Worth the Risk(50)

“Mercy-Life pilot Grayson Malone is a hero.” I turn instantly at the sound of Grady’s voice, my conversation with Grant on instant hold but still owning my mind. Grady has three bottles held against his chest with one arm while holding up the flyer with his other to read. “Whether it’s risking his life to save others trapped in the High Sierras’ snow, or on a daily basis transporting trauma patients to save their lives, he knows how to put others first.”

“Stop,” I say, hating that he’s reading it loudly enough to draw looks from those around us.

That fucking bio.

The one I refused to give her because I swore I was going to bail from the contest. The bio I forgot to finish because every time I started it, I got sidetracked thinking about her.

Fuck.

“Grayson’s biggest role as a hero, though, is to his eight-year-old son, who thinks he hung not only the moon but also all the stars in the sky around it. Sexy and single, Grayson has a charming smile, a quick wit, and biceps any woman would want to be hugged by.” He gives a long, low whistle. “You write that bio yourself, Gray?”

“Will you shut the fuck up?” I growl under my breath as he takes a seat, and my cheeks burn bright from the attention.

“’Cause if you didn’t write that, then that means Sidney did, and hell, it sounds like she just might more than like you.” Grant’s shit-eating grin is in full effect to taunt me. “You need to get a better picture, because, dude, chicks love abs. They love uniforms. They eat that shit up.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?” Grady says and sets my beer in front of me with a chuckle.

“Hey, I’m the nice one,” I argue. “The one who keeps everything fair. There is no ganging up on me.”

The two of them look at each other and burst out laughing. “Like hell there isn’t. You’re fair game, little brother,” Grant says as he tilts the top of his beer toward the window above and shrugs. “Just think about what I said. It’s your call, Gray.”

Is she worth the risk? His words loop through my head on repeat.

“If the answer’s yes, then you know what to do.”





I can spot him from a mile away.

The dark jeans. The perfectly fitted shirt. The appeal that would be impossible to miss.

My nerves jitter and my mind continues to spin as it has since he left the office earlier. Since he left me with unspoken promises and a libido in overdrive thinking and wondering and wanting.

But there was also worrying.

Was he playing my own game back on me? Or rather, the game he thought I had played on him?

His turnabout seemed too easy.

Then came my second-guessing. That I’m crazy. That I’m thinking too much. That I just need to see him to know for sure what the answer is.

So, I head toward him. The click of my heels on the sidewalk is drowned out by the music still floating from the speakers and the white noise of a whole town celebrating together.

And then when I’m close enough that the sound of his laugh carries over the crowd, and the anticipation of what I’ve already acknowledged is going to happen between us sparks to life, the crowd of women around him shifts. His arms are hooked over one woman’s shoulder. Her hair is a strawberry blonde, and everything about her is stunning. Like, you want to stare and be jealous kind of stunning. There is a familiarity between them—in the way he leans in to whisper in her ear and the ease with which he responds to her despite everyone around him vying for attention.

I’ve seen her before, but I can’t quite place where.

And then it hits me.

She was at Hooligan’s the night of his party. I remember he was laughing with her at the bar. Then she was standing near him when I walked up and kissed him.

Is she one of his regulars? One of the women he sleeps with on the side?

The sharp pang of unfounded jealousy hits harder than I expect as I take a few steps back and try to process this all.

I created this scene. The women around him all vying for his attention. The women engaged and wanting more. The women so charmed by him they’ll vote.

The flyers with his image on them that are scattered all over the street are a testament to it.

I just never imagined it would be me standing on the outside wanting the attention from him.

With one last look, I tear my eyes from the sight and head to my car.





“Pain in the ass,” I mutter as I spray the mud off the front of my Range Rover . . . again. The street is nothing but mud due to my neighbor’s landscape project. Broken sprinkler heads and truckloads of dirt don’t make for a pretty road to drive on.

“Hey.”

I yelp at the sound and whirl around to find Grayson standing there, sweaty, out of breath, and looking far more sexy than I want to admit.

“What are you doing here?”

“Running. I was out for a jog.”

“Great.” I try to sound unfazed. Like I haven’t rerun the other night in my head a million times to try to figure out if I read too much into what he said. To try to figure out if I overreacted to the situation on the street.

I don’t get like this about a guy, never have, said I never would, and so it’s driving me absolutely crazy. “Have a good rest of your jog.”