Never again.
She couldn’t force the words out, though.
When she sat silent, he lifted a shoulder. “Don’t stress, Rhi. I have to go meet a friend right now.” He named a downtown bar she was somewhat familiar with. “Someone recommended that place to me. I’ll be there tonight, around eight. Since you like to track me down so much, if you make a decision, come there and let me know if you’re ready to roll.”
She rose to her feet when he did, the words that finally emerged from her mouth blessedly strong and assertive. “Or I’ll call you.”
His look was filled with kind humor, like he knew she’d come find him over calling him. “Whatever you’d like. I’ll be there no matter what.”
She pursed her lips, trying to figure out if there was some double meaning behind his words. Was he trying to impress upon her that he was man of his word? Well, too bad. Nothing would help her learn to trust him again except his behavior.
She followed him to the door, and opened it for him. He nodded to her as he left. “I look forward to hearing from you, Rhi.” The intimate use of her nickname made her toes curl. How could such polite words sound like a sexy veiled threat?
She watched him walk away, trying not to stare too hard at his butt, but what else was one supposed to look at when a hot man was walking away from you?
Aw, shit. The truth hit her like a tidal wave.
She was going to sleep with him again.
Yeah, yeah, she didn’t sleep with the same dude twice, she didn’t fuck with zombies. Her dating rules were going to go out the window with this guy. She could feel it. Gawd, maybe soon he’d send her a dick pic and she’d find it charming, thus cancelling every rule she’d ever made for herself.
She shuddered. Let’s not go that far.
Fine. She might sleep with him again. But she’d do it on her terms. It would be within her control.
He disappeared from view as he descended the stairs that took him down to the exit, taking his bubble butt with him. That was when she realized a good dozen curious eyes were staring at her, the office chatter definitely at a lower volume than what it usually was. She frowned, and that was enough for everyone to get back to work. Or pretend to get back to work.
Everyone except Lakshmi, of course, who came clipping up to her in stilettos. “Were the layers a good idea?”
“Yeah,” Rhiannon said. The lipstick hadn’t been bulletproof, so if she did see Samson tonight, she’d add a couple extra layers first. At the very least, she’d wear a pair of pants with buttons, and not these threadbare sweats. “Get Suzie and the rest of marketing into the conference room in five. We have an interesting opportunity in front of us.”
Chapter Eleven
SHOULD HAVE given her a more specific time frame.
Samson sipped his second soda and tried not to stare at the entrance. He’d selected this place because it was dimly lit and intimate, a speakeasy tucked inside an unassuming restaurant. He’d chosen a booth in the corner. It was still early enough that not many people were drinking at the bar. He and Rhiannon could talk here.
If she showed up. He checked his watch again. She could easily vanish on him, he told himself, trying to manage his expectations.
Samson internally grimaced at the memory of her expression when he’d said he’d be interested in something personal developing between them again. That Night, when he’d asked to see her again, she hadn’t looked that conflicted. Her agreement had been hesitant, but it had come. He truly hated that she’d taken a chance on him, on doing something she didn’t normally do, and he’d let her down.
His mother had been a gentle soul, and she’d been the one he’d gone to for dating advice, from the time he was old enough to understand why he felt some kind of way about a girl. Especially once he hit his late teens and his father’s personality had undergone a drastic reversal.
He remembered one epic lecture when he’d come home and told Lulu his ninth-grade crush had reacted in what he thought was an unreasonable way to something he’d said and started crying. First Lulu had dissected exactly all the way his words had been harmful, and then really lit into him.
Every time you hurt someone, you break off a little piece of them. Not only do they have to live with that broken piece, then the next person who comes along has to figure out a way to spackle that spot. Your behavior has ripple effects.
He owed Rhi for the piece he’d broken off her. This campaign might possibly make up for some of that. It would help her and Crush, which she seemed to love above all else.
Yes, he wanted her. But he’d meant what he’d said, and he wasn’t going to pressure her for anything more than a business relationship. If she decided that she couldn’t stand being around him without them both getting naked, well . . .
He snorted to himself. Fat chance of that happening, but it was a nice fantasy. His phone vibrated, and he pulled it out, frowning at the unfamiliar New York City area code on the screen. He had it set to Do Not Disturb for unknown callers, so it had gone straight to voice mail.
It wasn’t particularly loud in the bar, but his hearing wasn’t the best—another souvenir of his former profession—so he pressed one finger in one ear to hear the message. “Hey, Samson. This is Trevor. Trevor Sanders? I’m sorry to cold-call you like this, but I saw that you were back in the public eye and I was hoping to speak with you about this exciting new organization I’m starting. I’m going to be in L.A. soon and would love to sit down with you and talk. Or you can text me. Whatever works for you. Looking forward to hearing from you.”
His phone creaked under his tight grip and he eased up. This fucking asshole. Trevor. Trevor Sanders?
Like he wouldn’t know who Trevor was. Former star quarterback of the Brewers. Blond haired, handsome, that stupid Colgate smile. The most expensive caps money could buy.
He sent a group text to Dean and Harris. Did one of you give my number to Trevor?
The denials were instant.
Nope.
Nah, man.
He rubbed his finger over his lips. Okay, thanks. He called me. I have nothing to say to him. Don’t give him any info about me, and tell anyone else the same thing.
The bubble popped up under Harris’s name. I didn’t give him your number, but I have talked to him recently. He didn’t give me all the details, but I guess he’s setting up some kind of nonprofit to help retired players.
Dean’s reply came before Samson could finish his text. Don’t care what he’s doing, he’s a dick for what he’s done. S, next time he calls, forward it to me.
Harris answered. Oh yeah. Not saying he’s not a dick for the past.
Warmth ran through Samson. He didn’t need protection, but it was nice to feel the brotherly camaraderie from men he’d known for forever.
Samson tapped back his reply. I’ll be fine. Let’s meet up for lunch soon.
“Is this seat taken?”
He jerked, his phone slipping away from him. “You’re quite the butterfingers, aren’t you?” Rhi remarked and bent over to scoop his phone up off the floor. “I guess I should be glad that wasn’t wine.”
He stood. “Literally no one’s ever called me clumsy before.”
She uttered an amused noise. Their fingers touched when she handed over his phone, and maybe it was his imagination, but he swore her gaze lingered on his hands.