Chapter 1 #2
“Very.” He gave me a small smile that suggested he knew exactly how vague it was. “Marketing strategy, brand development, that kind of thing. Most people’s eyes glaze over when I start talking about it.”
“Doesn’t sound boring.”
“You say that now, but wait until I lecture about it,” he said. “What about you?”
“I’m… in sports.”
An eyebrow raised. “Now who’s being vague?”
“Good point.” Laughter escaped me. “I work for a team.”
“Let me guess.” His eyes traveled over me, assessing, appreciating. “Personal trainer? You definitely look like you spend a lot of time in the gym.”
“Something like that.” Keeping the smirk off my face was impossible.
“Very mysterious.” Tilting his head, he studied me. “Is this a spy thing? Are you secretly CIA?”
“You got me. I’m undercover.”
“At a gay club?”
“Deep undercover,” I said deadpan.
Genuine laughter, the kind that made his whole face change, made him look younger, less guarded. “Okay, secret agent. What brings you here tonight?”
“Same thing as everyone else, I guess. Looking for a good time.”
“And have you found one?” Challenge in his voice, in the way he looked at me.
Leaning in closer, close enough to smell his body wash, something smooth and woodsy, I said, “I think I might have.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth for just a second before meeting mine again. “That’s a pretty confident answer for someone who’s been here all of twenty minutes.”
“I’m a confident guy.”
“I can see that.” Another sip of his drink, but he was smiling. Well, something close to it. “Though you also look like you’re about to jump out of your skin.”
“That obvious?”
“Little bit. First time doing… this?”
Nodding slowly, I admitted, “Yeah. First time.”
Something shifted in his expression—softer, more understanding. “How’s it going so far?”
“Better than I expected. Especially the last five minutes.”
“Smooth talker,” he said, but that almost-smile appeared again.
“I try.” Finishing my beer, I set it down on an empty table. “Want another drink, or would you like to hear more of my material?”
“You have more material?”
“I can probably come up with something.”
“Then yeah.” His blue eyes held mine. “I’ll take another drink.” He raised his glass. “Vodka tonic. Thanks.”
I made my way to the bar, hopes high. I liked that Evan didn’t recognize me.
Liked that he looked at me like I was just some guy, not Nicolás Briggs, the hockey player with a Wikipedia page.
When people knew, everything changed—the way they treated you, the way they touched you, what they wanted from you.
I’d learned that the hard way. Tonight, for the first time in longer than I could remember, I was just Nico.
Some guy who’d walked into a bar and made another guy laugh. That was enough. More than enough.
When I returned with fresh drinks, we fell into conversation. He was funny in a dry, understated way, though something guarded about him made me want to know more. Made me want to crack that careful exterior and see what was underneath.
“So, do you always interrogate guys you meet at bars?” I asked. “Or am I special?”
“You’re assuming I meet guys at bars regularly.”
“Don’t you?”
“Not really my scene.” Glancing around the club like he was cataloging all the reasons, he added, “Too loud. Too many people who think a smile means you want their life story.”
“And here I am, trying to get yours.”
“Exactly.” But his mouth twitched.
Pressing a hand to my chest, I said, “Harsh. I’m wounded.”
His gaze dropped to my chest and raked over my pecs. My abs. His eyes darkened, and I watched him swallow before he took a sip of his drink. “You’ll survive.” He looked at me over the rim of his glass. “You seem like the type who always does.”
“What type is that?”
“The type who’s used to getting what he wants.”
I leaned against the wall, studying him. “You’ve got me all figured out after ten minutes?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Maybe. Or maybe I just haven’t wanted the right things yet.”
Something flickered in his eyes—interest, maybe, or wariness. Like he wasn’t sure if I was feeding him a line or telling the truth.
“That’s almost philosophical,” he said. “Didn’t expect that from a guy who looks like he bench presses small cars.”
Laughter burst out of me. “I’m full of surprises.”
“Are you?”
“Stick around and find out.”
He tilted his head, considering. “You’re very sure I want to stick around.”
“You’re still here, aren’t you?”
“For now,” he said, but there was a challenge in the words. Like he was testing me, waiting to see if I’d push too hard or back off entirely.
That he wasn’t making it easy appealed to me. He had walls I’d have to actually work to get past. His eyes kept dropping to my mouth when he thought I wasn’t looking.
The heat in the club was stifling, so I shrugged off my jacket and draped it over my arm.
Evan’s eyes followed the movement and tracked the flex of my biceps, lingered on the expanse of my chest, traced the line where my shirt stretched across my shoulders.
When his gaze returned to my face, his pupils were blown wide and his breathing had gone shallow.
Attraction crackled between us like electricity.
My gaze raked his body. His blazer framing his square shoulders, his long fingers wrapped around his glass, his full lips that would surround my—
Lust hit me hard. Need made me ache.
“You’re staring,” he said quietly.
“So are you.”
His tongue darted out to wet his lips. “I know.”
The air between us felt charged. Dangerous. Like one of us just needed to say the word, and we’d both stop pretending this was just a conversation.
Maybe thirty minutes had passed when I leaned forward and spoke into his ear. “Want to get out of here?”
Both too soon and not soon enough.
Hesitation played out on his face, the same internal debate I’d had in the parking garage. Risk versus reward. Safety versus recklessness. The smart choice versus what he actually wanted.
I watched him fight with himself. Saw the moment caution started losing.
“We can go to a hotel,” I offered. Neutral territory. Less risky for both of us.
The suggestion seemed to relax him slightly. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Let’s go.”
I slipped on my jacket and led him out of the club, my hand at the small of his back. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t lean into it either—just strode beside me, close enough to touch.