Risky Play (Red Card #1)(51)

“So.” I held the door open wider. “How did it go with Jagger?”

She stepped into the house.

I shut the door.

Locked it.

Briefly wrestled with the idea of putting a chair and armoire in front of it. Then I followed her into the living room.

The bottle of wine was out.

Over half of it was gone.

My glass was empty.

She picked up the bottle and drank straight from it.

I whistled as my eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Must have gone well, then?”

“He called you a cockblocker.”

I couldn’t stop grinning.

“That funny to you?”

“It’s funny that he said it out loud when he was trying to play the friend card . . . not that I think he’s incapable of being a friend, but when it comes to you? No man would be able to do that . . .”

It was out before I could stop myself.

And just like Jagger the shithead—I’d outed myself.

I rubbed the back of my head and stared at the floor. “All guys are . . . idiots.”

She was silent.

Though I did hear the sound of the wine bottle tipping back again.

“Did you really lose the detergent?” she asked in a soft voice.

“No,” I admitted.

“And the French toast?”

“Where else would it be? The dishwasher?”

“And killing him?”

“Oh, that’s still on the calendar, thanks for asking.” I beamed.

She set the wine bottle down on the coffee table and slowly made her way over to me.

I sucked in a breath, waiting for her to announce that she was going home since she already checked in on my sanity.

Instead, she set her purse down on the chair next to my legs and then pulled her coat off, draping it beside her purse.

I could hear my own heartbeat as my eyes zeroed in on her pink lips. “Does this mean you’re staying?”

“Do you want me to?”

I reached for her.

Only to have her dodge me and lift her shoulder into the air. “Movie?”

“Movie.” I tested the word with my mouth and decided that I didn’t like it, not at all. “Sure.”

A movie?

Really?

“What do you want to watch?” I grabbed the remote and tried not to inhale as she breezed past me—God, she always smelled so good.

She grabbed a blanket from the couch and wrapped it around herself, then yawned.

I made her yawn.

YAWN.

“Something with some action,” she decided out loud.

“What kind of action?” I hinted a bit.

And it went directly over her head. “You know, like Bruce Willis.”

Damn it.

“Yeah, I can find something . . .” I skimmed the channels. A Die Hard marathon was on cable. I clicked on it and sat.

My body rock hard.

My resolve rock solid.

My brain mush as she moved her head to my chest and wrapped an arm around my middle, like I was the best fucking friend she’d ever had.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to think of anything but the way that arm felt brushed up against my skin.

Sweet hell.

And when she tried to get closer, I wrapped my arms around her and just held her there.

“Was I too easy?” she asked about ten minutes into the movie.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I growled. “If he called you easy I’m going to—”

“Not him.” She shook her head. “Alton.”

“Alton wouldn’t know his ass from his penis if someone drew him a diagram. No, you’re not easy. He’s just a pompous prick with too high of an opinion of himself.”

“You’re not just saying that?”

“He left you. At the altar, Mack. You went on vacation. You wanted an adventure . . .” I squeezed her tighter. “Never apologize for wanting to live.”

I meant it.

“Thanks.”

“Mack, any girl that saves herself for the man she’s going to marry and then gives it away the way you did is so blindly trusting of other humans. It says so much about you, about your character. And the guy who took it without looking back? Well, let’s just say that guy is just as much of an asshole as the one who let you get away.”

“Oh yeah?” she whispered. “Why’s that?”

“Because for a few brief moments of his life he had it all—and threw it away because he couldn’t see past his own mistakes.”

We were quiet the rest of the movie.

She fell asleep in my arms.

So I picked her up, refusing to let her go even if she did wake up for a second, and placed her in my bed.

Where she should have been since the day I walked away without a second glance.

Next to me.

In my arms.

In my life.

Where she was always supposed to be.

When my eyes flickered to the portrait on the nightstand, I smiled. A real smile. Because with the way the picture was facing her—it almost looked like my dad was laughing in approval.

And the best part?

It kinda felt like he was.





Chapter Thirty-Eight MACKENZIE

I woke up with the picture of Slade’s dad staring me down. Sunlight crept through the windows of his massive bedroom. And I had a hundred and ninety pounds of muscle wrapped around me.