He whistles. “That’s my boy. When he makes up his mind that he wants something, he goes for it, Mach speed. The only problem is it takes the rest of us a little time to catch up with him.”
It’s the perfect description of Hunter, a man who bought a twenty-four-million-dollar house after seeing it once. A man who, after meeting me once, decided he was going to move heaven and earth—and my boss—to make sure we met again.
“That’s how he ended up sacked during that Viking game, huh?”
“Exactly. He just took off—” He pauses. “Wait, you’re a fan? Not just of Hunter, but the game?”
“I’m a huge fan. Lightning football is my life. And I’ve got to say, I totally thought that sack was his fault. I know the press came down hard on you, but it was obvious he’d changed the play and was doing whatever the hell he wanted to do.”
“Exactly!” Tanner’s grin is huge as he swings me around like a rag doll. “Finally, someone who sees through Golden Boy’s charm to the evil heart lurking beneath.”
“Oh, believe me, I see the evil. Did he tell you how we first met?”
“He didn’t.” Tanner leans in. “But I am all ears.”
“And all left feet,” Hunter says as he cuts in, whirling me away. “What’s a guy got to do to impress a girl around here?”
I bat my eyes outrageously. “Let her dance with his very impressive best friend, obviously.”
“You know, I could leave you here. Let Tanner take you home.”
“Oh, does he need a house, too?”
He growls, actually growls, and it’s so funny and endearing and hot that I can’t help pressing myself against him and whispering, “If you let Tanner take me home, then you’ll miss out on what I’ve got under this dress.”
His eyes darken to forest green. “Oh, yeah? Maybe you should give me a preview.”
“Maybe you should get me a drink, and I’ll consider it.”
“One drink, coming up.” He moves us off the dance floor, then pulls me into his side as we weave through the sudden crowds. His hand is on my hip and I can feel the warmth of his fingers through my dress.
It turns me on. Or rather, he turns me on. And while it’s great fun to be here, dancing with Tanner Green and watching the other Lightning mingle with the crowd, suddenly I want to be anywhere else. Namely, anywhere else that we can be alone.
A rush of heat moves through me at the thought, makes my nipples peak and my breath hitch. Hunter must feel it, because suddenly he’s looking down at me, eyes dark and dangerous.
“We could have that drink in a room upstairs,” he tells me, voice low and raspy.
“We could, but then you’d just have to come back down and sign autographs, so…”
He curses under his breath. “I’ll get you that drink, and then we’ll see just how fast I can sign.”
The crowd grows thicker as we move toward the bar, and at first I think it’s because the place is filling up. But then I realize, it’s only this crowded around us—people are putting themselves directly in our path just for the chance to smile at Hunter or to try and catch his eye. He doesn’t see them, except as obstacles to get around, but still. I can’t help wondering what that might be like. When people look at him, do they see him? Or do they just see Hunter Browning, quarterback extraordinaire and sexiest man alive?
For the first time his behavior from the first time we met really, truly makes sense. I mean, I knew at the time that it was a product of his fame. But I thought he was just a jerk. I didn’t realize it was a form of self-protection. Because everyone wants something from him.
What is that like? I wonder as he orders me a glass of pinot noir. What does it do to a person? No wonder he wanted me to show him houses—even Kerry was so caught up in who he was and what his bank account could do for her that she forgot the most basic thing. That he’s human, just like the rest of us.
I know it’s stupid, but the knowledge makes me hurt for him. It makes me want to wrap him up in my arms and promise him that I see him. That I recognize who he is, not just who I want him to be.
Maybe that’s why, when he moves to hand me my wine, instead of taking it I wrap my arms around his waist, bury my face against his shoulder and hold on for all I’m worth.
His response is immediate. He wraps his arms around me, drinks and all, and holds me so completely, yet so gently, that it has tears springing to my eyes, even though I don’t know why.
Then he’s bending his head, whispering, “You good?” against my ear so no one else can see.
“I’m better than good,” I whisper back. “So go sign those damn autographs and then take me home. I need you inside me.”
His eyes go wide and for long seconds, he just stares at me. Then he tosses back his drink and makes a beeline for the charitable contribution corner, his hand firmly gripping mine.