“You look amazing.”
She flashed him her best I’m-good-how-are-you smile. “I do, don’t I?”
“She does,” Sadie concurred.
Heather and Roman both nodded. Roman’s nod was way more smug than it needed to be.
“I…uh…” Drake glanced at his polished dress shoes that probably came from Saks Fifth Avenue. “Can we talk?”
She shook her head. “We talked enough when you made it clear you don’t want a future with me.”
That caught him off guard.
He slid his gaze toward Roman.
Roman, who appeared horrified.
Clearly, Drake had forgotten to mention that little morsel of knowledge to her brother when he’d manipulated this evening.
Her Babushka probably didn’t know it, either.
“I get it. Football is life,” she said.
The sheer curtains she’d hung around the edge of the room had been backlit with a blue glow that totally matched the way her chest felt—like she was inhaling a whole lot of sadness.
“Sports are just sports,” Drake said. The way he was looking at her like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at? Totally made her melt into a puddle of eggnog martini.
“Like flowers are just flowers,” he continued.
“Flowers are not just flowers.” Well, they were, but… “We can agree that flowers are more than just flowers and football is more than just football,” Anna said, pretending to throw a pass with her martini hand, sloshing the eggnog all over his shirt and her wrist.
For a split second—Anna clocked it—Drake seemed utterly confused as to what to do with her or the puddle of eggnog slowly saturating the cotton weave of his white button-down shirt. The slosh of eggnog martini started to slide down her wrist toward her elbow.
God, she was such a mess.
Her chest got tighter, her cheeks flamed like she was sitting too close to a fireplace, and dammit, what was she supposed to do with this? Normally, she’d just lap it up with her tongue and make it a joke. Normally, she wasn’t face-to-face with a star quarterback ex who she’d just baptized in martini. Normally wouldn’t work right then.
She shot a panicked look at Heather and Sadie, who were twin mirrors of the shock Anna felt inside. She didn’t bother looking at Roman because he would obviously have no idea what to do, either.
Then, and this was interesting, Drake expertly extracted the martini from her grip, set it aside, and—using a corner of a silky handkerchief from his pocket—wiped at the puddle of eggnog martini dripping from her forearm, totally ignoring the wetness soaking his shirt.
His entire focus was on her skin. Like, his whole focus.
This was not a normal swipe and go.
Oh no, no, no.
Drake took his time running the silk over Anna’s skin in a move she was certain he hadn’t intended to come across as erotic. Yet, she had to clench her thighs together and take a huge breath to bring herself back to the present.
She gripped the satin with her other hand, pulling a little as he released. The man carried a handkerchief. How awesome was that?
He grabbed a glass of ice water from a nearby table and held it for her.
“To dip the cloth.” He gestured to the silk or satin or whatever-the-hell she still gripped. “Or you’ll stay sticky.”
Oh God.
She was going to stay sticky.
Unless she dipped the satin.
“Can I?” he asked, already pulling the handkerchief back to dab the tip in water. Then, like a man who was able to throw a football down an entire field of players with precision, he carefully took hold of her heart without even realizing he’d done so.
“I’m sorry,” Anna said, wishing she could go find a sinkhole to suck her in. That sorry meant so much more than just the spillage.
He seemed to get it.
“All good,” he said with a smile that didn’t shine in his eyes but had the wattage of a billion twinkle lights all the same.
“Marlee’s here,” Sadie said, breaking free from her horror. “She’s with her dad. You know Jackson Medford, right?”
Drake’s spine visibly stiffened. He nodded and looked from Anna to where the king of Denver football and his daughter had just arrived.
Of course, he knew the Medfords—they owned the Denver national football franchise. The Stallions had been two shakes away from winning the last championship when their quarterback got sacked so hard that he blew out his knee. The career-ending injury devastated the entire city because Denver didn’t just have a football team. No, Denver lived the sport.
Drake needed an escape, and Anna needed to give up on a night that didn’t involve embarrassing the hell out of herself along the way.
“You should go do the football thing.” Anna blinked as pointedly as she could toward where the Medfords mingled.
“You’re sure you don’t mind?” Drake asked, the timbre of his voice low and calm and settling Anna’s nerves.
She shook her head and took the handkerchief from him to finish up. “You really should go say hello.”
“I’ll go with him.” Roman gave his fiancée a look broadcasting the fact that she was now in charge of ensuring Anna didn’t bolt. His expressions were pretty easy to read, and Anna had had a lifetime of practice.
Drake adjusted his jacket to cover the spill on his shirt before heading toward the area where the Medfords stood surrounded by a group of men who looked like…well…linebackers.
“That was quite the...” Sadie bit at her top lip.
“Sometimes things just get off to a rocky start, that’s all,” Heather assured, but her tone lacked that inexplicable yet undeniable quality that actually did reassure a person.
Anna continued to wipe at the skin along her forearm, even though she didn’t need to because Drake was nothing if not thorough. “I’m so freaking wet right now.”
“Your arm?” Sadie asked.
Also my panties, Anna thought. Instead of saying this out loud, she said, “I mean, did you see him? Hear him? Can you believe I actually had that? Even for a little bit? He’s so far out of my league that it’s like we’re playing different sports in different countries on different planets.” And his scent? Amazing. Like expensive shampoo and quarterback. “He smells nice, too,” Anna said.
“Do not sniff his hair in front of everyone,” Sadie said, suddenly serious. “That’s the thing that could definitely make this evening more awkward.”
“Ahem.” Anna heard the deep rumble that she knew very, very well came from behind her.
She glanced at her friends, her heartbeat seeming to stop completely.
Horror, once again, took residence on their faces.
There was something else that could make the evening more awkward.
“He’s behind me, isn’t he?” she asked, all the blood free falling from her head to her toes.
Slowly, like her life was a slow-motion replay of a particularly gnarly injury, she turned.
“You know what?” Heather latched on to Sadie’s arm. “We’re just going to—” She pointed toward a random spot near the entrance and pulled Sadie along with her.
“I…” Drake fumbled the word, recovered, and said smooth as a testicle ornament, “Sorry to interrupt, but I need our table number.”