Chapter One
Harlan
Now
"Well, look what the cat dragged in," my brother, Briggs, says as soon as I step through the front doors of the lodge, stomping snow from my boots. He strides across the massive great room toward me, a grin plastered across his face.
"Said I'd be here today, didn't I?" I grunt, dropping my bag beside a giant stone fireplace.
"Yeah, but we're talking about you, motherfucker." He tips his bottle in my direction. "We both know you'd rather have a lobotomy than be here right now."
He isn't wrong. Spending another weekend in Aspen, pretending I give a shit about skiing, sounds about as fun as.
..well, a lobotomy. But Hattie, our baby sister, is getting married in a week, and I guess our family is making a tradition of going skiing instead of having bachelor and bachelorette parties.
Don't ask me why. Hattie can't ski to save her life.
I'm a card-carrying member of the asshole club… but I will never be a big enough asshole to disappoint Hattie.
Besides, who the fuck else is going to threaten to rip Sidney's balls out through his throat if he makes her cry, if not me? No one, that's who.
And since Sophie Hawkes is going to be here this weekend, well, hell itself couldn't keep me away.
"Where is everyone?" I ask, glancing around the great room.
Of course, Sidney rented out the entire resort for the weekend just to make my sister happy.
There are at least three chandeliers overhead, with five fireplaces strategically placed around the massive room.
An entire arena could fit in the damn place.
But aside from a couple of Sidney's teammates playing air hockey in the corner, the common area is mostly empty.
"Getting ready for dinner." Briggs glances at the ornate clock hanging over the doors. "We're meeting up in thirty at the restaurant downstairs."
Fuck. Maybe I can—
"And Hattie said you aren't allowed to skip it."
Goddammit. Guess I need to find my room and change, then.
"Here." Briggs pulls a key card from his pocket, holding it out to me. "I already checked you in. Figured you'd be late if you made it today at all."
"Your faith in me is so inspiring," I mutter, pocketing the card. I've never missed anything that mattered to Hattie. Ever.
Briggs just grins in response. "I know you, Harlan. Socializing is your worst nightmare." He chuckles. "How the fuck you ended up as captain of the Knights when you literally hate people is beyond me."
"I don't hate people." I'm apathetic toward most people. I have a strong aversion to groups of them. There's a difference.
"Yeah?" He quirks a brow. "Name three people you don't hate."
"Hattie, Vanessa, and Tye."
"Damn." He chuckles again. "I didn't even make the list?"
I just shrug, smirking at him as I scoop my bag from the floor. "You said three. I picked my favorites. Not my fault that you didn't make the cut."
He scratches the side of his face with his middle finger, but he's not offended. Nothing much offends Briggs. Nothing except our mother, anyway. It's not like I blame him for that. She offends the hell out of me, too.
If it weren't for Hattie, we would have cut her out a long time ago. Fortunately, we've corrected that oversight. That woman is officially where she belongs now—out of our lives. So long as she continues to leave Hattie alone, we intend to keep it that way.
"She isn't going to try to show up, is she?" I ask, not entirely convinced she'll behave. The woman can't resist being the center of attention. I wouldn't put it past her to try to show up and make a scene, just to ruin Hattie's weekend.
Briggs knows who I'm talking about. "Nope," he says, completely confident. "Tye already warned the staff not to let her through the doors if she does show her face. And I made a point to stop by her place before I caught a flight."
"How'd that go?"
"I don't think she's willing to risk the public humiliation that I promised would follow if she shows her ass or comes anywhere near Hattie or anything wedding-related."
"Good," I grunt. I'll be damned if our mother ruins Hattie's wedding for her like she's ruined every other goddamn thing in her life. "I'm going to…" I trail off, my eyes locking on a brunette descending the stairs on the opposite side of the room.
Christ Almighty. Sophie.
Sophie has always been beautiful. Every time I see her on some magazine cover, on my feed, or in the news, it's like a punch to the gut. I'm not a man who says much in general, but silence hits different when your brain is stuck on some level of stupid where words don't even exist.
Seeing her in person again has me living on that level.
Her dark hair is pinned on top of her head, with curls floating free around her heart-shaped face. Her green eyes are dark and smoky, her cheeks pink. The red dress she's wearing clings to her curvy body like a second skin, shimmering in the light as she practically glides down the stairs.
She's so fucking graceful. There's no mistaking that she's a dancer. Every move is music. Every move is fascinating. And every single one has my dick pressing up against my zipper, aching like a son of a bitch.
I know I'm staring. I know I should stop.
I also know there isn't a chance in hell of that happening.
I've been fascinated by Sophie since we met at Hattie's engagement party a few months ago. Sliding into her DMs a week later was the best decision I ever made.
I've spent the time since learning everything I could about her—like the fact that she's snarky as hell, hates her dance partner, and takes no shit from anyone.
She's also one of the funniest people alive, she's soft as silk even though she tries to hide it, and she works harder than I can even comprehend.
I was close—so fucking close—to convincing her that she wanted to be more than friends. But I may or may not have fucked that up.
Either she senses my gaze on her, or her eyes just happen to shift in my direction because our eyes meet. I'm rooted in place, completely captivated.
She does not have the same problem.
Her lips pull down into a deep frown, her eyes narrowing.
She looks at me like she's looking at shit on her shoe.
I'm not entirely surprised when she lifts her chin in the air and turns her face away, as if she's dismissing me from existence.
Truthfully, the only thing that surprises me is that she didn't flip me off first.
"Damn," Briggs whistles beside me. "What the fuck did you do to piss her off?"
"Don't know," I mutter… but that's not entirely true. I know exactly what I did.
I opened my big ass mouth and insulted her profession. At least, that's how the article made it sound when they published the part of my statement where I said ballerinas weren't athletes, but left out the parts where I explained that they were something far more beautiful than that.
Less than twenty-four hours after it dropped, she blocked me on social media. As soon as I tried to call to explain, she blocked my number, too.
It's been two weeks, and she's frozen me out completely.
This is the first time we've been in a room together since we met at the engagement party. Hell, it's the first time we've even been in the same city since then…and I'm guessing it is not going to go the way it always does in my fantasies.
The thought pisses me off. So does the way she skirts around me when she reaches the landing, walking all the way to the far wall just so she doesn't have to come near me.
Nope. Fuck that noise.
I don't care if she is pissed. She doesn't get to ignore me like I'm a stranger instead of the man she's been messaging damn near daily for the last four months.
I drop my bag and stalk toward her, planting myself right in her path. She's a dainty little ballerina. I'm built like a brick shithouse. She has no choice but to stop.
"Excuse me," she says, irritation painted into every gorgeous line of her face. "I was walking there."
"I saw you." She has no idea how often I've seen her over the last several months. She'd probably kill me if she knew how many times I've stalked her social media, just to see her.
I never knew ballet could be so erotic until I was beating off to clips of her dancing every goddamn day.
I'm mad as hell that I can't do it anymore, believe me.
I'm also mad as hell that I let her run at the engagement party instead of taking her home with me. If I'd been smarter, this wouldn't even be an issue right now, but no. I figured we had time, that I could take it slow and ease her into the idea of us.
Well, that backfired in my fucking face.
"Of course you did." She sighs, flicking her gaze up to mine. Her eyes are the sharpest emerald, cold enough to cut. "I don't want your autograph, Mr. I'm-a-Real-Athlete."
Ouch. She definitely saw that bullshit article, then.
"Fine. How about that dinner you owe me?" I ask instead of trying to explain what I actually said to the interviewer. I already know she won't accept it, not right now. She has that same look in her eye that Hattie always gets when she's going to be unholy stubborn about something.
It's sexy as hell on Sophie. It's also more likely to cause actual damage. Sophie isn't tame. She isn't sweet or delicate either. She's a badass, all the way to her core.
Something about that is so fucking sexy to me. Women have been throwing themselves at me for years. They all want to be caught and kept, to be perfect little trophies who bagged an athlete. I'm rude as fuck because I'm not interested in being someone's show pony.
Sophie is different. She doesn't throw herself at anyone. She isn't interested in being kept. I'm not entirely sure she's even interested in being caught. The more people ask when she's going to settle down, the less she seems to like the idea.
I fucking love that she defies the rules and does what the fuck she wants. She doesn't bow to the world or its expectations. She forges her own path.
"Are you kidding me right now?"
"Do I look like I'm kidding?"
"I don't have the patience for this," she growls, crossing her arms to glare at me. I'm not entirely sure she's talking to me, though. I think she's talking to herself. "God gave me grace, not patience."
My lips quirk. "He gave me both."
"And yet, he didn't give you a lick of common sense," she says, trying to slide past me. "What an absolute tragedy."
"You saw the article."
"You mean the one where you said that ballet isn't a sport and it's insulting to compare ballerinas to actual athletes?" She rolls her eyes. "Oh, I saw it."
Damn. It sounds even worse than I remembered.
"Why do you think I blocked you?" She bats her lashes at me. "You didn't need little ole me and my Not-an-Athlete self distracting you from your big, manly game of sportsball. What would your real athlete friends think?"
So…she's big mad, then.
"Unblock me," I growl.
"Sure." She takes a step toward me, so close, I feel her tits graze my chest. Precum spills into my boxers, and I want to press her up against the wall and grind my cock against her until we're both ruined. "As soon as hell freezes over."
I try to grab her, but she moves like a dream. Before I can even react, she's got the heel of her shoe digging into the top of my foot. One perfect hand presses against the inside of my thigh, her knuckles grazing my shaft.
The fucker throbs, cum spilling into my boxers. There's no stopping it. She's touching my cock, and I'm just done.
RIP to my dignity.
"Fuck," I groan, swaying on my feet. And then she turns pleasure into a goddamn firestorm by grabbing a handful of thigh muscle and squeezing. Hard. A jolt of pain goes all the way to my foot.
My knee buckles so fast I damn near hit the floor.
I'm left standing there, doubled over, cum still spilling into my boxers, my goddamn thigh muscle cramping, praying I don't actually end up on the floor at her feet.
I probably look like I've lost control of my body. And there's nothing I can do about it because I have actually lost control of it.
My leg is cramping. My dick is a traitor. She's smirking like she's never been more satisfied with herself than she is right now.
And I've never wanted to kiss someone more in my entire life.
I should have seen that coming, though. I really should have. This is the woman who slapped her prick of a dance partner in the face on stage for insulting her. She's also the one who has occupied every damn space in my head for the last four months straight.
Yeah, I'm fucked. So thoroughly, it's laughable.
"Oops, my bad," she lies, sliding right past me with a wicked laugh I feel in my balls. "It's wild what happens when people try to touch me without my permission, isn't it?"
I'm not sure what's worse: the fact that I just came all over myself because she touched my cock…or the fact that Briggs is practically on the floor a few feet away, wheezing with laughter.
This was not in any of my fantasies.
Spanking her perfect ass was, though.
I'm going to get to that…just as soon as I can walk again.