Player(10)

Something in my chest exploded like a whistling spinner. “I’ll be there.”

“Good,” he said. “Let me give you my number.”

“Okay, let me get my ph—”

He took my hand and flipped it over, cradling it in his as he pulled a pen out of his back pocket. He scrawled his number on my palm, his fingers brushing against my skin as he wrote. His face was close to mine as he watched his work, so close I could smell him, a mixture of spice and musk and male so delectable, I had to stop myself from drawing a long, loud breath through my nose.

Sam returned my hand. “Text me if you need anything.” He straightened up and took a step back. “And, Val?”

I forced my eyes from my hand to meet his gaze. “Yeah?”

“Wear red.” His eyes flicked to my oversized crimson sweater. “I like you in red.”

My cheeks took the suggestion and rose to the occasion, the blush so intense, it almost hurt. “Deal,” I managed to say.

He winked—he actually winked at me, and it was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen—before turning to walk across the room.

A date. So much better than coffee, better than dinner or drinks or anything I could have thought of.

Sam. On a stage. In a band. Dancing with me.

It was beyond comprehension.

And my only cohesive thought was that I’d better do my damnedest to find a red dress.



Sam Goddammit, she was cute.

Cute and ridiculous.

And absolutely into me.

My eyes met Ian’s, and every good feeling I had was doused and left hissing in the dark cavern of my chest.

“Did you do it?” he asked when I approached.

“Of course I did. A bet’s a bet, right?”

“Good boy.” A smirk. “What’d you write on her hand?”

“My number. Phone was in my bag. She’s coming tomorrow night.”

One of his brows rose with his smile, which had all the humor of a shark in chum. “Did you tell her to bring a friend?”

“Give it a rest, man.”

He laughed. “We’ll see how Susie Spitshine handles the club and if you can seal the deal. Wonder how long until you get into her pants?”

I punched him in the shoulder a little too hard to be playful. “Shut the fuck up, asshole.”

He took the hit and rubbed his arm jokingly. “Don’t have to be so touchy about it. But if I can’t sleep with her, it’s only fair that I get to hear about it when you do.”

“Well, if I do, you’ll be the last to know.” I clapped him on the shoulder and left him behind me.

Val watched me as I passed, and just before I was to the exit, I turned back to flash her a smile. A blush smudged her cheeks, her smile bright and hopeful.

That hope gutted me.

You’re an asshole, Sam.

I walked out of the theater and out into the city, trying not to think of the curve of her shoulder peeking out of her giant red sweater. Even at its size, it hugged her collarbone and hung off that one tanned shoulder that was smooth and unmarred with even a single freckle. Which was interesting, given the smattering of freckles on her cheeks and bridge of her nose I’d noticed when I wrote my number on her hand. I could smell her hair, the coconut and vanilla mingling in a mouthwatering combination that made me want to bury my face in her curls. Even the way that gargantuan sweater clung to the curves of her breasts, the width of her hips, was enticing.

I pictured the sweet, optimistic surprise on her face when I asked her to come to the club.

Technically, she’d asked me out first, shocking me in the best way. At least, I thought she had asked me out somewhere in her rambling nerves.

God, she was almost too much—she disarmed me completely.

One of the upsides of the bet was that tomorrow night, I’d get to hang out with her. I’d see her at the club.

I imagined her in a red dress, swinging to the music. I imagined pulling her around the dance floor in my arms, imagined her small hand in mine. Imagined that look of hope on her face that made me feel like a king and a crook.

But I wouldn’t hurt her. No matter what, I wouldn’t hurt her. If I did, I’d be no better than Ian.

And she deserved better than that.





5





Promenade





Val

I held my breath, my eyes locked on the tip of my lip liner as I drew a tenuous line along the curve of my bottom lip.

On inspection, it wasn’t so bad. I went over it again with a little more confidence.

The lipstick had never been used, the angled surface smooth and perfect. I’d bought it months ago, at the same time my roommates bought theirs. It had been my idea. Correction—it had been the idea of our favorite waitress at our favorite bar, but I had been the whip-bearer who brought the plan to action. I’d had to drag the girls into Sephora and practically handcuff them to the makeup artist’s chair, but I’d done it.

Rin had been the only one to embrace it, and that had inspired us to start the Red Lipstick Coalition.

The idea was to wear that lipstick, unabashed and unafraid, in an effort to be bold and brave as their names implied. Rin’s lipstick was called Boss Bitch, and she’d lived up to the title.

Who would have thought one of the shiest women I’d ever known would have the stones to take her internship by storm and slay the heart of her beastly boss? Not me, that was for sure. And I couldn’t have been happier to be wrong.