Worth the Risk(19)

“Fine, I’ll agree, but I have a feeling their wives might take offense to your strengthening your Kegels while thinking about them.”

She purses her lips before they spread into a wide grin. “Emerson and Dylan are cool. I’m sure they’d be okay with it for the greater good of man.”

“Who? What are you talking about?” I ask, more than aware that chatty Cathy Clementine has not changed a bit—talking in nonstop circles that are sometimes hard to decipher.

“Their wives. Grant, who’s a cop now, is married to Emerson Reeves. And Grady is married to Dylan McCoy, who you’ve probably heard on the radio,” she says, and I nod because I do, in fact, know who Dylan McCoy is.

“And then there’s Grayson,” I murmur, thinking about the colander on his head and the way his body just felt against mine.

“Single as a Pringle.” She laughs at her own joke. “And a man who knows how to reel the women in but kick them out of bed before the sheets get too warm if you know what I mean.”

“Really?”

“’Player’ isn’t exactly fair. How about . . . discreet? He has a line of women a mile long who are all willing to be his plaything, but he keeps any relationship—if you can call it that—on the down low because of his son . . . or so they say.”

“Who are they?”

“The women in line waiting before and after me for a chance at him, who may or may not have friends with firsthand knowledge if you catch my drift.” She winks and then startles when her phone texts an alert.

She pulls it from her purse and looks down at it before meeting my eyes again. “I’m so sorry, but that’s my friend I’m meeting, and she’s wondering where I am. I’ve gotta run and catch her . . . but we should go for drinks sometime and catch up. I could fill you in on all the town gossip—heavy on the Malone part if you’re thinking of stepping in line with the rest of us.”

That’s ten years’ worth of gossip that no doubt Cathy has memorized and is ready to repeat.

“Catching up would be great. I’d like that.” My smile is genuine despite her offer being a blatant reminder of why I steered clear of her in high school—her knack for gossip. The fact that everyone knew everyone else’s business was one of the main things I couldn’t stand growing up here. So why is it now that I’m kind of looking forward to meeting up with her again?

Maybe it’s because she doesn’t seem to judge me by my past like so many others in town have.

Either way, I have to take friends where I can get them these days.





I stare at the lights that are on in the old Kraft house on Olympic Street and debate whether to go knock on the door or not.

She deserves an apology.

I was in a shitty mood after leaving the station and seeing everything I’m being shut out of. Then she pushed my buttons when all I wanted to do was sit at the bar and enjoy my goddamn beer before going home to a quiet house. I don’t want to be part of her contest, let alone be the goddamn poster boy for it. I don’t want her friendship. I don’t want an apology for the inconsideration she showed me in high school.

But I stood there in that bar with her body so goddamn close to mine, and all I wanted to do was kiss her. How is that possible? How can I despise her . . . not want anything to do with her, yet, have to force myself to walk away just so I wouldn’t kiss her?

Then there was fucking Mick. Regardless of how harmless the drunk bastard typically is, he only served to complicate the matter. Forced me to be near her when I purposely made myself walk away. Of course, it wasn’t all her fault. Any sane man knows that, but the way she acted—the way she lifted her chin in defiance—or superiority—just like she used to do, and fuck, if my buttons weren’t pressed.

Hell if I didn’t cling to that reaction to push her the fuck away when the adrenaline coursing through my body was begging for it to be my hands on her instead of Mick’s.

Christ.

It’s a bad sign when you want to fuck the person you have determined you hate. When you’re sitting outside her house second-guessing your reaction.

But here I am.

It only took a few calls to find out where she was staying. The Kraft house is a good choice; although, it’s probably far from the high life I’m sure she’s used to outside of town.

My intentions were to march up there, knock on the door, and apologize for being a dick. For accusing her of setting the whole situation up. And to let her know that I will not be her trophy to put on display to save her magazine. If it’s Sidney Thorton, then there has to be something in this for her. The girl I used to know did nothing unless she got something in return.

But I haven’t done shit. Instead, I’m sitting here realizing the excuse I made to myself—to make sure she’d made it home okay—has been surpassed by my need to apologize for all of the above.

Fucking manners.

I’d make Luke apologize. That would be the right thing to do.

So why am I hesitating?

Her silhouette moves across the window and holds my attention. Her hair is down and falling over her shoulders. I stare at the shadow and hate that I’m picturing her from earlier. Those shocked brown eyes. Those parted lips. The heat in her cheeks. The undeniable shape of her body.

I hate myself for staring at her. I despise that I’m wondering what those lips feel like and how those nails of hers would feel raking down my back.