-and-mingle time in between all of that, so we basically lived together and got to know each other on an expedited term.”
“Like us,” I mutter, and before she can respond, I ask, “So the fantasy date…that was with Jordan?”
She nods. “For me, there wasn’t really anybody but Jordan from the start.
We met at the mix-and-mingle thing, and I thought he was cute.
” She twists her lips. “He made me laugh, and we talked about everything. Or…producers made me think we did, anyway. They’d give us topics, and we’d explore them, but looking back, we never really got into core values and what we want out of life. It was more surface stuff.”
“What do you want out of life?” I ask.
She chuckles, but then she sees I’m serious. She shrugs. “I don’t know. I just want to be happy. To feel joy and to be a mom and to create a little life and family for myself that makes me feel excited and giddy to be alive. What about you?”
I lift a shoulder. “To play football, I guess. To have fun. To make money.” I realize how shallow that sounds as soon as the words are out of my mouth—especially compared to her answer.
I shake my head. “Nah, forget that. Not the money thing. You always hear it doesn’t buy happiness, and I don’t really think that’s true.
It can buy happiness. But what it can’t buy is intelligence.
It can’t solve your problems. It can’t buy logic.
It can’t buy personality. But it does make things a hell of a lot easier.
So I guess when I really think about what I want out of life, I’m a little like you in that I just want to be happy.
I like that answer. I want to feel joy every day, and I want to feel the rush that comes with taking risks and having fun. ”
She nods. “So maybe we’re more alike than we realized. Except for the taking risks thing. I prefer to play it a little safer.”
“I can see that about you. But you yelled fuck it on that roller coaster. I’m bringing you over to the dark side.” I wiggle my brows, and her cheeks turn pink. I change the subject. “So what was your worst date ever?”
She makes a face. “Oh, let’s see. Was it the time my date got drunk and puked on my shoes? The one where we were in college and his mom drove us? Or maybe it was the one where we went to a haunted house and I had a panic attack.”
“Jesus. You’ve picked some real winners, Riggs.”
She purses her lips. “It’s Bradley now, thank you very much. And yes. I struck out until I struck gold.”
I point to my chest as I raise my brows. “With me?”
“With what you’re paying me,” she jokes, and I laugh. “What about you? Worst date ever?”
I lift a shoulder and take a sip of whiskey as I avert my gaze. How do I admit that the date with her to the charity ball was the first time I’ve been on a real date in years?
The others—they were a means to an end. Someone hot or famous on my arm for show at various events that ended with sex. Not a true date in the traditional sense.
“Prom, I guess,” I say.
“What happened at prom?”
“All my buddies and I were busted for drinking, and we got kicked out. My date was pissed and told my parents.” I shrug.
“You drank at prom?” she asks.
“Not at prom. Before it.”
She gives me a look.
“What? Everybody did it!”
“You were a football player who was risking potential scholarships, you idiot,” she says, and then her hand flies over her mouth. “Oh my God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to call you an idiot.”
I laugh it off. “I know, and you’re right. I was an idiot back then. But it’s not like I grew into an adult with sense. I still chase risks, as you know.”
“Like what?”
I clear my throat. “Oh, I don’t know. Different shit that gives me a rush, you know?”
“Such as…”
“Drag racing down the Strip. High-stakes gambling. Riding a roller coaster with my sister’s hot friend and throwing my hands in the air while I yell fuck it at the top of my lungs with her.”
Her cheeks redden at my words. They were intended to incite a reaction.
Yeah, I called her hot. She is, okay? She’s not one of the models with the huge tits and the long legs and platinum blonde hair cascading down her shoulders.
She’s shorter than me by nearly a foot, and her hair is decidedly short and dark, and her tits aren’t huge but appear to be perfect handfuls. And her ass…
God, I still think of her ass in those shorts that first night she was here. The curve spilling out the bottom of her shorts.
I want to ram into that ass.
Whoa.
Dex.
Pull it together.
Jesus, this girl is doing things to me that I can’t seem to get under control. More than any of the blondes with the tits ever did to me.
And I think it’s because she’s not just hot, but she has depth to her. I want to take her to a charity event and show her off as my wife.
I want to date her. I want to see where these feelings take us.
I want to feel the rush that I seem to get from her that feels so different from the drag racing and gambling and other shit I do to try to recreate that feeling. It’s stronger with her, and it’s both addicting and terrifying.
Maybe the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done.
And that’s why we can’t take it any further than this. This will fade. The feelings are only there because I have a woman in my house that’s taking care of not just this surprise kid, but of me, too. It’s all new and different, and that’s all.
I won’t fuck up the balance of that with sex.
It’s not worth it.
I shake off the feeling. “I should call it a night,” I say. “I’m meeting some teammates for a workout and breakfast in the morning. Should be home around noon.”
She nods. “Have fun. I’m going to stay out here a little while longer.” She picks up the romance book she had sitting on the end table, and she’s already engrossed in her book before I even get up from my chair.
I study her for just a second, and I immediately regret it when I realize my vow from only a second ago that it’s not worth it was a total and complete lie.
* * *
“A certified letter came for you, Mr. Bradley,” Dennis, the morning doorman, says to me as I walk back in after my morning with teammates.
It was a rowdy, fun morning, and to be honest, I can’t wait to get my ass back on the field.
Six more days. Six days until training camp begins. Six days until I go back to being myself again. Six days until I get the fuck out of here and have a chance to think and breathe without this woman complicating my every thought.
Six days until I have to be away from her. Away from Jack. Away from the two people who have become such fixtures in my life in three short weeks.
I’m so goddamn conflicted, and the football field has always been where I’ve worked out those conflicts.
Only six of us made it this morning, but the five aside from me who came are good dudes who I consider good friends. And one of them, Deon, called me out on being quiet when I’m usually not.
He turned toward me during breakfast when the others were involved in their own conversation, and he asked, “What’s going on with you?”
“Long story. I’ll tell you next week,” I said by way of getting him off my back.
But I’m not sure it did get him off my back, and I’m not sure I’ll tell him next week, either.
I take the letter from Dennis and read the return address printed on the envelope, and I mumble a thank you before I head up to my penthouse.
I find Ainsley feeding Jack some pureed mangoes at the table, and I set the envelope down in front of her.
She glances at it, and then her eyes widen as she looks up at me.
“You open it,” I say.
“Me? Why me?” she asks.
“Because I can’t.”
She presses her lips together, and she nods. I already know what it says. Of course he’s mine. Just look at him.
But I need this confirmation anyway—at least according to my lawyer—so I wait for her to open it. I wander over to the windows as she wipes her hands on her shorts, and then I hear the rip of paper as she sticks her finger in the back and tears it open.
A few seconds that feel like hours later, her voice is quiet as she says, “He’s yours.”
I blow out a breath.
We both knew it, but this is confirmation. He’s mine.
And before I know what I’m doing, I’m rushing over to him, pulling him out of his high chair, and squeezing him tightly against my chest in a hug.
I’m hugging my son, and now that I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s mine, I’m not going to let him go.