Neil shrugs, like this isn’t important. “Kind of dumb to call random women a derogatory name, even when you’re loopy. It didn’t seem like an important detail.”
“I think it is.” Damn it. I’m still staring at the honey-gold expanse of his muscled chest in the mirror. I drag my eyes to my own reflection, where I’m also wearing a pair of blue-and-white checked cotton shorts, plus a little blue tank top that I sleep in.
“We’re twinsies,” I say, by way of changing the subject.
This backfires, because it invites Neil’s gaze to sweep over my body in the mirror. “Are we, now?”
“It’s the shorts,” I point out.
He leans on the counter with both hands and grins at me in the mirror. “Wifey, I like the shorts. I like how short they are. You have killer legs.”
“Erm, thank you?”
“I had a great time at your game tonight,” he says. “You were fun to watch.”
Oh boy. Neil probably has no idea that this line of conversation is far more seductive to me than compliments about my legs in these shorts. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “It was a really special night.”
He carefully folds his own towel and sets it back onto the counter, while I rinse my mouth one more time. “The guys asked me if I was in it for the victory sex.”
“What?” I almost choke as I spit out the water. “And you told them…?”
“I said—Charli wants me, but she won’t admit it. You should see the way she looks at me in the bathroom mirror.”
“Neil!” I swat at him with my towel.
He catches it of course, his eyes glittering. “Joking, kitten. I didn’t say that.”
“Good,” I say stiffly.
He grins. “It’s true, though. And who knows? This could be the night you break down and beg me for it.”
“It won’t be,” I assure him.
He lifts his chin. “Huh. That’s interesting.”
“Why?”
“Well, you said tonight won’t be the night. But that implies there will be a night.”
“No.” I swallow carefully, but my eyes make another unbidden circuit of his chest. “I didn’t imply that.”
“I think you did.” He pats the marble countertop. “This looks sturdy. I could put you right here. We could do a naked victory dance.”
“Neil!” I squeak. And then I flee the bathroom, because I like that idea way too much.
His chuckle follows me into the bedroom, where he turns off the lights. He slides between the sheets, and the sound of his skin against the cotton does nothing to quiet my pulse. “Let me know when you’re ready,” he says playfully. “My dick and I are open for business.”
I groan. “This is about saving face, right? I’m sure all your equipment works, Neil. Gold star.”
He laughs in the dark. “I know it works. And I’m not in it for the reviews. Although I know what you’d be saying—ten out of ten, would ride again.”
I groan. But that’s exactly what I’m afraid of. I could become addicted to Neil. It wouldn’t just be the sex, either. It would be the whole package. That hug I got after my game tonight, for example. Another thing I enjoyed way too much.
The way he feeds me.
The way he listens when I talk. I like it all too much.
“It’s not easy sleeping next to you,” he whispers.
“This was your idea,” I point out.
“I’m well aware. Maybe you should warn me in advance—how sexy is that blue dress you’re wearing on Sunday, anyway?”
“It’s a ten out of ten. Would drool again.”
He groans, and the sound of it doesn’t make falling asleep any easier. Not one bit.
I don’t see much of Neil for the rest of the weekend, because we both have Saturday night games, and I work long shifts at the diner, too. On Sunday afternoon, I treat myself to the most expensive haircut of my life. I refuse to look like a rag doll in front of Neil’s family.
When it’s time to check out of the salon, I take Neil’s credit card out of my wallet, but I can’t hand it over. He might have paid for that fancy dress I’m supposed to wear tonight and those sexy shoes. But he doesn’t own my head. I take out my own card, instead, and pay for the haircut with money I don’t have.
Pride is a bitch sometimes. It really is.
Then, well before I’m ready, it’s Sunday evening, and I’m shaving my legs for a dressy benefit that I really don’t want to go to.
“Are you done in the bathroom?” Neil calls through the door.
“Oh, hell no.” I haven’t even gotten to my makeup yet.
He snickers. “People warn you about marriage, but I never listened.”
Honestly, I don’t know what that man even needs the bathroom for. He looks fantastic from the moment he rolls out of bed in the morning until the moment he closes his eyes again at night.
“I can give you fifteen minutes,” I offer. “You can shower and shave while I have a cup of coffee. Then you have to vacate the bathroom and the bedroom, too.”
“You are a hell of a negotiator, but I’ll take that deal.”
Satisfied, I throw on his bathrobe and exit the room.
“Hey!” he complains. “Stealing my robe wasn’t included in the terms.”
“You’ll live,” I snap.
The truth is that I’m nervous about this thing tonight. I don’t like eyes on me, but lately they’ve been everywhere. The postgame press conference, especially Neil’s bit, is making the rounds on sports blogs and social media. And while I’m excited that the clip of my winning goal was retweeted five thousand times, the scrutiny makes me break out in hives.
Not literally, though, which is a good thing, because I’m about to show some skin at this benefit.
In the kitchen, I pour a cup of coffee and contemplate my makeup. I want to look devastating, but also classy. It’s a fine line.
Makeup is a hobby of mine. I’m good at it, which only goes to show that my talents lie in very impractical places. No woman ever got rich playing hockey or creating a perfect smoky eye.
“All yours,” Neil says, emerging in nothing but a towel, his tux on a hanger. “And by the way, you look exceedingly fuckable in my robe. Just saying.” He winks.
“I’ll accept the compliment,” I tell him. “But please let the robe know that it won’t be seeing any action tonight.”
“The robe is sad,” he says, giving me a puppy-dog face.
Ignoring that, I step past him to reclaim the bedroom and fabulous bathroom.
For a moment I’m tempted to put on my dark green dress I bought on sale at Macy’s last year for a Bombshells benefit. It has a flattering body-conscious shape, without showing any skin. But I wear it to literally every event that requires a dress.
Including a certain drunken night in Vegas. So the green dress needs a night off.
That leaves me with the exquisite blue silk designer gown that Vera brought over. I run a hand down fabric that slides between my fingertips like water.
I’ll never wear another dress like this, because it cost a staggering amount. More than three month’s rent. So it’s now or never. If I’m honest, I can’t wait to see Neil’s reaction to this version of Charli—the one who’s pampered and dressed in blue silk.