The Bully (Calamity Montana #4)(46)

“Changed my mind,” she said as her footsteps sounded on the stairs.

“This woman,” I muttered, then paced the room as I waited for her to change. It took less time than I’d expected for her to return, except she hadn’t really fixed the problem.

She’d traded the dress for a pair of black pants with a slim fit that stopped at her ankles. The damn heels were the same. Her top was a sleeveless black turtleneck, and yeah, there was no cleavage, but it begged to be torn from her torso.

“You’re fucking killing me.” I pinched the bridge of my nose and willed the swelling behind my zipper to stop.

“It’s this outfit or you can forget my company.” She planted her hands on her hips. “You have three seconds.”

“Let’s go.” I strode out the door, not bothering to wait for her to lock up.

Didn’t she have a garbage sack or a tent she could put on? Some shapeless, boring number that disguised her curves? But hell, this was Nellie. I knew exactly what she looked like beneath her clothes, so she could be wearing a burlap sack and I’d find it sexy.

I had the car running and the air-conditioning cranked by the time she slid into the passenger seat. Her perfume filled the cab instantly. With her hair up, I didn’t dare roll down the windows—one of my mother’s lessons about preserving an updo at all costs. So I was forced to breathe Nellie in as I steered us out of town.

Christ, she smelled good.

“You look nice.” Understatement of the century.

She barked a dry laugh. “That sounded painful. Is it really so hard for you to give me a compliment?”

“No,” I mumbled.

She had no idea how beautiful she was. How much I wanted her. Craved her. She had no clue that she’d ruined me for other women.

Before Nellie, there’d been women. Casual flings. Random hookups. My third year in the league, I’d attempted the girlfriend thing, but it had fizzled in weeks thanks to my demanding travel and practice schedule.

Then there’d been that night in Charlotte and Nellie had fucked up my life. Every other woman paled in comparison.

No one was as beautiful. No one had that fire. No one made my pulse race, whether we were fighting or fucking.

Maybe I’d been comparing other women to Nellie since high school and hadn’t even realized it.

There was an entry in her diary about how I hadn’t looked at her in the hallways. Yeah, I’d never looked at Nellie back then. I’d done my best to pretend she hadn’t existed.

It had been easier that way. The last thing I’d wanted was for one of the guys to catch me checking her out as she stood at her locker, loading up her arms with books. If any of the other girls had caught me watching Nellie, they would have made her life miserable, just because I’d failed to keep my eyes away.

I never should have looked at her. I never should have broken my focus.

But then . . . Charlotte. Fucking Charlotte.

Having her as my non-date tonight was a horrible idea. No question.

I’d asked Harry if she’d go with me, but they’d had some stupid family night planned. Pierce would have been the better choice, and even with the new baby, he would have tagged along. That would have been the smarter choice because there was no way I’d want to reach across the cab and squeeze his thigh.

My fingers tightened on the wheel as I drove. I stayed quiet. Nellie stayed quiet. What was there to say? We didn’t share personal details, preferring to torment each other instead. Except at the moment, the silence felt . . . lonely.

God, I was sick of being lonely. “I miss football.”

“Then take the sportscasting job.”

I shook my head. “It’s not for me.”

“You could play.”

“Nah. It was time to get out.”

She hummed, and as the soothing sound faded, the silence returned.

I shifted, leaning an elbow on the console as I drove with one hand. “Tell me what you hate about me.”

“You drive like an old man.”

I chuckled. “No hesitation?”

“Not tonight.” She smirked, then nodded to the speedometer. “You’re going five miles under the speed limit.”

“I don’t like to drive fast.”

She studied my profile, leaning her elbow on the console too. We were close. Too close. All I had to do was lean in and kiss that red off her lips. So I shifted in the opposite direction.

“Why don’t you like to drive fast?” she asked. “It seems . . . I don’t know. Shy?”

“I’m not shy.”

“Exactly.”

I sighed, not wanting to share this story, but talking was better than the silence. “When I was sixteen, my grandfather died in a car accident.”

“Oh.” She gasped. “I’m so sorry.”

“He was my dad’s father. We were close.” Grandpa Stark had loved football, and whenever we’d play catch or goof around, it had always been a game. When I’d played with Dad, it had always been practice.

“It was a three-car collision,” I told her. “Grandpa’s fault. The insurance companies did an extensive investigation. They found that he was speeding, going at least twenty miles per hour over the limit. He must not have been paying attention. Maybe he swerved to avoid an animal or something. But he overcorrected and flew into the oncoming lane.”