The man knew my name. Thank God. That would be way less embarrassing than running into a total stranger. Unless it was the landlord because I owed him two hundred bucks. I wasn’t sure I was ever going to know because my eyes were still stinging and I had zero visibility. But I used my knuckle and dried my tears.
My words died when I realized who this guy was.
It was him.
Brandon.
The man who had helped me escape my surprise wedding and taken me ice-skating at Rockefeller Center.
Standing there in a navy button-up shirt over tight black jeans that showed off his muscular build. Looking big and broad and sexy as hell. His eyes were wide in recognition.
“Dakota,” he murmured again, this time without question.
His tone was so pleased, so sensual, so intimate, like we had shared something more than one hot kiss under the mistletoe, that I nearly had an orgasm listening to him.
“It’s you,” I said, because I’ve always wanted to say that. They do it in movies all the time, and never, ever, in real life is there an opportunity to say something as dramatic as “it’s you.” But this was my chance and I took it.
I had been absolutely sure I would never see this man again and yet, here he was standing in front of me. This was definitely an improvement over angry anti-V day drinkers.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Brandon asked again. He touched my chin briefly, a tender, sensual stroke. “I think I clipped you with my elbow.”
My chin was actually throbbing. My eyes were still watery and my nose was running. “I’m totally fine,” I said, still stunned. “I was, uh, going down the stairs and I fell.”
“I’m glad I was able to break your fall.” Brandon’s eyes drifted over me. “You’re wearing the same dress.”
Outfit repeater. Yikes. How did I explain? “I was just, you know, trying to have a good night. Defy the notion that if I’m single I should stay at home in leggings and eat ice cream on Valentine’s Day.”
“So you’re single? No working things out with Dante?”
That made me roll my eyes involuntarily. “Are you kidding? No. You saw those horrible texts he sent to me. Nope. That was done that night.”
“Good for you,” he said. The corner of his mouth turned up in a very sexy smile. “Good for me.”
Yes, yes, and yes. Then I remembered my friend Felicia thought Brandon was not available based on some song lyrics he had quoted. I had to clear that up immediately because this time, I wasn’t letting this man disappear again.
“Are you married?” I asked, straight to the point.
His eyebrows rose. “No. I’ve been divorced for eighteen months. What makes you think I’m married?”
“That song. The piña coladas and getting caught in the rain. That song is about a cheater.”
He shook his head. “What? Damn. No, I was not dropping a hint I was married. It was just you said you like sushi and dancing and that popped into my head. I was trying to volley with you. Not well, apparently.” He grinned. “My game is rusty.”
That changed everything. I could care less about rusty flirtation skills. He was single. “Oh, I see. Feel free to practice your game on me anytime, then.”
He reached out and wiped my face again with his sleeve. “Sorry, you just had black stuff running down your cheeks.”
Wonderful. It suddenly occurred to me I could not be looking my best at the moment and I had a lot of nerve suggesting he practice flirting with me. “I should go deal with this,” I said, pointing to my face. “And then I owe you a drink.”
He tipped his empty glass back and forth. “No, you don’t. It was my fault.”
“How was that your fault?” I asked, incredulous and amused. “I slid down the banister like a ten-year-old and nailed you.”
“You slid down the banister? Why would you do that?” he asked. “I thought you tripped.”
I can’t tell a lie. It’s not in my nature. “I wanted to make an entrance.”
Brandon’s eyebrows rose. “That was an entrance for sure.”
“Are you okay?” Elijah asked me, finally appearing by my side. “Oh my God, your makeup. You look like an eighties horror movie.”
That was reassuring. “I’m fine,” I told him. “I’ll be right back.” Then I smiled at Brandon, conscious of the fact that I was a train wreck in a repeat outfit. But the key to success is confidence. “I’ll meet you at the bar, Hater,” I told him.
The night we had met I had teased him for his dislike of parties by calling him Hater. I wanted to remind him of that connection we’d shared.
It worked.
The corner of his mouth turned up and he cupped my cheek with his large hand, under the clear pretense of wiping another smudge. “It’s good to see you again, Dakota.”
“It’s good to see you too, Brandon,” I said. “Order me a glass of champagne, please. I feel like celebrating.”
I had exactly zero reasons to celebrate. I hadn’t gotten a job in months, my bank account was laughable, girls’ nights had turned into me babysitting for my friends while they went out with their husbands, and Dante had trashed me on social media. In short, everything was both on a downslide and dull. Life had gotten routine. Wake up, try to find an audition to go to so I could not get the job, work out, watch reality TV. Wash, rinse, repeat.
Not a bad life, because it could always be worse. But not exciting.
This? Running into my carriage rescue man? This was exciting.
And I wasn’t letting him out of my sight until I’d at the very least gotten his number.
Better yet, seen him naked.
I left Elijah stymied and Brandon heading for the bar, and went to the restroom.
A glance in the mirror showed I had a lot of fucking nerve thinking I was getting anything from Brandon.
Eighties horror movie was no exaggeration.
I undid the clasp on my tiny purse and prayed I had packed enough manpower in there to fix my face. I didn’t. In the end I washed my face off entirely and shrugged. Brandon was getting a preview of morning me.
The last time I had used the clutch was months back, and while there wasn’t enough makeup for face repair, I found a condom tucked into the zipper portion.
I took it as a sign and shoved open the restroom door.
Chapter Two
My night, which I had assumed was going to be a torturous evening of small talk with mostly strangers, had just improved dramatically. As I had told Dakota back before Christmas, I don’t like parties.
I much prefer one on one.
I ordered a replacement martini and a glass of champagne for Dakota and tried not to grin. This was a hell of a stroke of good luck. I hadn’t thought I would ever see her again and for a couple of months I’d been kicking myself for not getting her number. That had been a fucking rookie move.
Of course, I’d found out later that I had helped her escape from her wedding to my defensive lineman. It had been an honest mistake. I was new to the franchise, the wedding wasn’t billed as a wedding, and I had no clue who Dante Marksman’s girlfriend was at the time. Hell, half his teammates hadn’t seemed to know who the bride was supposed to be. So when she’d shoved me on the elevator and told me she was trying to break up with her boyfriend and he wasn’t handling it well, I’d done the right thing and helped her get the hell out of there.