She’d said she was divorced. The guy must have done something epic to fuck with her. She’d been skittish and nervous as a sixteen-year-old girl on a first date. She'd blushed so endearingly, and that proved it. I’d given her space, kept my tone gentle, tried to keep her at ease because, hell, I was pretty fucking scary looking. She’d said she wasn’t scared of me. Just nervous. Well, the feeling had been mutual. I’d been nervous as fuck around her because I hadn't wanted to mess up. But I had anyway. I’d stuck my foot in my mouth over and over. I’d told her I wasn’t picking her up, and I saw her smile slip.
I’d made her think I wasn’t interested, that she wasn’t enough, when in fact she was too much. Too perfect. I hadn’t wanted to be like the other dicks in the bar because while I probably had the same dirty thoughts as the oyster guy, I was gentleman enough to know she didn’t do pickups. She would have run away screaming if she'd known how much I wondered what she’d worn beneath her prim dress. Something sexy and lacy, perhaps. And that had made me debate what color her nipples were, if her skin was as silky soft as it looked. If her pussy tasted as sweet as I imagined.
Emory hadn't been some woman at the bar looking for a good time. She’d admitted outright she wasn’t looking. Period.
The kicker was, she'd had no clue who I was. No idea I was famous in the industry. She didn’t know about my career, didn’t know my wins, my championship belts, my notoriety. Didn’t know I’d been stopped at least five times within as many minutes when I showed up at the bar. There'd been no sign of recognition at all when I told her my name. She wasn’t a groupie hoping for a little reverse cowgirl with a real cowboy, and that made her one of the only women who’d said to my face she wanted nothing from me. I had been the one to pursue her. To give her the option to see me again, and she’d been the first in a long, long time I’d done so.
Unfortunately, fame had its price. Men wanted to be my friend, to be buddies with the champion MMA fighter. Women wanted in my bed, to fuck the Grayson Green. They wanted to be manhandled by The Outlaw, to fuck a bad boy. To go for a ride on a cowboy’s dick. Everyone wanted a piece of me. For themselves. For their own notoriety. Only a select few were on my true friends list, those I trusted knew the real fucked-up person behind the façade.
I could get laid anytime I wanted. Hell, I could’ve walked through that bar and gotten some action without even trying. Gone back to the woman’s apartment for a quick fuck. Hell, I could have pulled her into the janitor’s closet for a wild ride. That had been fine when I was younger, when I didn’t care about knowing their names. I’d just wanted the meaningless release. Now, I wanted… something more. The chance for something real. Not fake tits. Not fake-and-bake skin. Not empty brains. Not groupies.
I wanted honest, and that was definitely Emory. Every honest thought had flicked across her face.
As the buzzer went off on my timer, I realized I wanted Emory, and I’d have to try damn hard to get her. Hanging the jump rope on a wall peg with all the others, I grabbed my towel from the long bench and wiped the sweat from my head and neck as I caught my breath. She wasn’t someone I could just have. It wasn’t going to happen that way. She was going to take work. Careful handling. The need to know more about her had gotten me to ask her to watch the flag football game on Sunday. Even knowing her for less than fifteen minutes, I’d known she wouldn’t go out with a guy who picked her up in a bar, even a friend of Paul’s.
I'd left it up to her and hoped I'd intrigued her enough to want to stop by. I’d left it light. Easy. I’d see if she showed up, and if not, I’d have to figure out how to win her over a different way. I could connect with her through Christy. Coffee or a hike or… shit.
Why would a woman like Emory be interested in a guy like me? Sure, I was successful in my career, was financially secure, but she didn’t know any of that. Who gave a shit about that crap when it came down to a connection? I had no idea what she did for a living and unless she was an escort or a drug dealer, I didn't really care. But I knew it had to be something good, something honest like her.
As for me, the ghosts of the past lingered, taunted me, reared their ugly heads when I least expected it. Like now, when beautiful Emory appeared out of nowhere. She was a sucker punch I never saw coming. Would she give me a shot? She’d be stupid to do so. She just knew me as the guy who’d said stupid things and almost made her cry. Shit. I was in trouble here. I tossed the towel in the hamper and stripped off my sweaty T-shirt on the way to the showers. This was one fight I had no intention of losing.
Chapter 4
EMORY
“Spill, girlfriend.” Faith Abrams swiveled around in her office chair and wheeled over to where I sat filling out papers. She pumped some vanilla scented hand sanitizer from a little bottle on my desk. It was better than the industrial stuff that came out of the dispensers on the walls all around the clinic.
I spent three hours on Saturday mornings volunteering at a local health center that catered to women and children. Visits ranged from pregnancy to ear infections and everything in between. In July, I’d been looking for something to fill my extra time after Chris left for Plebe Summer at the Naval Academy, and this had certainly done it. The place was in desperate need of help, overrun with patients needing the free or low-cost services, and being a nurse practitioner, I could write prescriptions like a doctor while not requiring one to be on staff at all times. It helped keep costs down, and the budget was thin.
We were in the central office where nurses and doctors worked on charts, filled out paperwork, updated online records. Two hallways of exam rooms were on either side. I'd finished the cases that had been scheduled in advance, but others were wrapping up drop-ins, and I was on standby for prescriptions if needed.
“The party was fun. Christy was beautiful. The dress I told you about looked great.” I glanced up at her briefly before back at the script I was writing. I ripped it off the pad, placed it on top of the chart it went with.
“Any cute guys?” she asked, waggling her eyebrows.
I hid my flushed cheeks by turning to the next chart in the pile. I’d spent the night thinking about Gray, reliving my ridiculous behavior over and over. I’d tossed and turned, even swore at myself in my bed, angry I wasn’t flashier and sexier. Hell, I would have settled for not being a bumbling fool. I’d assumed Gray to be a jerk or worse, actually dangerous, but spending only a few minutes with him had made me think otherwise. Besides being a dumbass—one of Chris' terms I still clung to—I was also judgmental. Bob/Bill had looked clean cut and nice while I'd labeled Gray a bad boy. I hadn't ruled that out yet, but at least he’d been nice. Definitely a gentleman. And hadn’t eaten fried bull balls in front of me.
I’d gotten confirmation about his character when I’d said my goodbyes to Paul and Christy. Paul had given me quick reassurance that the manly cowboy was a really good guy, which only made me feel even worse. Gray was the first guy in eons… no ever, to make me lust. Yes, it was pure lust because as I'd thought of him as I laid in my dark bedroom, I'd envisioned ripping open those fabulous snaps on his shirt to feel his soft skin and the hard muscles beneath. I longed to know what his long fingers could do, whether the stubble on his jaw would be rough against my inner thighs. He’d reduced me to a puddle of hormones, and I'd put my vibrator to good use using him as mental fantasy.