Dirty Secret

Handsome. Graceful. In a suit at all times.

Even at the beach, probably.

And, shit, now I'm picturing Cam in a Speedo. Something bright and bold. Red or royal blue.

Every other inch of his dark skin on display. The strong thighs. The defined torso. The tattoos he hides under his jacket.

He nods hello. Looks me over slowly, noting my plain black sports bra and purple shorts.

It's normal practice attire, especially for a hot day, but his gaze still makes my cheeks flush.

I swallow hard, nod hello, pretend I don't care he's here.

We shake hands with the other team. Listen as the captain goes through her usual rundown.

Stay hydrated. Avoid alcohol. Do not, under any circumstances, waste time with boys.

She eyes Cam suspiciously. "Is that a friend of yours, Sienna?" (Friends are unacceptable distractions unless they're fellow soccer players).

"My sister's wedding is in two weeks," I say.

She does nothing to hide her disappointment. How dare my sister marry during soccer season? Why can't she wait until January? Why am I skipping practice to celebrate this milestone?

"Your sister's fiancé is hot," one of my other teammates says. "Does he have any friends? Or a brother maybe?"

"That is his friend." Technically, Cam is Ty's cousin. But he's also Ty's closest confidant. They're friends, business partners, family.

As close as two people can be, really.

"So he's single," she says.

The team captain glares at her. What about no boys does she not understand? It's not just boyfriends. It's casual sex, dates, and flirting too.

I get it, honestly. If it was anything but my sister's wedding, I'd choose soccer. But Indigo is my favorite person in the world. I'll do anything for her.

Including keeping my hands off Cam.

Yes, I like him. Yes, he's incredibly hot.

Yes, for the last two months, I've fallen asleep thinking about that kiss.

God, I can taste him now. Smell his soap. Feel his hands.

It's a prime entry in my spank bank, but it's not happening.

The wedding is in two weeks.

Cameron Hunt is officially off-limits. Which is fine by me.

We're friends… friendly. That's all. We text all the time, sure, but it's about the pre-wedding festivities. And a lot about London soccer leagues. Honestly, US men's soccer is a travesty. We dominate the world in women's soccer, but does anyone in the States care?

Okay, we compete on our mile time (we're neck and neck, but I'm running in scorching hot New York weather. He gets the crisp London air). And we talk about the TV shows we're watching. Not that Cam watches a lot of TV. Mostly, I recap the events of my latest reality TV show, and he tells me they're ridiculous.

And I fall asleep thinking about his smile.

Or sometimes, thinking about his kiss, and his hands, and his lips on other parts of my body.

Ahem.

Like I said, we're friendly. I don't even notice he's here. I certainly don't care that my shorts barely cover my ass. Or that I'm a sweaty mess and he's cool and composed in his suit.

I'm an athlete who works hard. That's better than looking cute or sexy or glamorous.

I repeat this mantra as I jog to Cam, but it doesn't stick in my brain. My blush deepens. Extends to my chest.

I shrug like it's normal post-game flush. Of course, I'm a little red. I'm running around in eighty degree heat.

He offers a water bottle. A grey aluminum adorned with the London Bridge. "Thirsty?"

"Is that really your hello?"

He nods as he hands me the bottle.

The brush of his fingertips sets me on fire. Thank god the aluminum is chilled.

Mmm, cold water. I drink with greedy sips, but my temperature stays high. He's so handsome and close, and did I mention handsome? But seriously, a suit at a soccer game? That's ridiculous. "You look like a drug dealer."

"Do American drug dealers wear suits?"

I nod. "Haven't you see The Good Wife?"

He chuckles. "You've seen The Good Wife?"

"Why is that funny?"

"It's highbrow for you."

"Oh my god." I push him playfully. My hand against his chest. The soft wool of his suit jacket. "I watch excellent television."

"Ninety Day Fiancée is excellent television?"

My lips curl into a smile. He's teasing. I love his teasing. "People have three months to get married or never see each other again! Those are high stakes!"

"I'll consider that."

He smiles that charming smile of his.

My heart beats harder. He's so handsome. And charming. And off-limits.

And not just handsome.

Smoking hot. Sure, it's hard to make out the details of his body in his suit, but I've seen pictures of him in less.

The man is built like a soccer all-star. Tall and strong and incredibly athletic.

Shit, what are we talking about? "What are you doing here?"

"If you want me to go, I will."

No. God no. "I thought you were still in London."

"Flew in today."

Oh.

"Walked here from my hotel."

"Did you fly in the suit or change when you got here?"