I nearly choke on my drink. “On hiatus? What the hell does that even mean?”
He shoots me his best choirboy look, which is patently ridiculous coming from someone as rough looking as Clay. Not as ridiculous as the flavored martinis he drinks by the half dozen, but still pretty damn absurd. “A hiatus is a pause or a lull in a—”
“I know what a damn hiatus is, Clay!”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Because I never thought the day would come when the biggest man-whore on the team took a break from women. What brought this on?”
“I’m doing a cleanse.”
“Of your dick?”
He rolls his eyes. “Of my soul. You should try it sometime.”
I take another swig of my drink. “My soul’s just fine, thanks.”
“You sure?” He raises a hand to get the bartender’s attention. “Maybe if you did a cleanse every now and then you wouldn’t feel the need to try and kill yourself jumping off cliffs every chance you get.”
“Cliff diving is a legitimate sport, I’ll have you know.”
He snorts. “Yeah, so is flipping snowmobiles and surfing volcanoes, but you don’t see sane people doing that shit, do you? Especially not when they have an NFL contract that forbids them from engaging in physically dangerous activities off the field.”
Before I can figure out a comeback, the bartender stops by and asks, “Another round, gentlemen?”
“Absolutely,” Clay answers. “Can I go with the white chocolate martini this time, just to shake things up?”
I’m pretty sure the only thing keeping the bartender from laughing at the complete absurdity of that whole statement is the twenty-dollar tip he gets every round.
“How about you, sir?” he asks, nodding to my almost empty glass. “Can I get you another Lagavulin?”
“Actually, I’ve got something else in mind. Can you send a round of top-shelf old-fashioneds to the bachelorette party over there?”
His eyebrows go up, the first sign of surprise he’s shown since Clay ordered his first chocolate martini two hours ago. “Old-fashioneds? Not something more…festive, like sex on the beach?”
I look back at the doe-eyed brunette, at her sheer, high-collared black blouse and the cameo nestled at her throat. “No, definitely old-fashioneds.”
“There’s the move,” Clay crows, slapping me on the back as he settles down with his white chocolate monstrosity. “I knew you had it in you.”
“Says the man taking a hiatus from women.” I tip my glass back, take the last swallow of whiskey.
“Hey, Lucinda was crazy. Hot and smart, but totally and completely batshit crazy. After that wild ride, a man’s entitled to a little peace and solitude.”
I can’t fault him there, having borne witness to more than a few of the tantrums thrown by the lovely but exceptionally high maintenance Lucinda. Tantrums I’m pretty sure the woman across the way—with her very practical pixie cut and even more practical lack of penis attire—wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to throw. I’m not going to lie, after eight years in the NFL, a low-maintenance woman is an appealing thought.
And she is an appealing woman. Very, very appealing.
The bartender brings me a fresh whiskey right before the waitress picks up the tray of old-fashioneds and heads toward the bachelorette party. The bride-to-be squeals when the drinks arrive, and then the entire table is staring at Clay and me, all wide eyes and interested faces as they nudge my girl.
Which is, of course, the number one reason not to make a move on a woman when she’s out with her friends. Even when they’re feeling supportive of the match, it’s like running a gauntlet to get to her. It’s an awful lot of effort for a one-night stand.
Still, something about this woman tells me she’s worth it.
I grin at her as I raise my glass in a silent toast to the bride. Then take a sip before turning back to the bar and waiting for her to come to me, like a moth to a flame.
I can’t wait to burn right along with her.
But long seconds tick by and she still doesn’t come over. Which…I don’t get it. I’ve shown my interest. I’ve even made the first move, which I normally don’t have to do. I’ve included her friends in that first move…this should be an easy run to the end zone.