The Game Plan (Game On, #3)(2)

I haven’t allowed myself in quite some time. Dreaming of Fi is a special type of torture. Sure, she’s beautiful, but more than that, she’s one of the most direct people I’ve ever met.

As someone whose career depends on analyzing false plays and misdirection, being around her is like stepping out of the stifling darkness and into a fresh, sunny day. Every time I’m in her presence I can breathe easier, see clearer. And I crave that more than I’d like to admit.

I’d say she was the girl who got away, but we were never that close. Fi has failed to notice me past the casual friendliness of an acquaintance.

Fiona Mackenzie. In the same house. For a week.

Gray is waiting for me to respond. I give him a nod. “Looking forward to it.”

And suddenly I am. More than I’ve ever anticipated anything in my life.





Chapter One





Fiona



Truth? I like men. Scratch that. I love men. I love their strength, their deeper voices, the simple way they come at a problem. I love their loyalty. I love the way their wrist bones are wide and solid, and that their hips are straight and narrow. Hell, I even love watching their Adam’s apple bob when they swallow.

And, yeah, I’m talking in generalities. Because I’ve met my share of shitty men. But, on the whole, I am a big fan of the male gender.

Which is why I’m slightly bummed to be man-free at the moment. I had a great boyfriend during college. Jake. He was hot and easygoing. Maybe too easy. He basically loved everyone. Sure, I was his girlfriend, but if I wasn’t around? No problem. Plenty of other people to hang with.

He didn’t cheat. He just didn’t really care enough. And after seeing what my sister, Ivy, has with her guy? That kind of all-encompassing, I-have-to-be-with-you devotion? I want more than casual dating. I want to be someone’s necessity, and for them to be mine.

Of course, I’m not going to find that at this tiny little club on a Tuesday night. But I’m not here for the men—most of whom are clearly on the prowl for a quick hookup. I’m here for the music. The band has a funky trip-hop sound that I love, and the atmosphere is mellow.

Since busting my ass to finish college and starting a job now plagued by a sneaky, idea-stealing co-worker, who I want to kill, I need mellow.

I slouch down in the bench seat—nestled at a far corner table, drink my Manhattan, and enjoy the moment.

I’ve decided I also love San Francisco, which is where I am now, using my vacation time to visit my sister and her husband. Unfortunately, Ivy and Gray had no desire to come out with me tonight because they have a new baby who wakes up every two hours. Yeah, not going to say I love the sleeping habits of babies, no matter how cute and awesome said baby is.

I suppress a shudder. My life might be frustrating at the moment, and I might be a tinge lonely, but at least I’m not walking around sleep-deprived. Instead I’m listening to a singer crooning about stars, her voice smooth as poured syrup. The cocktail is smoky-sweet on my tongue and warm in my veins. I’m so relaxed at this point that I almost miss the man sitting to my right.

I really don’t know what prompts me to turn and look his way. Maybe it’s because the set ends and my attention diverts from the stage. Or maybe I feel his gaze, because it’s on me, steady and unblinking.

Not one to shy away, I stare back and take him in.

He’s not my type.

First off, he’s huge, as in built like a brick house, with shoulders so wide I’m fairly certain I could perch on one of them and have room to spare. He’s slouched in his chair, so I don’t know how tall he is, but I’m thinking he’s at least six foot four or more, which would make him over a foot taller than me. I hate feeling tiny; I get that enough already without standing next to a super-tall man.

And he has a beard. Not a wild, bushy one, but thick and full, framing the square edge of his jaw. It’s kind of hot. Even so, I am not into beards. I like smooth skin, dimples—a boyish look.

Nothing is boyish about this dude. He’s a strange mix of lumbersexual and pure, broody male. His hair is pulled into a knot at the back of his head, samurai style, which highlights the sharp crests of his cheeks and the blade of his nose.

He might not be my type, but his eyes are gorgeous. I have no idea what color they are, but they’re deep-set beneath strong, dark brows. And even from here, his thick lashes are visible, almost feminine in their length. God, those eyes are beautiful. And powerful. I feel his stare between my legs like a slow, hot stroke.

He stares at me like he knows me. Like I should know him too. Weirdly, he is familiar. But my mind is muzzy with one too many cocktails to figure out why.

Apparently, he gets this because the corner of his wide, lush mouth twitches as if I amuse him. Or maybe it’s because I’m sitting here staring back at him.

He’s a cheeky one, isn’t he? Just as blatant in his appraisal.

So I decide to glare, raising one brow in the same way my dad does when he’s displeased. Having been on the receiving end of that look, I know it’s effective. On most people. This guy? His amusement grows. Though he really only smiles with his eyes and lifts a brow as if to mock me.

And then it hits me: That quietly amused, slightly contemplative expression, I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen him before. I do know him. He’s Gray’s friend and old college teammate.