Wrecking Ball (Hard to Love 1)

Fifteen minutes later, I see him eating up ground as he walks over to the Range Rover I’m standing next to. He’s wearing a Titans hoody and sweatpants and…oh dear, it doesn’t look like he’s wearing underwear again. And now my eyes want to go ahead and double-check to be sure.

In the front seat, I force myself to stare at the road. Eyes ahead, eyes ahead, damn it! Have you ever tried that? Yeah, it never works. With my eyes roaming everywhere other than to the man on my left, I briefly catch sight of the gate doors closing in the side mirror of the Rover.

“Rotten eggs.”

“What?” I say, startled at the intrusion of his voice.

“Someone threw rotten eggs at the gate.” I remain quiet for fear that my voice will crack and give me away as the vandal. “Probably a disgruntled fan,” he adds casually.

“That sucks.” My voice is weirdly high and loud. Holy hell, did I just say ‘sucks’? I don’t dare face him in spite of the fact that I can feel him watching me. My pits start to sweat in an unladylike manner. I need to get some air circulating under there, can’t show up for work stinking like a goat.

“Is it hot in here?”

“No. What time does your shift end?”

I hazard a look and find him staring ahead. For the first time, I notice his profile is finely drawn, his nose straight and slender. Who knows what the rest looks like since it’s buried under all that facial hair––other than a vague memory I have from pictures.

“One.”

Even if it is for his benefit, as he so rudely informed me, I have to give him credit for going through the trouble of driving me. It’s a serious inconvenience for him. And honestly, the thought of freezing my butt off waiting for the bus when there’s still snow on the ground is far from appealing.

“I’ll pick you up.”

“No, no, absolutely not.” He still doesn’t look at me. And he doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the ride. The silence in the car is tense. Neither one of us does or says anything to change that until he pulls up to the employee entrance of the club.

“Thanks,” I say, feeling awkward. I mean, here’s a guy I can barely stand to be around, the feeling clearly mutual, and suddenly he’s chauffeuring me to work? Still looking straight ahead, he nods. These small nods seem to be his preferred choice of communication. Any who. I’m out the door and in the club a minute later, an unsettled feeling pecking at me.

“He did what?” Amber’s eyes are huge, swallowing up her delicate features.

“He drove me here.” I grab another glass from behind the bar and wipe it down. “Not like it was for my benefit. He’s protecting his investment.”

“He said that?” Ambers voice is filled with disgust. She moves around quickly and efficiently, setting up the bar for service.

“Yup.”

“What a douche. So, did Ange get her panties in a bunch over a gently bred young lady such as yourself living with a confirmed bachelor?” The overly dramatic British accent she uses makes me chuckle.

“She sure did. However, Tom was visibly relieved to get his money back, hence I’ll take whatever Angelina is ready to dish out.” My curiosity is suddenly piqued. “Is he?”

“Is he what?”

“A confirmed bachelor.”

“According to TMZ he is.” At my eye roll, she adds, “What? I had time to kill between auditions. Apparently the divorce was nasty.”

She has my undivided attention. “And?”

“What happened to the eye roll and the self-righteous look ya just gave me?”

“Amber,” I growl.

“No kids, the divorce was contentious, dragged on for two years. Which is no surprise since there was a hundred million at stake. They settled out of a court for an undisclosed amount.”

“How long was he married?”

“Eight years.” I know he’s thirty-three because I remember watching SportsCenter when the analysts were arguing the merits of the Titans offering him another five year contract. Shaw married young––like me.

The rest of the night goes smoothly. I’m so busy I don’t spare Shaw another thought. With a number of professional athletes and music industry moguls in the house, the tips steadily pour in. By midnight, most of my tables have closed out their tabs and the crowd is thinning.

I’m behind the bar, closing out a number of my checks, when a tall rangy guy approaches the bar in a loose-limbed walk. He’s movie star quality handsome––and young. Twenty-three at the most. His thick, brown hair is cut short and disheveled in a way that looks carefully thought out. He smiles at me, and the white grin that stretches across his face produces two dimples. Yeah, I’m not affected at all.

“Hey gorgeous,” he says with a southern accent I can’t place. And now I’m affected, instantly annoyed. The cringe skates up my backbone. There’s nothing I hate more than pet names from strangers. God help him if he calls me sweetie, sweetheart, or anything else in the confectionery family.