Chapter 7 - Kate
KATE
NOT MY TYPE (UNTIL HE IS)
“Can I commit to maybe/Dance on that shaky line?/I ain't ready for forever/But I can't leave you behind.” Kate Riggs
I came out tonight to blow off steam, not fall into lust at first sight.
I’m not looking to get all wrapped up in a man.
No, that would be the end of my career. I know how that goes.
It’s the woman who always sacrifices her career.
For some reason, we often end up on the bottom, and it’s not the missionary position.
I’m still riding the high from the show—one outfit change, one standing ovation, and a dance break that nearly snapped my heel. My voice is gone, and my feet are killing me. I smell like perfume and effort.
But I’m glowing. And I know it.
We hit that spot, the place where performers go after hours. There are no tourists. No fans. Just music, strong drinks, and people who know how to look good under low lights. I’m halfway through my second margarita, still laughing at something Shay said, when I feel it.
The music seems slower, and my vision, well, it can’t be trusted. It’s that tingling you feel when you know someone’s watching you.
Prickles run down your neck and continue down my spine. It’s in my legs because I’m transfixed. I can’t move.
I turn. My world tilts.
How many drinks did I have?
And damn.
He’s tall. Big. Built like someone who makes a living throwing people into walls and likes it.
His jeans are so tight they should be illegal — painted on, honestly — and clinging to thighs that probably squat small cars.
A Maine Maulers Championship tee is stretched across biceps that look like they could carry me through a thunderstorm, a breakup, and a blackout, all at once.
And the face? Mischief and trouble.
Not in the “he lies to his girlfriend” kind of way. No, this is certified chaos — deep blue eyes, dark messy hair, and that slow, cocky grin like he already knows I’m gonna let him wreck my plans.
I try to look away. I do.
But then he walks toward me like the rest of the room isn’t even there.
And the worst part?
I let him.
He leans in and gives me an original pick-up line.
He’s too smooth. He’s one of those—the quintessential pickup artist or the hockey player no woman has ever said “no” to.
He has a great pickup line. I sass him, and he seems to like it
I arch a brow, sip my frosted margarita, and give him the only kind of line a man like that deserves, and he chuckles.
I watch his grin widen — not wounded, not offended. Just interested. Like I passed a test, he was hoping I’d throw something snarky at him.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even stammer. He just smiles like he’s already in too deep.
And what do I do? I grab his hand.
Because I want to know what those jeans look like under strobe lights. I want to see if those biceps can actually dance. And I want to find out exactly what kind of trouble that face gets me into.
Because I have a feeling it will be worth it.
He doesn’t say anything else. Just let me take the lead. It’s a fluid situation, given the banter and vibe. It’s as if we’ve known each other for decades.
The dance floor is packed, sweaty, loud, and lit like a fever dream—but when I pull him in, it’s like the music bends around us. He doesn’t grind. And he’s not all hands, or grabby, like a lot of men who’ve been drinking.
He moves with me like he’s been doing it his whole life. He’s confident, controlled, and letting me set the pace. And oh, my. The man has moves. And when we dance so that there’s no air between us?
He’s packing. I feel how hard he is.
God, he’s solid. Every part of him. Arms like carved granite. Hands low on my hips, but respectful. And those eyes? Hell, they are locked on me like he can’t look anywhere else.
I spin away and walk to the bar just to see if he’ll follow. He does, but it’s not like a puppy. He doesn’t impress me as a man who follows women out of insecurity.
No, he’s more like a predator, calm and calculating. He’s smiling like he knows I’m testing him, and he likes the challenge. He appears to be a man who knows what he wants.
I can’t help it — I laugh. I can’t believe I’m here, in Vegas, with the hottest man in the room. He has solid competition. It looks like he’s here with his team, celebrating.
He leans in, but says nothing. He presses his forehead to mine for a second, like we’ve already skipped the part where we pretend this doesn’t mean anything.
And just like that, I want to kiss him.
Which is a problem.
I don’t even know his name. I don’t care what he does. And yet I want to climb him like a palm tree and whisper sins in his ear to see how he reacts.
Eventually, I pull him off the floor, both of us breathless and sweaty. I led him to the bar. It’s quieter there, kind of, enough that I can hear my own pulse again.
I flag the bartender. “Two shots,” I say. “Tequila. Top shelf. No lime.”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “You don’t strike me as a no-lime girl,” he says.
The bartender slides two shots our way. We lift them.
“You don’t strike me as someone who listens,” I shoot back, smirking. “Cheers.”
We clink glasses.
He watches me knock mine back — no flinch, no chase — and damn if that isn’t the first time a man has looked at me like I’m the dangerous one.
“Alright,” I say, setting my empty glass down. “Your turn.”
“To what?” he asks.
“To say something that makes me want to kiss you,” I say, licking salt off the back of my hand slow enough to make his jaw tighten. “You’ve got ten seconds.”
He stares at me — then steps a little closer, voice low, like he knows me, like every inch of me, naked.
“I have a feeling,” he murmurs, “that if I kiss you, I’ll never want to stop.”
And just like that, I’m done for.
I don’t answer right away. I can’t. And his words just hang there between us, thick and charged — “If I kiss you, I’ll never want to stop.”
He says it like a vow. A confession. Like something sacred wrapped in lust and tequila.
And damn it — I believe him.
The music shifts behind us. Slower now. Low and heavy. Like the universe heard what he said and decided to dim the lights for dramatic effect.
I step in. He doesn’t move. He just looks at me like I’m already his, and all he has to do is wait for me to catch up.
I tilt my chin up. Just a little. And then he kisses me.
Not a club kiss. Not sloppy or rushed or drunk. It’s intentional. It’s deep and hot in a way that steals my balance. He has one hand on my cheek, the other at the small of my back, and he’s pulling me in like he’s memorizing all my curves.
It doesn’t feel like the first time. It feels like we’ve done this in every lifetime we’ve ever had, and each time, it’s just as hot.
When we finally break apart, I keep my hand on his chest. His heart is racing like mine. I feel his breath on my lips. Our foreheads touch again — this time soft like a rose petal.
His teammates called him Finn and wanted him to take a shot, but he wiggled out of it for me.
“Finn?” I ask. He nods. Of course, that’s his name; it fits him too well. Strong. Simple. Just enough edge to it to make me wonder what his story is.
“What’s your name?” he whispers. He smiles, as if it’s amusing that we’ve made it this far without even that.
“Kate.”
I nod, tucking his name into my brain like a keepsake. His lips curl at the corners, like he likes the way it sounds in his head.
“Kate,” he repeats, like it’s a prayer.
“Don’t fall in love with me, Finn,” I tease, mainly to keep breathing.
He leans in again, close enough to brush his lips against mine, and says—
“Too late.”