Good Boy (WAGs #1)(48)

She snickers. “Hey, pot? I’m kettle. Half your vocabulary is made up, Blakey. Now shhh! I’m trying to listen!”

But she’s the one who started talking in the first place! I swallow a growl and force myself to tune in to Hozier’s set. He’s got this whole acoustic setup going on, nice and intimate, and I might actually be enjoying it if Jess wasn’t eye-fucking the guy.

How much does this dude weigh, anyway? A buck seventy? Eighty? Everyone knows you’re not a real man unless you weigh over two hundo.

I watch Jess as she watches the show. She took my suggestion and wore something sexy tonight—a tight black dress that hugs her perfect tits and stops about mid-thigh. When she stood on her tiptoes earlier to hug Eriksson, the silky fabric rode so high I could see the swell of her ass cheeks. And she did something seriously fuckable to her hair. It’s big and trashy-in-a-good-way. I want to shove my fingers through it, angle her head back and kiss her until she’s breathless. And then buy her some dinner.

Yup. Dinner.

I don’t just want to fuck this girl. I want to feed her. I want to take her out to some fancy French place, maybe order chocolate-covered strawberries and sensually rub them on her lips, all Don Juan-style.

Seriously, something’s wrong with me. It’s been wrong ever since I dropped her at home after the baby shower and almost blurted out, “Can I take you to a French place and feed you strawberries?” Thank fuck I reined in the crazy.

“ENCORE!” the crowd shouts.

I think Eriksson might be leading the chant. I turn toward him—yeah, he is. Never knew the Swedes had such a hard-on for the Irish. Were they allies during the war?

“What war?” Jess asks in confusion.

I said that aloud?

“Sweden and Ireland,” I answer. “Were they allies in Double-you Double-you One and/or Two?”

She stares at me. “You realize the W’s are just for writing purposes, right? To make it short-form? Saying them out loud makes the word longer.”

“You make the word longer,” I mutter.

Jess frowns. “What’s up with you tonight? You’ve been cranky since the moment we got here.”

Guilty as charged. I’m Mr. Cranky-Pants. I just spent two weeks going out of my way to avoid this woman, and it did nothing to fix the problem. Isn’t time supposed to be the answer to everything? Give it enough time, and whatever stupid feelings you’re having will eventually fade. Anger? A good night’s sleep always cures it. Sadness? A night at a bar with friends always does the trick. I-think-I-might-really-like-Jessica-Canning? It’ll pass.

Except it hasn’t passed. Seeing her tonight only opened up the floodgates again.

“I didn’t have enough to eat,” I lie.

“Um. You ate steak, lobster and about a million hors d’oeuvres, not to mention half my dinner.”

“Then maybe I’m thirsty,” I say flippantly. “I’m hitting the bar—want anything?”

“No, I'm good.” Her gaze shifts back to the stage, where Hozier is getting ready to play his encore.

I leave Jess in the crowd and make my way to the bar, where I find Will O’Connor chatting up three skinny blondes with huge bazingas. One of them has her hand on his hip while another runs her palm up and down his arm. The newbie is loving the attention.

“Riley!” He greets me with a big grin. “Enjoying the party?”

I grunt, then ask the bartender for a whiskey neat.

“What’s-a-matter?” O’Connor mocks. “Wesmie’s sis won’t put out?”

“We’re just friends,” I answer. “And don’t say that shit around Wesley or he’ll kick your ass.”

O’Connor rolls his eyes and turns back to his companions.

I take my drink and wander off, but not back toward the stage area. Instead, I find a solitary corner and lean against the wall, sipping my drink. The ballroom is decorated in the same elegant style as every other charity fundraiser I’ve attended, only this one is for a dog rescue, so the pink wall hangings are covered with glittery silver paw prints, and the dessert I scarfed down and the name plates on the tables were also paw-shaped.

I study the crowd. Jess is standing with Wes and J-Bomb, laughing at something her brother whispered to her. Then they cheer their lungs out as Hozier starts singing. Jess moves seductively to the music, her hips swaying and blonde head bopping.

Man, she’s pretty. And smart. And funny. And about a million other things I can’t put into words.

My mom called the other day and asked how the relationship was going. She even said to tell Jess hello for her, which, when it comes to Mom, is the equivalent of her giving the relationship her blessing.

Usually, the “R” word makes me break out in hives. I’ve been a bachelor for five years and have no intention of changing up the status. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t think all women are lying, untrustworthy assholes. But why take the chance, you know? Better to keep shit casual. Keep it about the fucking and forget about the trusting.

“There you are!” A breathless, flushed Jess flies up to me, her high heels clacking against the marble floor. “You missed the encore.”

“I’ll watch it on YouTube later.”

“You’re such a downer tonight.” She tugs the drink out of my hand, takes a sip, and then places the glass back in my hand. “Come on, party pooper, it’s time for the speech.”