25. June
TWENTY-FIVE
June
“I’m so glad we did this.” Michael leans over the table toward me. His voice is raised, but I can only just hear him over the clink of the silverware and all the conversations going on around us.
The restaurant is busy, the atmosphere great, but it does nothing to settle the uneasy feeling swirling through me. Especially not when Michael reaches out, covering my hand with his.
“Me too.” This was a mistake. I should’ve canceled, faked an emergency, pretended to be sick, anything to get out of this date.
Michael is nice, genuinely nice, but there’s nothing he can say or do that would make this work. There is no spark, no butterflies, no electricity. Nothing. The chemistry between us is nonexistent.
It’s a slight struggle to keep my hand under his and pretend to feel something, anything.
Maybe in another life, on a totally different planet, one where I have not met Ryan Devlin, this could be a thing .
But I have.
I know how he smells, how he tastes, how it feels when he’s moving inside me, how he makes me fall apart over and over and over again. Now that I know he doesn’t have a girlfriend, the floodgates are open. I remember every touch, every whisper, every single glide of his body against mine.
Being with Ryan is a bad idea, a terrible idea, but I can’t seem to remember why.
The waiter stops by, dropping off our food. “Does everything look okay?”
“It looks great.” Michael is all smiles. Of course he is. He thinks this is going well. He has no idea that the ugly truth is working its way through every pore, every cell in my body. I’m not over Ryan Devlin, and I’m not sure I ever will be.
Although, in all fairness, the food does look good. I’ll give Michael that—he has great taste in restaurants. This place is New Orleans inspired, and the seafood gumbo in front of me smells amazing.
Now if only the knot in my stomach would loosen so I could eat.
“Thank you so much.” I try to force a smile, but I’m not sure it’s more than a grimace. Lucky for me, neither the waiter nor Michael seem to notice.
Not so lucky, the waiter tells us to enjoy and leaves us alone once again.
I try the smile once more, sliding my hand slowly out from underneath his. “This looks great. I can’t wait to dig in.”
A glass breaks somewhere behind the bar, quickly followed by loud shouts and a round of applause. Michael is impassive, not even looking that way, and I can’t help but wonder how Ryan would react. What would date Ryan be like?
Would he be polite? Would he pull out my chair? Would he touch my lower back, guide me into the restaurant? Would he try to do anything else?
Dang it, June. You’re on a date.
Another smile and I bring a spoonful of gumbo up to my lips, taking a small bite.
“How old is Oliver now?” He hasn’t even touched his food. Why can’t he just eat?
“He’s three.”
“Wow. I remember when you first started and he was a baby. What about his dad?”
And the next bite turns to ash in my mouth, but I force it down. Wow. This took a turn. I clear my throat, letting the spoon drop back down into the bowl.
“His dad ... he’s, uh ...” I pull my dress away from my chest and fan myself. Is it hot in here? Why is it so dang hot?
“It’s Ryan Devlin.”
“I ... well—what? How did you know?”
Michael points behind me toward the front of the restaurant. “It’s Ryan Devlin. He’s the tight end for the Nashville Aces and one of my favorite players. The guy is a legend. I wonder what he’s doing here.”
No, this can’t be happening. I’m daydreaming, night dreaming. I’ve fallen and hit my head. I don’t know what’s happening, but there is no way Ryan is here. None. He’s at home watching our son, far away from here.
I don’t turn around. I refuse. If I don’t see him, he won’t see me. Or at least he wouldn’t if he were here, which he is definitely not.
“You were saying?” I smile, I bat my eyes, I even contemplate grabbing his hand, anything to get his attention off whoever looks like Ryan Devlin .
“He’s still up by the front. He must be looking for someone. Oh God, he’s coming over here. Do I look okay?”
With each word I sink lower and lower in my chair, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. Does he look okay? Him? Who cares what he looks like? Meanwhile, I’m trying to be one with the chair. Any chance I resemble mahogany wood? Maybe if I angle my body like this, it’ll help.
I twist myself slightly sideways, and dang it, Michael doesn’t even notice. He’s completely smitten, staring at this Ryan wannabe. This is the worst date ever.
“June.”
That’s all it takes. One single freaking word.
His voice is like a bucket of cold water, waking up every nerve ending, every cell in my body. My skin buzzes with awareness. My mouth dries up. My downstairs ... well, let’s say that’s not exactly dry, and my dang nipples harden into painful points. It’s like my entire body belongs to him, like it’s against me.
Michael’s eyes widen so much it’d be comical, you know, if I wasn’t dying inside. They shift between him and me, his jaw hanging open for several beats before he recovers, sitting up straight and holding out his hand. “I’m Michael Fitzpatrick. I’m a huge fan.”
Ryan’s now standing beside our table, and there’s no doubt it’s him. Dang it. He glances toward Michael for a split second, completely ignoring his outstretched hand before his heated gaze lands on me.
He’s changed his clothes, no longer in a T-shirt and basketball shorts, but a pair of dark washed jeans and a long-sleeved Henley. They’re tight, highlighting every muscle straining against the fabric. He’s tense, his jaw tight, his fingers flexing at his sides.
The longer I stare at him, the more his eyes narrow on me. He’s pissed—that much I’m sure about, but why?
Okay, I didn’t exactly tell him I was going on a date, but I didn’t think he’d care. If anything he should be grateful. If I were truly enamored by Michael—yes, I know that’s far-fetched—I wouldn’t be rubbing on him during our yoga sessions like some horny teenager. Like a desperate woman who hasn’t been touched in four years. Like a ... well, you get the idea.
But yes, he should be grateful. Those rumors about us floating around on the internet would die down. Bulge watch would disappear. His life could go back to normal.
He should be thanking me.
Except he looks anything but pleased.
“Do you two ...?” Michael clears his throat. “Do you know each other?”
Ryan stays quiet, his eyes boring through me, and I’m sure he’s trying to be intimidating, but my body only heats under his attention.
“Yes.” My voice is quiet as I glance down at the table, toying with the end of my spoon. “He’s my ... he’s ...”
Ryan scoffs, springing into action, pulling out the chair next to me and sitting down. What is he doing? What is he thinking? Obviously he’s not, because people are staring. Not everyone, but some of the nearby tables are watching, whispering.
“I’m surprised our little June bug didn’t mention me. I’m Oliver’s father.” He takes a big bite of my gumbo, patting his belly and making a humming noise. “Oh, this is good. ”
Oliver. Shit. I mean shoot. He’s supposed to be with Oliver. I’m the worst mother ever. I should be worried about my son, not how he looks in those jeans.
I angle toward him, lowering my voice to a harsh whisper. “What are you doing here? Where’s Oliver?”
“He’s sleeping.” He says it so casually, taking a sip of my white wine. “Don’t worry, your sister is with him.”
I lean closer to him, pointing an index finger into his chest, ignoring the hard muscle underneath. “My sister?”
Ryan focuses on Michael, his long fingers strumming across the tabletop. “How do you know June?”
Fuck my life.
Michael clears his throat again—what’s he got in there? His fingers adjust the cuffs of his gray dress shirt. How did I not notice that earlier? Even his shirt is boring. Why did I agree to this? Oh yeah, to get this jerk out of my head. A lot of good that’s done. “We work together at the firm. I’m a junior partner.”
“And you don’t think it would be awkward to see our little June bug here at work every day once this goes into the shitter?” He stretches out, his legs bumping into mine, his arm curling around the back of my chair.
He’s really starting to piss me off. I don’t like the nicknames, I don’t like his attitude, and I sure as heck don’t like him crashing my date. My date I intend to finish.
“For one, don’t call me ‘June bug.’” I round on him, my eyes narrowing, and I try to ignore the people behind me who are leaning back, clearly trying to eavesdrop on our conversation. “Two, Michael is nice. He’s not like ... well, you.” I gesture toward him. “He’s not going to crash someone’ s date?—”
“I thought it was just dinner with a friend.”
“Crash someone’s date because of—why are you here?”
“Was in the area.” His fingers graze my side, shooting electricity down my spine. Which I ignore. “I figured I would clear up some misconceptions about our relationship.” His eyes flit to me briefly before focusing back on Michael. “You said you’re a fan?”
Michael looks between us, his brows drawn together, no doubt as confused as I feel. His hands run down the front of his shirt, and he tugs at his collar, quickly nodding. “The Aces are my favorite team. I don’t miss a game.”
“Perfect. If I gave you season tickets, box seats, would you get the fuck out of here?”
My eyes widen. Michael’s jaw hits the floor. The lady sitting behind me gasps.
“Well, I ...” Michael stutters, sending me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, June. It’s season tickets. You understand, right?”
Is he serious right now? Do I understand? Is he high? Is he seriously considering leaving me for football tickets? He is! Oh my God, he is. “Are you kidding me right now?”
His sleazy little hand slides across the table, covering mine, and all I feel is a steady buildup of anger. I force myself to take a haggard breath, pulling my hand out from under his before I pin it to the table with a knife. I hate the both of them right now.
Michael pulls a business card from his shirt pocket and hands it over to Ryan. “I’ll see you at the office on Monday,” he says to me. “You’re in good hands. He had almost eight hundred receiving yards last season.”
Wow. And no, that’s not in response to Ryan’s stats, which frankly mean nothing to me. He thinks I’m in good hands because this guy can run with a football? He can’t be serious.
With one last mumbled apology, Michael tosses a couple of hundred-dollar bills on the table and scurries out of the restaurant. The chatter around us seems to have died down, and people are going back to their meals, but I am seething. My blood is boiling in my veins, I’m seconds away from causing a scene, and I swear if Ryan thinks I’m going to sit here and have dinner with him after what he just did, he’s got another thing coming.
“That gumbo really is good.” Ryan removes his arm from the back of my chair, but instead of getting up and marching his ass home, he angles his entire body toward me. “You should take it with us.”
As if on cue, the waiter is back at the table, his hands trembling as he grips his notebook. “Mr. Devlin. Sir. Will you be dining with us? Can I get you something to eat? Drink?”
Ryan doesn’t take his eyes off mine. “No, thanks, but can you do me a favor and box her dinner up?”
“Absolutely. Right away, sir. And can I ... can I get your autograph?”
I cover my face with my hands and groan. This really can’t get any worse.
“How can you just sit there and act normal?” I grit out after the waiter gets his autograph and disappears with my food. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He leans my way, his fingers dancing down the length of my spine, and I can’t help the shiver that works its way down my body. “I’m here to claim what’s mine.”
What’s his? What’s his? He’s delusional, he’s lost his mind. Never mind the delicious tingles working their way through me.
Or the way his eyes flare with heat.
“Excuse me?” I squeak.
“You heard me, June.” His thumb smooths across my bottom lip, tugging it slightly. “You belong to me, and I’m done fighting it.”