Chapter 29
29
NICKY
“A fter you…” Flashing a charming grin, Ronan gallantly opens the door for me.
I get all tangled up in his pretty eyes, only to be smacked in the face by a bouquet of pink and red balloons the second I step inside the bar.
“Oh my—what the—” I try to beat the balloons off me.
Laughing, Ronan extends a long arm, clearing a path for us through the latex-rubber balloon jungle.
We’re at a quiet bar not too far from our hotel. Ronan picked this place out, making good on our compromise to choose something low-key. I’m satisfied that this place is not nearly as crazy as the one he and the guys would have ended up at near the arena.
From behind the bar, a portly man with a thick red mustache welcomes us and invites us to pick whichever table we’d like. We slip into a quiet, private booth near the back, and I can finally breathe a sigh of relief.
No bar fights or arrests in this guy’s near future.
And as a bonus, I’m glad to no longer be around all those lovebirds stumbling through the streets. All that Valentine’s Day hoopla and glee was torturous for me.
But now Ronan is torturing me all on his own.
I glance across the table at him. He’s wearing one of his suits again. It’s so rare to see him in anything but sweats, workout clothes, or a hockey uniform. Ronan is always huge. He’s just this massive wall of muscle. But somehow the man looks even bigger in this suit.
I feel underdressed in the jeans and leather jacket I’m wearing. But Ronan is gawking at me like I’m wearing a Miss Universe pageant gown.
That look on his face spells T-R-O-U-B-L-E.
Fine. In a moment of weakness, I agreed to come out with him tonight. But not on a date—obviously. I’m here solely for the purpose of keeping him out of mischief and out of the sports tabloids. I’m determined to keep a tight grip on that mission, maintaining it in the front of my mind the whole time.
The waitress comes by, and we each order a drink.
“You sure we shouldn’t get a tray of shots?” Ronan asks me with a teasing grin. “A dozen or so tequilas will really hit the spot.” He nudges my hand with his.
I glare at him.He thinks this is funny. I’m so not laughing with him.
“I’ll have a cranberry juice, please,” I politely address the waitress.
Ronan’s big shoulders deflate when he sees that I mean business. “Okay, fine. I’ll have a cranberry juice, too. But with vodka in mine. And a squeeze of lime.” He shrugs out of his suit jacket, throwing an arm around the empty chair beside him.
The waitress very obviously steals a peak at Ronan’s muscles. She promptly goes bright pink, turns around, walks right into a nearby table, apologizes into the air and then heads off to grab our drinks.
Yup. That’s the kind of effect Captain Brighton has on women.
While I expected the conversation between us to be quiet and awkward, Ronan seems to be in good spirits. We people watch and we talk, an easy, laidback vibe hovering over the table.
At first, we stick to uncontroversial topics of conversation. I listen to him telling me about his path from college into the professional hockey league. Then I tell him about my own college experience and my days working at my father’s company in Chicago.
I’d stepped in here, wanting to grab a quick drink and head back to my hotel room. But now, I find myself sipping my drink slowly and trying to make this night last longer.
We continue chatting, and I realize it’s getting harder and harder not to stare at his lips. His jaw. Those tattoo-covered forearms.
Ugh. I’m just extra horned up, and it’s starting to mess with my head.Maybe it’s Valentine’s Day messing with my head, too.
I’m assuming that Ronan might be feeling a little horny himself, with the way he keeps eyeballing my chest and then adjusting his pants.
Which I can’t read too much into.
I’ve been celibate for too fucking long at this point. Add to that the fact that everyone around us is coupled up and in love and dry-humping in the corner tonight, I’m feeling a little…frustrated.
Then, like always, our conversation turns more intimate.
Ronan leans back in his seat, spreading his legs wider under the table. His knee momentarily brushes mine and I struggle to ignore the spark. “How did you spend last Valentine’s Day?”
I quirk a shoulder. “Working.”
He frowns slightly. “Working? Really?”
“What do you mean?” I laugh a little. “It’s how I always spend Valentine’s Day.”
His tongue trails along the seam of his mouth, his gaze on me intense. “I just figured you’d be the type of girl who always has a Valentine’s Day date lined up. Maybe more than one.”
I twirl my straw through the ice in my cranberry juice. “I told you—I haven’t dated all that much.”
“That still doesn’t make sense to me.” He shakes his head, his eyes poring into my soul like he’s trying to understand me down to the atomic level.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” I say, attempting to sound nonchalant. But when I shift in my seat, my knee bumps his under the table and I don’t feel nonchalant at all.
After a quiet moment of him staring deeply at me, I can’t take it anymore. “What the hell is going through your mind right now, Hockey Guy?”
“I’m trying to write you a poem in my head.”
I bust out laughing. “What?”
“Yeah. I’m writing you a poem,” he says matter-of-factly. “It’s Valentine’s Day, for christ’s sake. You deserve a poem, Nicky Westbrook.”
I cover my face with my hands. “It’s okay. I’m not the kind of girl that men write poetry about.”
“Well, if I were your boyfriend, I’d write poetry about you. All the damn time.”
“Stop.” I giggle from behind my hands. This man’s charm is getting the best of me. I know I should know better. But the reality is, I’m drowning in it.
“This is serious, Nicky.” He pulls my hands from my face. “Here goes. Here’s my poem.” He clears his throat. “Roses are red. Violets are blue. Peaches are…well, peach—”
“I’m going to kick you.” I deliberately bang my knee into his.
Cracking up, Ronan slips a hand beneath the table, grabbing my mid thigh. His fingers sink into my flesh and it turns me the fuck on. Holy shit. My eyes flutter shut when a rush of heat bounds to my core, killing the laughter in my throat.
He holds my gaze. He leans across the table, playfully tugging my hat down over my ears. Well, it’s his hat technically. I just have zero intentions of ever returning it to him.
“What I’m trying to say is, if I were your boyfriend, I’d spoil the fuck out of you on Valentine’s Day. You deserve it.”
If I were your boyfriend…
Shit—I’ve been entertaining that idea lately. Far more than I’d ever admit.
Ever since Ronan suggested us being in a ‘practice’ relationship, it’s all I can seem to think about. The idea is ridiculous.
Absurd.
Childish.
Inappropriate.
So incredibly tempting…
I mean—the option to kiss those lips whenever I want. The chance to explore that body in the most intimate of ways. The privilege to feel that tongue on my pussy again.
In truth, it’s not just the sexual benefits of doing this with Ronan that are enticing to me. The truth is I like talking to him. We talk about things I’ve never talked to anyone about before. And he makes me laugh harder than anyone else even though half the time, I’m fighting not to laugh at all. And when I’m with him, I feel comfortable, like I can trust him.
But a practice relationship? Seriously? Who does that? And with Ronan? The man is my work assignment. Doing that with him would be unprofessional. Maybe even unethical. Granted, I don’t know a lot about ethics so don’t quote me on that. But c’mon. I can’t do this with Ronan. I just…can’t.
So I accept that the whole practice relationship idea is a categorical ‘no’.
Our waitress pops by then, and I realize that our drinks are almost empty. The distraction is welcome because I’m two seconds away from orgasming against these squeaky vinyl seats.
“Would you like to order a meal?” She holds up two laminated menus.
“Oh, no thank you.” My words come rushing out as I shift my legs away from Ronan, pressing them tightly together. “We’re not…this is not a date.” I say it as a reminder to myself, to Ronan.
I look across the booth for him to back me up, but instead the man is frowning at me. “It doesn’t have to be a date for us to order dinner. We have to eat.” His annoying half-grin appears. “Y’know, for nourishment, basic survival, and stuff.”
I can’t take my eyes off him. “You are always so dramatic,” I rasp out, searching for my voice in my tied-up throat.
Without breaking the eye contact, he holds out his hand to accept the menus from the waitress. The energy between us is so hot. It’s alive and it’s vibrating.
The waitress stands on the sidelines, a third-party observer, watching uncomfortably and discretely fanning her cheeks.
“I don’t keep up my manly figure by starving myself.” He tries pushing out his stomach like he doesn’t have washboard abs under his button-down shirt.“Have dinner with me, Nicky.”
A breath shudders out of my chest. “Fine.”
We order dinner and the waitress promises to be back soon. I won’t admit it to Ronan, but I’m kind of relieved that food is on the way. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I browsed the menu. Some of that stuff sounds really good and now, I’m looking forward to the cherry pie I ordered for dessert.
Needing a second to get myself together, I excuse myself to the ladies’ room. I use the toilet and wash my hands, taking a second to stare at myself in the mirror.
To be honest, I look downright horny. My curls are wild and tusseled, peeking out at the bottom of Ronan’s toque, my pupils are dilated, my red lipstick has faded to nothing and I straight-up look like I need sex. Oh, dammit.
Not stopping to ask myself what the hell I’m thinking, I pop a few quarters into one of those wall-mounted dispensers and a handful of condoms fall out. I shove my guilt aside, stuffing the condoms down at the bottom of my purse. Just in case.
I’m trying to be smart here. And sex with the subject of my work assignment doesn’t feel like the smartest. But nothing good can come of deluding myself about my ability to resist Ronan. Especially with the way my whole body is screaming out his name. I need to be realistic. I need to be prepared.
I march out of the washrooms with my head held high.
“Can I ask you a question?” Ronan asks when it’s just the two of us sitting at the table again.
“Knowing you, I don’t really have a choice, do I?” I smirk.
He blatantly rolls his eyes. “Are you still torn up over that loser who dumped you on Christmas?”
“No, I’m not still torn up over Simon. Not that it’s any of your business,” I mumble. “And Simon’s not a loser. He’s actually a nice guy.” I really don’t feel the need to play the role of the bitter ex.
Ronan levels me with a look that says he disagrees. “Come on. A nice guy? That bum dumped you on your birthday.”
I let out a sigh, knowing how bad this all looks. But it’s hard to explain. I guess in Ronan’s eyes, I should be running around town, burning Simon’s underwear and keying his pickup truck. But despite the letdown, I was never all that fired up about things ending between the two of us.
“Things aren’t all black and white, “ I begin. “Simon is going through a lot of stuff. His ex-fiancée left him at the altar and all that. He’s still dealing with it. So I guess I respect that he was actually honest with me instead of continuing to string me along or making me promises he couldn’t keep. Does it suck that it all played out on my birthday? Of course. But that doesn’t make him some monster.”
“I’d say he’s a monster,” Ronan mutters, all pissed off on my behalf.
I shrug one shoulder. “The older I get, the more I’m able to be honest with myself. Simon wasn’t right for me and our situationship ended. Thank god. It is what it is. I won’t hold a grudge for the sake of holding a grudge.”
“Is it okay if I hold a grudge on your behalf?” Across the table from me, Hockey Guy is all puffed up with righteous indignation.
That makes me smile. “My mom once said something that stuck with me. ‘Not every ex-lover is a villain. Sometimes he’s just a placeholder who’s temporarily in your life. When the real hero shows up on the scene, you’ll be grateful that there is not some side character hogging his spot.’”
Right then, our plates arrive, steaming hot and smelling delicious.
While waiting for the server to disappear again, Ronan seems to take in what I said, digesting it. “I guess I see what you mean. When you look at it that way, I guess that guy actually did you a favor by ending things.”
I smile softly. “Exactly.”
“And now you’re free to wait for Mr. Right.”
“That’s the thing,” I say, shaking my head and unrolling my silverware. “I’m not actually waiting for anybody. I’ve seriously decided that I’m focusing on me right now. And I’m starting to discover that I like myself a whole lot.”
He dips his head. “I’m discovering that I like you, too.”
My fork slips from my fingers.
Did he just say—what—surely he just means as friends. He likes me as a friend.
But the way Ronan’s eyes are eating me up, I’m not so sure about that.
Ugh. It’s just Valentine’s Day messing with his head, too.
“Thank you,” I croak out eventually, really unsure how to respond to that.
The air turns electric all over again, with this awkward sort of buzz hanging over us. It’s too much. So I turn my attention on finishing my meal.
When we eventually push our empty plates away, I let my focus linger on the band who’s performing on the small stage off to the side under an arch of red and pink balloons. They’re pretty good, now that I listen to them. I tap my foot and I nod my head along. But then the lead singer notices us and points in our direction.
“Hey, you, couple in the back!”
I stupidly look around, hoping to get lucky enough that he’s referring to some other couple in the back.
Problem is, there is no other couple in the back.
“Yes, you two!” The man insists. “Come dance! Get up here and get this party started.”
I cringe. Nobody—and I mean nobody—is dancing right now. I do feel bad for the band, but, no . Unfortunately, I do not in fact volunteer to ‘get this party started’.
“ Sorry , ” I say with a wave. “We’re not…This is not a date.”
Ronan scoffs. “Doesn’t have to be a date for us to dance, Nicky. Geez.”
The few people here inside the bar are all watching us now. They want to see what will happen next. Ronan and I are the center of attention.
I want to argue. I want to tell Ronan that dancing totally violates the bargain we made tonight. We agreed to keep things low key. But he’s already on his feet and holding out his palm to me. “Let me show you off, Peach. You’re so pretty. I want everybody to see you.”
He smiles at me, all pearly white and wickedly devilish. I instantly feel my panties heating up. That smile is a fire hazard.
“Ugh. Fine.” I slip my hand into his.
He pulls me across the room, right in front of the band. And of course, the musicians decide to start playing a slower tune. Of course, they do.
So we dance, and we sway, and we find ourselves way too close for two people who aren’t a couple.
Ronan twirls me around. Even though I’d been doing a stellar job at avoiding his blue gaze this whole time, he somehow catches me off guard.
We lock eyes.The whole room gets ten degrees hotter.
Just when I’m trying to figure out how to untangle my gaze from his, something takes over me. And I kiss him.
I reach up, lock a hand behind his neck and I kiss him.
I’m shocked. I’m appalled. I’m so, so into it.
He kisses me back and I quickly get lost in the feel of his mouth moving hungrily against mine. I’m delirious for more. More lips. More tongue. More Ronan.
I pull him closer, tangling my arms around him. It’s not until I rub up against his boner that I slightly pull away, feeling dazed. Like I just woke up from a fever dream.
“Keep kissing me, Peach,” he rasps, jerking me right back against his body so I can feel every rock hard inch of him.
“But this is not a date…” I whimper.
“I know…” Ronan answers, his voice gravelly. “Doesn’t have to be a date for us to makeout…” His mouth lands on my cheek, kissing down the side of my neck and getting me all hot and bothered again. “You don’t have to be my main character, Nicky Westbrook. Tonight, I’ll be your placeholder if you’ll be mine.”
I swallow. “Yeah. Placeholder. Okay.”
I refuse to think too hard about it, yanking him back in. The band plays on, and the rest of the bar fades away as I kiss Ronan Brighton again and again and again.
When the front entrance door bangs open, and a group of rowdy hockey fans stream inside, the room quickly comes back into focus. We startle apart at the noise, just in time to see a group of Saints fans rushing at Ronan.
“Brighton!”
“It’s Brighton!”
“Number seventeen. Can we get your autograph?”
“Yeah, man. Will you sign my girl’s boobs?!”
“Stop being a weirdo, Steve!”
A marker is shoved into Ronan’s hand.
I slink back into the shadows, snapping back to my senses. What the hell was I thinking? Kissing Ronan Brighton in public? Not only was it unprofessional of me, it was also foolish. Someone might have gotten it on camera.
That was sloppy of me. Even though it’s Valentine’s Day. Even though Ronan is a darned good kisser.
Frustrated with my stupid horny self, I wait by our booth until he’s done signing autographs. Ronan keeps glancing at me over his shoulder, like he’s trying to make sure I haven’t left. I give him encouraging nods, motivating him to keep signing autographs. The Saints need moments like this with their budding fanbase after all.
When he’s finished, Ronan stalks over. He backs me up against a wall with a dark grin on his face. It’s like he expects us to pick right up where we left off.
I swerve and walk right past him. No more. No more of those sexy looks and those hot kisses. I can’t let this man melt my brain to a pile of horny mush tonight.
“Nicky…” he calls after me.
I grab my purse from the booth. “I’m ready to go back to my hotel room. Alone,” I tell him. “Which means you are, too.”