Or maybe we’re not. Irritation simmered low in my blood.
“I disagree,” I said silkily. If she wanted to play that game, we’d play on my terms. “We have plenty to talk about. For example, the way you taste or the way you sighed when I pressed you against the wall. Or maybe we should talk about how your hair feels wrapped around my—”
“Stop.” Flags of color scorched the crests of her cheekbones. “It was a kiss. We were drunk, and we got caught up in the moment. It didn’t mean anything.”
The ember of irritation ignited into anger.
“Bullshit.” I closed the distance between us. She lifted her chin, her expression stubborn, but I detected a faint quickening in the rise and fall of her chest. “I knew you were a coward when it came to movies. I didn’t expect that from you in real life too.”
Scarlett’s nostrils flared with a sharp inhale.
I tamped down a swell of regret. I’d said what needed to be said. She couldn’t run from the hard stuff forever.
This was the same girl who’d reamed out a police officer for bumping into me, who’d survived a horrible accident and came out stronger on the other side. She was so bold and resilient in so many ways that it killed me to see her fears win.
“Fine. Let’s say the kiss did mean something,” she said. “What then? Do we date? Have a summer fling? Call things off when the season starts? There are always people watching you, Asher. It’d be impossible to keep a relationship secret.” Her jaw hardened. “You lost the league last season because you and Vincent didn’t work together! Imagine how much worse it’ll get if he finds out something happened between us. Imagine how your coach will react. You’ll both ruin your careers, and I will not allow that to happen, nor will I play a part in it.”
My bubble of anger deflated.
Of course I’d considered the obstacles she’d laid out. Hell, they were the reason I’d fought my attraction for so long. But the more time we spent together, the hazier those obstacles seemed.
Her clinical breakdown of the situation threw them right back into focus.
I wasn’t surprised by the Vincent and career angle, but the issue with the paps…I hadn’t paid as much attention to that as I should’ve. Most of the women I’d dated in the past were public figures themselves, so they were used to the attention. Scarlett wasn’t.
If anything happened between us, they’d harass her to the ends of the earth. They’d follow her, dig through her trash, talk to her old friends and classmates. Anything and everything to make a buck.
There were ways around it. I knew players who made things work with their “civilian” partners, but at the risk of sounding arrogant, they didn’t have as visible a profile as I did. The tabloids would eat Scarlett alive.
I’d let the privacy of our studio and the respite of summer lull me into a false sense of security. It didn’t matter how much I wanted her or how much I wished things between us could work; if she didn’t want it, and she wasn’t prepared for it, then that was it. Case closed.
The post-kiss fantasies that’d consumed me all weekend cleared, leaving a tang of bitterness in their wake.
“You’re right.” The words sounded hollow despite the thickness in my throat. “I don’t know what I was thinking. We’ll pretend the kiss never happened and never discuss it again.”
“Great.” Scarlett swallowed. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
“Me too.”
We didn’t speak about anything non-workout-related for the rest of the session.
She’d given us both the wake-up call we needed, so I ignored the cramp in my chest and carried on with my training.
Later that night, I drove my Bugatti to a borough in north London. Its seclusion, wide-open roads, and indifferent law enforcement made it a hotspot for local high rollers who liked to indulge in a bit of street racing without the complications of other car scenes—namely: leaks, paps, and drugs.
There wasn’t a race scheduled this week, but people usually showed up anyway to brag about their latest vehicle or indulge in friendly competition.
Tonight was no exception.
A half dozen cars were already parked in the meetup lot when I arrived. My headlights sliced a bright swath through the group before I cut the engine and joined them.
I recognized everyone there. A footballer from Chelsea, a B-list actor with a supporting role in a major fantasy series, several rugby players…including Clive.
A wave of something unpleasant burned through my veins.
“Donovan.” Simon, the footballer, greeted me first. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Been busy. You know how it is.” I returned his one-armed hug and slapped him on the back before saying hi to the others.
I stopped at Clive and gave him a cool nod.
The image of him and Scarlett flirting at Neon rose, unbidden, in my mind, and a wave of something unpleasant hurtled through my veins.
Clive leaned against his car, his self-deprecating demeanor stripped in the absence of potential bed partners. He was a regular at these meetups. I hadn’t lied when I said I’d met him through Poppy, but we saw each other here more often than at her parties.
“Surprised you’re not with your girl,” he drawled. I wasn’t the only one thinking of Scarlett. The mere evidence that she existed somewhere in his filthy mind made my muscles coil. “Never seen the great Asher Donovan that possessive over someone. Must be serious.”
The others’ ears visibly perked up. Society painted women as gossips, but truthfully, no one talked more shit than a group of blokes.
“I don’t know what you’re on about.” If I displayed an ounce of genuine interest in Scarlett, Clive would swoop in like a fucking bird of prey. He liked stealing others’ partners just to prove he could.
“No?” His smile told me he didn’t believe a word I said. “Damn. You’re even more into her than I thought. Since you want to play dumb, I’ll refresh your memory. Black hair, great ass, looks like a young Liz Taylor? I was about to close the deal with her before you interrupted.”
“I hate to break it to you, but you weren’t about to close anything.” My pleasant tone belied the dangerous thrum in my chest. “She actually has good taste.”
“Yeah, and she was eating my shit up. All the girls do.”
