Briggs (Carolina Reapers 7)

I mean, God, the man had magic in every inch of his body. How could I deny spending more time exploring him?

My heart raced just knowing he was on a flight this way, my body aching for his. I never knew I could want someone so badly—especially when half the time we spent outside of the bedroom we fought. We’d even had a little spat over a tie color at the Silhouette shoot last week, which he’d properly nailed, but still.

A smirk shaped my lips—who knew there’d be something we were better at than fighting.

“You should still go,” Grace said, finishing up her lunch. “Consider it foreplay.”

I laughed but nodded. “Sounds like you need to go to the game more than I do,” I teased, arching a brow at her. “Is there someone you’re eying on the ice? Because, you know, I could make an introduction.”

She playfully flipped me off before leaning back in her chair. “Hard pass,” she said, shaking her head. “The last thing I need is for some rich ass athlete to make me feel even more inferior about my illustrious career as a waitress.” She raised her hands to encompass the bar in which we sat—the same place she worked nights. She spent her days drawing, designing, sometimes creating freelance pieces for her small network of customers. I knew she’d achieve her dreams someday because she worked her ass off to save up to start her business.

But I hated that she drew lines between herself and others because of money.

I knew better than to have that argument again—or offer her funds as an investor—and instead said, “Not just athletes there.” I shrugged. “Owners too.”

“Even worse,” she said, laughing. “Wasn’t Asher Silas a billionaire before he bought the Reapers?”

I chuckled. “Yes.”

“What’s funny?”

“You always say his first and last name,” I said, shrugging.

She tossed a rolled-up napkin at me, and I giggled. “Not everyone has a first-name basis with billionaires, Bristol.”

“You could if you wanted. Don’t blame me. I’ve asked you plenty of times to parties and events where you could network.”

She blew out a breath, chewing on her bottom lip. “Yes, I’m sure my unique look would totally look good at a ballgown event.”

I rolled my eyes. “It would, actually. Looks, money, none of that matters. Attitude does. You’ll see. One day, you’ll come with me. And then you’ll meet all the investors you need for your brilliant line.”

“When I earn investors, I want it to be for my merit, not because I shared a drink with someone rich at a party.”

“You’d be surprised how many doors those social encounters open. No one is going to sign a deal with you because you shared a drink, Grace. They look at your work because you shared a drink. They consider you because they have a face to pair with the proposal. That’s all.”

She nodded, contemplative. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll go to an event if you go to Cormac’s game tomorrow.”

I gaped at her. “You’re seriously wicked.”

She waggled her eyebrows at me. “Wicked would be forcing you to wear the jersey too,” she said. “I’m merely making a deal with you because you apparently need an excuse to go.”

I arched a brow at her. “No more than you need an excuse to meet with potential investors.”

She pursed her lips at me, then scooped up her water and clinked it against mine. “Touché.”

“Well,” I said after taking a sip. “I can write off this lunch now,” I teased. “Since it was ninety percent business.”

Grace grinned at me, a genuine smile that made my heart lift. She was finally starting to acknowledge her worth, and it was about damn time. But I wasn’t sure if she’d ever be fully comfortable about the money differences we had—despite my efforts to explain they didn’t matter. To her, they did. But that didn’t stop her from working her ass off for her dream, and I absolutely loved that about her.

I had no doubt she’d get there soon. She just needed to get out of her own way first.

“Seriously, though,” I said as we headed out of the bar. “Do you want to come to the game with me?”

“Can we sit in the civilian seats?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“Then I’m in.”

The energy crackled and vibrated my chest—the seats I’d snagged were as close to the partition as we could get. It felt like I could practically reach over it and smack Cormac’s ass on the ice if I wanted to.

Which I didn’t want to.

Okay, maybe just a little.

Fans packed the seats, and cheers or cries of outrage rang whenever a ref made a bad call. And being able to actually hear the crack of bodies against the walls or the smack of a stick against the ice was ten times more invigorating than the muted noises in the VIP box.