Chapter 7 Brooke
Brooke
My arm freezes as Steve releases my hand. It slowly falls to my side as I shift my body back toward… him.
Drew is here.
Of all the times I thought I'd be able to escape him, we somehow ended up in the exact same place.
And now… he knows my name.
Steve was a nice guy. He's traveling for work—the head honcho for some law firm—and is headed back home after tomorrow night's Flames game…
to his wife of twenty years. He told me he was married just a couple minutes into our conversation.
Apparently, I really don't know what a husband looks like.
He didn't offer to buy me a drink—maybe that should have been my first sign—but he was good company for a while, talking about how real estate around here has really sky-rocketed.
Future-Brooke thought that was good to know.
But then he showed up.
I don't know how long he's been here. The last I saw to my left before turning toward Steve was a massive man on his phone with a thick Russian accent. He was quiet, other than the occasional slurp of his soup, typing away on the device that looked hysterically too small for his enormous hand.
But when the bartender came over and spoke to the person behind me, the sound of his voice sent shivers down my spine.
It was two words—thank you—but the way they crawled from the guy's throat felt familiar.
I knew that voice even if I couldn't place it.
It only took one fleeting moment before curiosity got the better of me.
I turned slowly in an attempt to match the sound to a face, but my brain glitched.
I smiled politely—reflexively—in a moment deserving of so much more.
It was only when I had spun halfway back toward Steve that it finally registered whose eyes I just locked with.
Drew drank me in like a top-shelf liquor—slow, deliberate, savoring every drop—and I gawked at him like a deer in fucking headlights.
He looks so different tonight than he did at the gala—relaxed, casual—but captivating all the same.
Just like that night, his eyes pulled me in, my mind scrambling to read the depth hidden behind them.
Now, those eyes avoid me, his body pulled in tightly against the bar as he wipes at the condensation that's built up on his glass.
When Steve called me by name, there was no missing Drew's reaction.
His body language stiffened as if he was holding his breath.
I took it as a sign that I must affect him the same way his presence here affects me. But now, I'm not so sure.
As he sits back in his seat, the vibration of potential in the air briefly settles into something different.
Jealousy? Bitterness? Hurt? His shoulders slouch forward slightly, his eyes narrow on the rim of his glass as the muscles in his neck tighten and loosen as if his agitation falters so quickly you might miss it if you look away.
But I don't.
Rotating toward the counter, the rest of my wine calls me from the corner of my eye. As if she can read my thoughts, the bartender walks over and tops it off.
"Oh, uh—thank you," I say, giving her a closed-lip smile.
"Sure thing, hun." She nods and walks away, and when I peek back over at Drew, he's back to looking at me with a raised brow and a confident aura.
"So… Brooke."
My cheeks warm as I grab hold of my drink like the life-line that it is. I take a large gulp before he huffs out a laugh. The sound, thankfully, slices through the intensity between us, and my shoulders relax slightly as I take another sip. Just for good measure.
He watches as I set my glass back on the bar. I take a deep breath, mentally shaking off how much he's thrown me and regaining my composure before holding out my palm. "So… I'm Brooke," I say, my voice almost lyrical.
Drew looks from my extended hand back to my face and makes me wait just a beat before he turns, staggering his legs with mine so his knee sits dangerously close to my inner thigh.
He meets my hand with a firm grip, and shakes it slowly, the contact alone causing a heat so low I'm afraid he'll feel it through his joggers.
"Drew," he says simply, but the fervor in his eye contact makes it much more intense. The tension is palpable, my heart and breathing rates both picking up speed from just his first name, and I find myself shifting in my seat to cause some friction. God, Brooke. Keep it in your damn pants.
Realizing I've been holding his palm in mine for far too long, I drop it, inhaling deeply. Attempting to allow the smooth jazz in the background to regulate my nervous system, I occupy myself by spinning my wine glass on the marble bar.
The bartender, who is a saint for keeping judgement off her face as she saunters past me, places a plate in front of Drew. "Your steak, sir."
She spins the porcelain so the meat is closest to him, then drops a fork and knife on either side. "Can I get you anything else?"
Drew catches me staring at his meal. "Did you order yet?"
I shake my head quickly. "No, actually. I, uh… I hadn't gotten to it because I—."
"Because you were flirting with the old guy?" A flash of irritation crosses his face before it settles into a cocky grin.
My mouth falls open as I prepare to defend myself and a married Steve, when his expression falls casual again. "I'm kidding. Order something. I'll wait for you."
Still stuck on his comment, I stutter. "I, uh… I will in a second. You don't have to do that."
He sits back in his seat definitively as if to prove he's waiting. "I'm not going to eat in front of you."
I crease my brow, leaning forward slightly. "It's fine, it'll get cold. Just eat."
Still facing me, he places the tips of his fingers on the side of his plate and slides it closer my way. "Okay, then you eat mine, and I'll order another."
My face floods with confusion. "What? No, then I'll be the one eating in front of you." He stares at me blankly. "That's stupid."
I reach out and slide the plate back to where it started. He exhales heavily, sits up straighter on his stool, and moves his legs back under the counter. I shouldn't miss their close proximity to mine, but it's as if they suddenly cranked the air conditioning in here.
"Could you please box this up for me?" he asks the bartender, who until now, was watching our interaction like a tennis match.
Her face remains free of judgement—or annoyance or confusion—as she responds immediately. "Of course, sir. Can I get you something else?"
Drew turns just his head toward me and sucks his teeth. The gesture triggers a memory of his tongue on my neck, in my mouth, sliding down my—
"I'll take another order of the same thing, please. And whatever she's having."
My mouth falls open as the bartender smiles with her eyes in my direction. "Drew I—"
"Order, Brooke."
My lips snap shut as I tuck a hair behind my ear. Damn it. Another reason past-me was smart not to give him my name. Subconsciously, my body must have known that hearing it slide from his lips would make me picture him naked.
If only to put the poor server out of her misery, and to provide some relief for the professional collectedness she's surely been faking, I obey. "A veggie panini, please. With fries."
My eyes fall closed slowly as she walks away, and when I open them, they find Drew looking at me curiously. "What?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "Nothing."
Sitting my elbow on the bar, I rest my temple on my fist. "No, go ahead. Let's hear it."
"That was just a lot of fuss for you to order a salad between two slices of bread."
I sit up straighter, rolling my eyes. "Very funny."
"I'm serious. I would have thought all that back and forth would have led to at least a burger. Maybe a filet? A nice chicken sandwich."
I squint in his direction with fake irritation. "I don't eat meat." He freezes where he is, his brow cocked slightly. "Save it," I say, not interested in—or capable of—any sort of innuendo.
It takes him a second to realize what I'm saying before he lets out a chuckle. The laugh travels through me—such a genuine sound coming from someone who seems larger than life—as he holds his palms up. "I was just going to say, there really is a lot that I don't know about you."
His words sit between us, the mood in the air shifting from light-hearted to heated. We're both thinking back to that night, and we know it. I just wonder if he's thinking the same thing I am. Even if I may want it to, it can't ever happen again.
"I didn't expect to see you here," he says, his voice now softer, pulling me from my thoughts.
I nod slowly, then drag out my words in pieces. "I sort of expected to see you. At some point. Obviously." Just not until there was a sheet of glass between us. "But I didn't think it'd be here." I point to the marble and glance around the bar.
"You know Coach's girl, don't you?"
I smile thinking about my Alex and how now she's seen as Coach's girl. "Yeah, she's my best friend. I'm here keeping an eye on Cooper so she and Levi can spend some time together on the trip."
The corner of his lip tugs up, and the movement reveals a deep dimple in the middle of his freshly shaved cheek. I find myself turned on again until I realize his youthful smile is just a gentle reminder of the age gap between us.
"I always forget Monte's real name is Levi."
Something about the statement—or maybe my current situation—strikes me so funny that a laugh rips from my throat. Drew's eyes fill with awe before suddenly growing darker. Out of nowhere, his gaze drops to my mouth, and the mood instantly switches back to one more fitting for our circumstances.
"Why wouldn't you tell me your name ten months ago?" His jaw is now tight, his face serious.
"Oh, come on, who doesn't like a little mystery?"
He shakes his head. "I'm serious. What's the difference between me and Whiskey Guy from earlier?"
"Who?" I scan the bar until I realize who he's talking about. "You mean Steve?"
"See, you two are on a first-name basis." He speaks with swagger, but his eyes couldn't tell me a lie if they tried.
"I had no intention of sleeping with Steve."
His pupils dilate—which I'm blaming on the ambiance of the bar—but his shoulders physically relax. "So, you only keep your name a secret from any guy you plan to take to bed?"
"Or bathroom," I add quickly.
We both laugh, but I'm instantly transported back to when the same face next to me was buried between my thighs below said restroom's sink. Flooded with warmth, I slide out of my leather jacket and let it fall between my ass and the back of the stool.
Drew makes no attempt to hide the trail his eyes leave on my now-exposed skin before he brings them back to mine. "I don't buy it."
Inhaling deeply, I turn my body once again toward his, resting my hands in my lap. "I was different then. And he wasn't you."
Drew runs his hand through his hair and takes my eyes with him. He faces me and folds his arms across his chest. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
"I wasn't looking for anything serious."
He nods, his eyes narrow. "And the second part?"
I scoff. "You're the star player of the team my best friend's husband coaches. My name didn't really seem relevant." I take a sip of the wine I almost forgot was here and take a vested interest in the way the liquid swirls when I brush the stem of the glass between my fingers.
Drew copies me, his mouth finding the rim of his water as he lets a sip fall between his lips. I'm sure it's not meant to be seductive, but I hang on to the movement like it's the climax of a movie. When he pulls away, his lips glisten from the drink, and my vagina clenches in jealousy.
As if to torture me, he licks them nonchalantly before setting his cup back on the bar.
"Who says nothing would have come from it?" he asks, sitting forward in his seat. His hands fall between his legs, and his knuckles graze my thigh. Thankfully, they land where there's no exposed skin from the rips in the denim, or I would be a dripping mess.
"You're Drew Anderson, remember?"
He rolls his eyes aggressively. "I was Drew Anderson that night too."
"It's different."
"How?"
"Because we were hooking up in a hotel bathroom, not out in the real world."
He reaches up and brushes a stray hair behind my ear, catching me completely off guard. "Felt pretty real to me."
Everything from my chest up radiates with heat. I clear my throat, trying my damnedest to act unaffected by his touch. "Drew, come on."
He leans back and shakes his head, his voice now just above a whisper. "Don't act like I'm crazy. You felt it too, I know you did."
My mind falls into a fit of chaos. He's not crazy, and neither am I.
I knew from the second our eyes found each other that night that there was a weird chemistry between us.
It's still here now—a magnetic pull that goes beyond our obvious physical attraction.
But that doesn't change reality and the circumstances we're dealing with.
I swallow the lump in my throat and remain persistent. "You're literally famous, Drew."
"And?" He shifts slightly forward on his seat, his body moving closer to mine.
"A superstar."
"Okay."
"An icon."
"Uh huh." Every time he speaks, he closes a little more of what's left of the tiny gap between us, and my lungs lose an inch of air.
"My friend's husband's player."
"So?"
When I can barely breathe, let alone speak, I let my final—yet most important point—fly from my lips.
"Drew… you're fucking twenty-five."
His face drops slightly as he looks back and forth between my eyes. "What's that got to do with it?"
A laugh comes out with my shallow breath.
"Everything.”