Risky Play (Red Card #1)(48)

“Not a date,” I said quickly. “But Jagger said he wanted to reschedule our dinner.”

“Jagger.” His nostrils flared and then he seemed to calm himself before he exhaled in obvious frustration. “He wants one thing from you, and it’s not friendship.”

“Are you telling me you’re better company?” I countered.

He opened his mouth and closed it, then whispered, “I’ve been trying.”

I sidestepped him as his hands fell to his sides. “I’ll be sure to bring a sticker in on Monday.”

“Wait!” He grabbed my elbow. “Monday? But today’s Saturday!”

I nodded slowly. “And tomorrow’s Sunday . . . what’s your point?”

“Alfie still needs a walk.”

Was it my imagination or was he sulking?

I was not falling for the puppy-dog look in those golden eyes or the soft pout of his mouth when he pressed his lips together in frustration over me not being at his house.

“You’re a kicker.” I shrugged. “Use those muscular legs and take him out for a walk.”

He grinned, still pressing his fingers into my skin. “Striker, and what’s that about my muscular legs? Were you . . . staring?”

“No!” I said quickly. “I mean I just assumed, because of the running, and the—balls.”

He pressed his lips together harder, like he was trying not to laugh.

“Soccer balls,” I corrected.

“Oh, good, because you lost me there for a minute, thought you were talking about my balls.” He winked. “Besides, the team I was coaching won the championship camp game, meaning Jagger had to shave his head, and I didn’t even make the bastard shave all of it, so when you see a high-and-tight-looking fool—that’s him, just in case you’re confused about your . . . date.”

I felt my cheeks heat. I was still thinking about the balls. His balls. I cleared my throat. “Thanks for the heads-up. And congrats on the win.” I pulled away. “So I’ll just see you later! You have my number if you need anything.”

His eyes lit up. “You’re right, thanks for the reminder! Have fun with Jagger.” Before I could stop him, he was pulling me into his arms for what I thought was a kiss, but ended up being a really tight hug. His lips brushed my ear. “I’ll miss you.”

It was my undoing.

Being missed.

Wanted.

I reacted more strongly to that sentence than I would have had he kissed me.

And I could have sworn he knew it as he watched me walk away from him toward another man.

He’d miss me.

And the sick part.

I wasn’t even out of his house.

And I missed him too.





Chapter Thirty-Six MACKENZIE

Jagger lived closer to downtown Seattle than I would have thought. His penthouse apartment was exactly how I would imagine a bachelor pad, all dark colors with lots of reds, and enough expensive electronics and gadgets to make any guy salivate.

He’d texted me the address the minute I was in my car trying to decide if I should cancel and go back in to Slade.

His text sealed my fate.

Well, that and an adorable picture of him and his new haircut and a ton of littles standing around him with huge smiles on their faces.

That was how I found myself on his couch a few hours later with his arm wrapped around me, and a bottle of wine sitting between us. I blamed the children.

He had a gourmet cheese board I’d seen at a high-end grocer last week—he didn’t make it, not like Slade. And it didn’t even matter. I bought cheese all the time like that! Ugh, I was going crazy second-guessing myself and unfairly comparing him to Slade. I stared at the plate.

Why did I care that he didn’t make food?

It wasn’t like he was a lazy guy.

He was just a guy.

Not all guys cook, Mackenzie!

I shook my head.

“Something wrong?” he whispered in my ear. I shivered. I forgot how close we were sitting—his body was so warm I was almost overheated, and the few times I turned to look at him, his eyes had darted to my mouth like he was trying to decide how I would taste—and if I’d let him in the first place. “Hey, Mackenzie, where are you?”

“Right here.” I finally looked at him.

His blue eyes lit up a bit as he cupped my chin with his hand, rubbing his thumb across my lower lip. His head descended. I froze.

And then my phone went off on the coffee table.

I jumped back and grabbed it.

Slade: Where’s my detergent?

Jagger read over my shoulder and let out a snort of disbelief. “Really? He can’t find his own detergent?”

“I do his laundry,” I admitted, then typed out, Did you try the laundry room, genius?

Jagger barked out a laugh.

Slade: It’s not in here.

Me: It’s there.

Slade: Would you bet your life on it?

Me: No, I’d bet yours, though!

Slade: That’s hurtful . . . oh, I found it!

Me: Great! Good night!

I put my phone back on my lap just as Jagger shook his head. “The guy’s clueless, isn’t he?”

“I don’t mind it . . .”

And I didn’t.

I didn’t mind taking care of him, and part of me felt like maybe he was playing dumb about the laundry detergent. I’d seen him do his own ironing plenty of times.