Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)(48)

I meet more people from around town. Most seem curious, in a friendly way, about the woman who’s apparently locked down Lakeside’s legendary Coach Walker.

Most come right up and introduce themselves.

There’s Lara Simmons, who dated Dean their senior year and still has their prom picture framed in her living room.

There’s Debbie Christianson who went out with Dean junior year, before catching him having sex with her best friend, in her bed. She can laugh about it now.

There’s Peggy Gallow who went out with Dean freshmen year of college and, according to her—she’s still not over him.

There’s Jenny Dunkin—mother of three—who swore Dean broke her heart into a million pieces.

And there’s old Mrs. Jenkins.

She didn’t date Dean. But she rubs my belly and wishes us well, before shaking her head with a sweet smile. “Alicia must be so happy. I never thought I’d see the day when her wild grandson finally settled down.”

And I’m sensing a theme here.

I take Dean’s hand, and pull him into a corner, away from the shifting, bustling crowd. “Question.”

He runs his finger along the brim of my gray knit newsboy cap, looking down on me with a tempting, teasing expression.

“Answer.”

“Have you had sex with all these women?”

He hesitates, squinting. “All is such a strong word.”

I laugh. And I’m not jealous, but more . . . curious. And maybe a little intimidated. But I want to know him—the way the people in this town seem to know him. The details and the stories, all the pieces that, added together, have turned him into the man he is today.

“What’s a more accurate word?”

Dean looks up, scanning the room—and I think he may be counting. “Half? Two-thirds tops.”

“Two-thirds?!” I choke.

He dips his head, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him anywhere close to sheepish. “I got around a lot when I was younger.”

“I would say so. At least your ex-girlfriends still seem to like you. That’s a good sign.”

And Dean sobers right up. “Not all of them.” His voice gentles, going delicate. “You might hear things.”

“What kinds of things?”

“That I was a player. A dog. A heartbreaker. That I lied, cheated on every girlfriend I had.”

My stomach dips with a sinking sort of ache—that sense that pokes and prods when you worry something bad is about to happen.

“And if I hear those things, would they be true?”

Dean kicks at the ground with the tip of his toe. “Anything you hear about me is probably right on the money.”

“Oh.” I breathe out a slow breath. “I see.”

“But, Lainey,” Dean cups my cheek with one hand, resting the other on my rounded stomach, like he’s taking an oath. “I’m not like that anymore, okay? I don’t do that anymore. Not to anyone—but especially not to you.”

A little voice hisses in my head that that’s exactly what a player who’s still a player would say. But I ignore it.

Because maybe it’s the hormones or my own stupid, hopeful heart . . . but I believe him. The sinking, worried feeling is swept far away with the brush of his lips against my forehead and the feel of his arms pulling me in close. His wool coat is warm and smells like him—a manly, delicious, sandalwood scent that I remember in my dreams.

I tilt my head back, and lift up on my toes—and press my mouth against his. And god, the feel of his mouth—of him—it’s electric and wondrous, every bit as amazing as I remember. My breasts grow heavy and aching for the touch of his hands, and the muscles low in my stomach pull and tighten.

For a moment, Dean doesn’t react, like I’ve surprised him by making the first move. But then he recovers—and I’m treated to the head-spinning sensation of his wet tongue tracing my lips, before plunging inside my mouth, stroking hungrily. He tugs my hat off, cradling my head, fingers tightening, pulling me closer, and a deep groan passes from his throat to mine. Dean spins us around and presses me into the wall, opening his mouth wider to suck at my lips and scrape them with his teeth. And I feel lightheaded and languid and desperate for more.

Dean’s voice pants against my ear.

“Christ, you’re making me crazy. The things I want to do to you . . . you have no idea.”

I meet his eyes, and touch his jaw—my palm tingling with the feel of that sexy, scraping stubble. “I don’t know about that. I have some pretty interesting ideas of my own.”

Hello, sending signals . . . meet mixed.

But I want him. Good or bad, smart or stupid—it just is. I’ve wanted him against me, inside me, over me and all around me since the second I laid my eyes on him, and nothing has changed that. I’m starting to suspect nothing ever will.

“Hey now—this is a family event—keep your tongues to yourselves,” a deep, joking voice says from behind Dean’s back.

He turns, revealing a tall, handsome, dark-haired man in a police uniform with a petite, smiling woman beside him with black curly hair and the most beautiful skin I’ve ever seen. At her side is a wide-eyed girl, about nine years old with braces, who’s the spitting image of her mother.

Dean holds out his hand begrudgingly. “Ryan. Good to see you.”