CHAPTER 20 Dex Bradley
Long, Lingering Gaze
That’s twice.
Two times I’ve kissed her.
Two times that were far too short.
Two times that were for show.
I want to kiss her for me. I want to kiss her not because it’s expected at the end of a ceremony and not because the media is yelling at me to do it and I need to prove something to them. I want to do it because I fucking want to do it.
I shouldn’t. I can’t. I need to remember all the reasons why it’s a horrible, terrible idea.
We walk into the event, and we grab a drink first—more whiskey for me, and she opts for a peach bellini since it’s the featured cocktail and the bartender tells her it doesn’t really taste like alcohol at all.
She takes her first sip and smiles with delight. “This is delicious,” she says.
“Be careful,” I warn. “Prosecco will likely get to work pretty fast on someone who doesn’t drink much.”
What the fuck?
When in the history of the world have I ever warned a woman to take it slow when it comes to drinking?
Never. The answer is exactly never.
I didn’t take it slow on any of my younger siblings when I took it upon myself to get them drunk for the first time.
It was a rite of passage. They all came to me since they knew I started with Everleigh, and they knew that as much as I can focus on having a good time, I also know how to help others have a good time in a controlled and safe way.
And, you know…puke doesn’t faze me.
I don’t want to get Ains sick drunk or blackout drunk tonight, though. I just want her to cut loose and have some fun.
And the more I think that, the more I want that fun to be with me.
Not taking her to some private VIP lounge and giving her a new experience.
Not taking her for a drag race down the Strip.
Not taking her to the members-only sex club.
Just her, me, and my place. One night of fun that I can remember every time I look at the spot where she lay naked while I took her from behind, or from the top, or while she rode me.
Fuck, man.
What the fuck am I doing?
I blow out a breath as I attempt to pull myself together.
“I’m going to go use the ladies’ room before dinner starts,” she says, and I’m left to my own devices by the auction items.
It’s not hard to work this room alone. I know about half the people in it, and the other half seem to know me. But somehow working the room with Ainsley by my side makes it so much better.
I haven’t quite worked out why that is yet, or how she manages to make it better, but I think I’m starting to figure it out.
She’s been my wife for a week. She’s lived with me for close to three weeks.
We’ve spent a lot of time around each other, and she’s not really a friend yet.
And despite all that, feelings are becoming involved. Unknown feelings. Unfamiliar feelings. Uncharted feelings.
I don’t like it.
But as she walks back into the room after her bathroom break and I’m chatting with retired Aces defensive back Grayson Nash about the Aces’ D-line this upcoming season, I can’t help but catch my breath as our eyes meet from across the room.
Whatever Grayson’s talking about seems to fade away as I stare at her walking toward me. Her eye catches mine, and she glances down at herself like something’s wrong—maybe she’s dragging some toilet paper behind her on her shoe, or she spilled some water in the bathroom.
That’s sort of the whole problem, though.
There’s nothing wrong with her at all.
She’s perfect.
There’s a lot wrong with our situation, which is the main reason I haven’t acted on these feelings that seem to be pelting me in the chest, but when it comes to her…all I see is this gorgeous woman who seems to be sacrificing everything to help me.
Her eyes flick back to mine, and I hold her gaze as she walks toward me. It’s a long, lingering gaze. The kind that might dip into awkward territory for some people. But I can’t seem to look away.
“It’ll be nice watching another season on my couch with my wife’s cookies,” Grayson says, and he pats his stomach.
I think he’s waiting for a laugh, but I’m in a trance with the woman walking toward me.
“Who’s she?” Grayson asks, lowering his voice when he sees who I’m staring at.
I finally break my gaze at her to glance at the guy I’m supposed to be having a conversation with. I clear my throat. “She’s my wife.”
The words don’t feel natural coming out of my mouth just yet, but the more times I say it, the more it’s starting to feel real.
“I’m Grayson Nash,” he says, introducing himself to Ainsley when she reaches us.
“Ainsley Ri—uh, Bradley.”
“How long have you two been married?” Grayson asks.
“A week today,” I admit.
“Well, congratulations to you both. Let me buy you a drink,” he says.
“It’s an open bar,” I say, and he laughs.
“Oh, right. Well, the tip’s on me.”
We head over to the bar for a second drink, and as promised, Grayson tips the bartender. We’re called to our seats for dinner then, and I lean in toward Ainsley as they serve the first course.
“What the fuck is this?” I ask.
She picks up a menu sitting on the table. “Truffle mushroom tartlet,” she reads.
“It looks like dirt. And bugs. I’ll pass.”
She giggles. “As appetizing as you made that sound, I’ll wait for the heirloom tomato salad coming next.”
“What happened to mozzarella sticks and jalapeno poppers?”
“You’re at a fancy charity ball, Dex. Remember?”
“Have you ever been to one of these?” I ask.
She gives me a funny look and shakes her head. “Not much opportunity for this type of event in the Riggs household. The fanciest dinners I had were the Monday night masterpieces at Casa de Bradley.”
I chuckle. “Ivy calls them that, doesn’t she?”
She nods. “What about you? Did you grow up around these things?”
“Yeah, pretty much. And I’d usually eat before I went.”
She looks surprised. “You would?”
I nod. “Yeah. I’d order mozzarella sticks, jalapeno poppers, and a pizza.”
She leans in as the mushroom dirt thing is taken away. “Let’s order that when we get home. Except not jalapeno poppers. Breaded zucchini sticks.”
I make a face of disgust. “Zucchini?”
“Jalapenos?” she counters.
“Fine. We’ll get both.”
She giggles, and it’s that sound that’s becoming music to my ears.
Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me?
We don’t get much chance to talk more as the speeches from the charity officials begin.
After that, there’s some dancing while guests are given another bit of time to finalize their bids for the silent auction items. We follow Grayson and his wife outside to the rooftop terrace and chat with them for before they head inside to listen to the winners of the auction since they bid on some of the items, but we stay outside, drinking in the view of the Las Vegas skyline.
It’s just the two of us up here along with a bartender and a server, who are murmuring in the corner. Everyone else went back inside for the auction.
We’re sitting beside each other on a sleek couch in front of a fancy little gas firepit offering glowing light and a bit of heat, but Ainsley shivers beside me.
“Are you cold?” I ask.
She nods, and I move in a little closer and toss my arm around her. She snuggles into my side, and it feels…good.
I feel content. It feels like she fits. She fucking just fits in so many goddamn confusing ways.
I jump up from my seat as soon as I feel it, and she seems confused by my sudden movement. I start to pace the rooftop.
Maybe it’s the whiskey, or maybe it’s just her that’s making me feel fucking intoxicated.
“Are you all right?” she asks as she lifts to a stand.
I stop in my tracks and turn to look at her. We’re just a few feet apart as we face off, and no, I’m not fucking all right. I’m more and more confused by the second when it comes to her.
I can’t seem to stop my feet as they close the gap between us. I slide my arm around her waist and haul her close—like I did at our wedding just a week ago.
But when my mouth crashes down to hers this time, it’s not for a photo op or some ingrained requirement.
It’s for me.
I’m taking a risk. Chasing the thrill. Doing what feels good.
And kissing Ainsley Riggs feels real fucking good.