Ladies Man (Manwhore #4)(52)

He notices, and to taunt me, he licks his lips with his tongue, his eyes shimmering in challenge.

“We’ll see,” he says mischievously as he walks away with the bag of chocolates, waving a peace sign.

He smirks adorably from the door, and I shoot him a dark glare, wondering if the chocolate is really what he’s stealing from me.





LITTLE MAN


Early August, it’s official. Rachel and Saint are having a baby boy. She’s nearing her thirty-fifth week of pregnancy, and although they’ve wanted to know the sex for a while, the baby’s position made it hard for the doctors to tell for sure. Well. The baby cannot hide his jewels any longer.

On my way to the Saints’ place, all I can think about is whether or not I’ll tell Rachel how confused I am about Tahoe and me. I want to tell her, but the urge to push him to the back of my mind—survival mode—is acute.

I walk into their place and follow voices to the second story of the penthouse and down the hall to the baby’s room. I pause at the threshold and take in the lovely décor. There’s a huge white crib and a dreamy white rocking chair, and artisan paintings on the walls of palm trees and jungle animals.

I stay still for a moment, silent for I don’t know how long, because inside the room I see Rachel, Saint, and…him. I arrive the same instant that Tahoe hands Saint his first lacrosse stick.

It’s short and wooden, and it looks old and worn.

“For when the little guy turns fifteen,” Tahoe slyly tells Saint as he maneuvers the stick in a swift lacrosse move. “He’s going to have to fight to keep the ball from me,” he adds with a menacing twinkle in his eye, his grin at full wattage.

The sight of Tahoe giving the lacrosse stick to Saint clutches at my heart so hard I almost have to put my hand on my chest to make sure it’s still beating.

“Gina!” Rachel calls.

All heads turn to the door.

Tahoe’s blue eyes flare when he sees me and I can practically see him straighten. His shoulders span wider. His muscles tighten. His fingers curl into his palms at his sides. His lips curve up in a smile. He looks almost like a tiger, one just woken up from slumber, licking his lips because he’s just been presented with a woman.

A woman he once called “succulent.”

I force myself to breathe and I smile and instantly go hug Rachel. “If I’d known the baby would have a stick already, I’d have brought the ball,” I joke to her, but instead I give her a tiny silver spoon, which was also my first.

“For luck,” I say, postponing the moment when I have to turn around toward the silent men.

But I finally work myself up to it. I cross the room to congratulate Saint, and when Tahoe looks at me, it seems instinctive for both of us, it seems natural, that we somehow hug each other hello too. I flush when his arms envelop me and he says “hello” in my ear.

“Hey,” I say.

I feel his lips graze the back of my ear after he speaks—accident or not?—and he steps back, watching me with those perceptive eyes of his as we ease apart. He looks like a dark prince of playboys today, dressed in gray sweatpants and a soft navy T-shirt, a duffel bag with lacrosse gear at his feet.

He’s going to a game, I realize, with a kick of excitement in my stomach. And true enough, ten minutes after we’ve all chatted animatedly about the baby, he excuses himself to leave.

“I think I should go to your game,” I cautiously say, then quickly amend when Saint and Rachel raise their eyebrows, “just so you win.”

When there’s only silence, I head to the door, raising an eyebrow to see if Tahoe challenges me.

He doesn’t. He smirks, his eyes roiling with mischief. “By all means, if I had my way, I’d have my lucky charm with me always.”

We say goodbye to the Saints, who exchange a glance that’s a mix of concern, puzzlement, and amusement.

As we take the elevator downstairs, I glance at his profile. “It was very sweet of you to give little baby Saint your first lacrosse stick.”

“Yeah, well. Saint’s my best friend. I’m loving that little kid as if he were my own.”

“You don’t plan to have any?” I raise my gaze to his.

But he’s watching the elevator numbers drop, and drop, and drop, and doesn’t say anything more until we head to his Ghost, climb aboard, and drive over to the lacrosse field.

“I’m pumped up you came.” His voice is deep and fiercely honest as he slides a mischievous look my way as his car screeches to a halt in his reserved parking spot.

“Me too.”

I sense him starting to get into vicious zero-zero mode as we climb out and enter the field building. “Hey.” His voice stops me a few seconds after we start down the halls, him with his duffel slung over his shoulder, heading toward the locker room, me starting in the opposite direction to the stands.

I turn to face him in the middle of the hall. He taps his dimple. I inhale for control. Then I head back and kiss his dimple. “Don’t kill anybody tonight.”

“Just team Black,” he says, grinning as he disappears down the hall.



*



He demolishes the other team.

All I keep hearing as he works his stick, checks team Black, clicks and pops the ball, and works the game is: