1
Harlan
There are two kinds of men in the world.
Those who love suits and those who hate them.
Why love one? A well-made suit fits like a dream.
As for why you might hate one, don’t ask me.
I’m a lover, not a hater. No one ever came to this guy for the negative on anything. Hate isn’t my style.
But suits are, and I have a whole closet full of hand-tailored duds for occasions like the colleague’s wedding where I’m headed tonight.
I pad across the carpet of my walk-in closet and appraise my options, flicking through the crisply pressed shirts hanging along one wall. I bypass the charcoal, midnight black, and dark blue, the paisley and the striped, until I reach a shirt in the palest of blues.
I slide it off the hanger, put it on, and smooth the front.
This color always wins the eyes of the ladies.
Now, for the suit. I’ve got more than a dozen custom ones to pick from. Comes with the territory—as a pro football player, I’m required to dress to the nines on game day. I consider my faves and zero in on the winner.
“Ah!” It’s not your father’s navy suit, that’s for sure. No bankers would wear this color either. The deep, rich blue speaks up, gets noticed. It’s a hue that says, Let’s have some fun tonight, sweetheart.
And I am a fun kind of guy, so that’s the romantic vibe I like putting out in the universe.
I put on the pants and a chocolate-brown belt, then head to the tie hanger. I opt for a pink silk one with tiny illustrations of playing cards scattered over it.
May luck be a very lovely lady tonight.
I grab the suit jacket, sling it over my shoulder on one finger, and spin around in front of the full-length mirror.
Yep.
“Well done, sir,” I tell my reflection.
I am ready for the celebration. The bride and groom will say I do, and hearts will go a fluttering.
Ahhhh, yes.
Weddings—another thing I love.
Two people vowing to cherish each other for the rest of their lives. It melted my heart every time one of my sisters tied the knot, promising forever and fidelity.
Whether a couple can keep that promise, stay true to that vow . . . well, that’s another issue.
I shudder, shucking off those unpleasant thoughts.
Not today, brain.
As I head down the stairs, I laser in on the best thing about weddings—for me, that is, as an attendee.
Weddings are the best place to meet women. Talk to women. Dance with women.
Three of my favorite things in the world to do.
Fuck this online shit. Swiping left or right and snapping this or that is not for me. I’m all about face-to-face chemistry and real-life chitchat. Weddings are perfect for a social cat like me as they’re usually brimming with single women in the mood for a man.
Pretty sure I’ve never met a wedding where I haven’t gotten laid, and I wouldn’t mind keeping up that streak tonight.
I leave my place and head to the limo waiting at the curb just outside on California Street. I slow to survey the sleek, black set of wheels and whistle in appreciation.
The driver—a slim, efficient man in a black suit—pops out to open the door for me. “Thank you very much,” I tell him. “And nice to meet you. I’m Harlan.”
The man gives a surprised smile. “Darien. Pleasure to meet you too,” he says.
I slide into the back seat to join my teammate Jones Beckett. “Damn, you look almost as good as I do,” I say, checking out my friend in his Tom Ford suit.
The team’s star receiver rolls his blue eyes. “Thanks. You look almost as rich as me.”
I laugh as I smooth my hand down my tie. “Thanks for giving me a new goal.”
Jones settles into the seat as the driver pulls onto Fillmore. “Thanks for being my”—he stops to sketch air quotes—“’date’ tonight.”
“Of course. Anything for the cause of love, buddy.”
Jones sighs heavily and drags a hand down his face. “Fuck, man. I’ve got to figure this out and soon.”
“No argument here.”
My friend has it bad for the Renegades’ lead publicist. He tried to keep it a secret from me and everyone else, and I understand why, but I put two and two together. Jillian’s perfect for him—whip-smart and loyal. But Jones has been rehabbing his reputation, trying to shake off a checkered past, and he hasn’t figured out how to bring their forbidden romance into the light.
More power to the two of them for running the relationship obstacle course. But just the thought of all those hurdles is too much for me. I prefer my dalliances simple, mutually enjoyable, and free of angst.
The strategy has served me well—mostly, I should say—for the last several years. I like to date, I like to have fun, and I like to fuck. But with my career still on the upswing, anything more complicated than that is not part of my playbook.
“I don’t envy you, pal,” I tell Jones as the driver swings onto Steiner Street.
“I don’t envy me either. What am I supposed to do?”
“You could—just a thought—sort this shit out and have a relationship,” I offer with a smile. I’m encouraging like that. But seriously, sometimes you just have to man up and do the hard things in life.
“I’m working on it, Harlan. And I think I’ve got a plan for telling the team and my new sponsor. But it’ll have to wait until this weekend. Tonight, I just need a wingman so I can spend some time with Jillian.”
I tap my sternum. “One fantastic, grade-A, top-choice wingman at your service.” It’s not my place to pressure him to come clean. He knows what he needs to do, and he’s got to do it in his own damn time.
Plus, I know my role at this wedding.
I’m Jones’s cover, and that’s fine.
When the car stops on her block, Jones bounds up the steps and returns with Jillian a few minutes later. She greets me as they slide into the car, but mostly they make I want to bang you backward, forward, and six ways to Sunday eyes at each other as she snuggles up against him.
“Would you like me to just get in the front seat with the driver?” I offer, gesturing to the partition. “You can have a wham-bam while I chat with Darien. He seemed chill.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Jillian says, ducking her head as a smile plays across her face. “We’ll behave.”
I scoff. “No need to behave on my account. I’m happy to shoot the breeze with the guy.” I point to the speakers. “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” pipes through the limo. “He’s got good taste in music.”
Jones runs a hand along Jillian’s bare arm, and she shivers. “Can’t help myself,” Jones says, “Haven’t seen her in a while.”
“I can tell. The sexual tension between you two would fill an ice cream tub. I could scoop it up and serve it in a cone. Sexual Tension Swirl, I’d call it.”
Jones arches a brow. “Seriously?”
“What? I love sexual tension,” I say with a grin.
“Everyone does, Harlan,” Jones deadpans.
“Exactly. Marketing gold. I’ll make millions. This idea is going to fund my retirement someday,” I tease.