I’m impressed.
My phone buzzes and I check to find a message from Eleanor.
I’m coming to the lobby right now! OMG I can’t believe this is finally happening!
I can’t help but smile at the enthusiasm in her text. I hope she’s pleased when she actually sees me. I’m not drop-dead handsome like Clay, our pretty boy QB, but I’m not a troll. More than anything, I hope she doesn’t recognize me.
Shit. Glancing about the room, I check the crowd around me, but no one’s paying me any attention. The light is so dim in here, they might not recognize me anyway.
Not that I’m an attention whore or anything, but I’ve welcomed fans’ attention in the past. Tonight, I want no one to realize who I am. I want to avoid the celebrity recognition at all costs.
Shoving my hands in my pockets, I pace around, scanning the room every other second. I’m agitated. Anxious. Full of adrenaline. All the A words. I run a hand through my hair, hoping it looks good. Discreetly sniff near my armpits, making sure the sudden sweat that’s come upon me isn’t making me stink. I took a long, hot shower before I left the apartment. I might’ve even jerked off—news flash, I did jerk off.
So what the hell is wrong with me? Why am I feeling this way over a woman I barely know?
Swear to God, I feel her before I actually see her. The air in the room shifts, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Slowly I turn, just in time to see a blonde dynamo making her way toward me, a giant smile on her face.
Seeing that smile in person hits me like a ton of bricks. Damn, she’s beautiful. She’s wearing a cream-colored dress with sprigs of pink flowers scattered all over it. It has this square neckline that shows off her tits in the most perfect way possible. And the skirt is short, giving me a view of long, tanned legs.
“Mitch,” she calls, appearing as if she’s about to break into a run. But she glances down at her high-heeled sandals and reconsiders her options, I suppose.
No running. I can’t blame her.
“Eleanor,” I say when she stops directly in front of me, tilting her head back. “You look—gorgeous.”
Her cheeks turn pink and she leans a little to the right. “Thank you. I bought this dress special. Special for the bachelorette weekend.”
“I like it.” My gaze can’t help but settle on her ample cleavage. “A lot.”
“Are you talking to my boobs?” she asks, amusement tingeing her voice.
I lift my gaze to hers, hoping she’s not pissed. But no. The pleasant expression on her face tells me she’s not. “Sorry. They’re just…”
“So on display? I know. I thought maybe I shouldn’t wear it, but then I told myself, nah. Who cares if your tits fall out?” She starts laughing.
I laugh too. Who is this woman? I like her.
I like her a lot.
“We should hug,” she says once her laughter dies, and before I can say anything, she practically stands on top of my shoes and wraps herself around me. My arms go automatically around her waist, and I realize she fits perfectly against me. The scent of her shampoo reaches my nostrils and I breathe deep, savoring the fruity smell. “You are extremely tall.”
“That’s how my mom and dad made me,” I tease.
“And you smell really good.” She reluctantly pulls away, tilting her head back so her gaze meets mine. I haven’t released my hold on her waist, and her skin is so warm. Everything about her is inviting. As in, she’s giving me really positive vibes. “Want to get a drink?”
I raise my brows. “How many have you had?”
She shrugs, and the sleeve of her dress threatens to fall off. “A few.”
Releasing my hold on her, I grab her sleeve and push it back into place, my fingers tingling from where they made contact with her smooth skin. “You’re not drunk, are you?”
“Noooo. Maybe a little buzzed, but I’m not sloppy drunk.” She takes my hand and starts leading me out of the massive lobby. “Let’s go find a bar.”
I follow after her, letting her take me. I see more than a few people do a doubletake as I pass by them, and I silently send up a prayer that no one will recognize me or approach us.
I’ll have some explaining to do if that happens, and I don’t want that. Not yet.
Not tonight.
The corridor Eleanor is taking me down is wide, with lots of shops and restaurants. The shops are closed, though the restaurants are still open and full of people. She comes to a stop in front of a bar, a pink neon sign above it saying Wild in cursive.
She turns to smile up at me. “Is this okay? Maybe we can find a table inside and talk.”
“Sounds good to me,” I say easily.
We somehow find a small table tucked into the far side of the bar, where it’s so dark I can barely see her. The only light we have is from a votive candle in the center of the tiny, round table we’re sitting at. My knees knock against hers as we settle in and she laughs, resting her hand briefly on my thigh.
Her touch goes straight to my dick—no surprise.
“You’re too big for the table,” she says with a little laugh.
I’d like to show her how I’m too big, but I don’t want to push too hard, too fast. But damn. Just being near her is making my body light up like a Christmas tree. I stare at her lips. They’re still that peachy color I remember from our FaceTime call, only they’re shinier. Like she’s got some gloss on.
I want to lick it off her.
Taking a deep breath, I shove all dirty thoughts to the darkest corner of my mind and try to focus on what she’s saying.
“…and the dinner was so delicious. I can’t even believe the man my friend is marrying owns this hotel,” she says, waving her hand around.
“Wait a minute,” I say, and she stops talking, her wide-eyed gaze meeting mine. “Your friend is marrying the dude who owns this entire hotel?”
“Yes! Isn’t it crazy? Well, his family owns the hotel chain, not just him. His name is Alex Wilder, and he’s going to take over the entire corporation someday. He’s like the vice president or something.” She glances around the bar, her face full of wonder before her gaze returns to mine. “Can you imagine owning something as big as this? Multiple times over?”
“No, I can’t.” I think of the owners of NFL franchises. What’s that like, being able to own an actual sports team? That’s some mad money right there.
“Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to be filthy rich.” There’s so much longing in her voice, I can’t help but lean toward her, wanting to hear more. “I’m not complaining. I do well for myself. I make decent money being a hairstylist. But I will never know what it’s like to be a millionaire.”
I do. I know what that’s like. I’m a millionaire many times over. I’m not the highest paid linebacker in the NFL, but I’ve been at it for a while, and while I know I’m looking at my career ending here in the next season or two, I am set up very comfortably, thanks to the giant contract I signed after my first season with the Raiders.
I’m a lucky bastard and I know it.
“Money isn’t everything,” I tell her, and it’s easy for me to say that. I have more than I could ever spend in my lifetime. Well, I could run right through it if I was a complete idiot who bought expensive cars and giant mansions for my friends and family. But I haven’t done that. I don’t plan on doing it either.