Prologue
Four years ago
Maxwell
Beautiful.
I normally hate when the guys drag me out to bars; they just aren’t my scene. But Gavin is back in town and I couldn’t say no without looking like an asshole, so I gave in.
Then I saw her and my entire outlook changed. I wanted to beeline straight over to her and ask for her name and number, but I couldn’t. Talking a little trash on the field I can do, but even just the thought of walking up to a woman and asking for her number makes my palms sweat. So I did the next best thing: I sat at the bar, knowing she’d at least have to take my order.
“Maxwell, right?” Brynn slides my old-fashioned in front of me. She tucks in the piece of hair that fell from the bun on top of her head and smiles.
And that smile? I almost forget how to answer her question. Her smile is so bright and genuine, it takes her already beautiful face and transforms it to stunning.
“Yeah, and you’re Brynn, Gavin has told me all about you.” Well, he told me about HERS and how she’s been there for Marlee, but he left out the part where she could put any model to shame, even in the sneakers and ripped jeans she’s wearing.
“Don’t listen to anything he says,” she jokes. “Marlee drank that tequila of her own accord, and I had nothing to do with it.”
“I haven’t heard anything about tequila, but that sounds like a story I need to hear more of,” I say and shock myself. I’m not a small talk kind of guy. Usually, I just order whiskey and find a spot in the corner to occupy until I have fulfilled my time. But for some reason, Brynn has me sitting at the bar, wanting to talk until she has to kick me out.
“Oh, I might have to keep you around forever for that.” Pink instantly colors her cheeks. “I mean, I won’t keep you forever, that’d be creepy and maybe even illegal. I just have a lot of stories to tell. Not that I’m a gossip, I just like to talk.” She squeezes her eyes shut, and fuck if she isn’t cute on top of being drop-dead gorgeous. How is it even possible for her to get flustered? “Let’s just pretend that word vomit didn’t happen.”
“I’m not sure I could ever forget anything you do.” I take a sip of my old-fashioned, holding eye contact with Brynn as I do.
This woman.
I can’t put my finger on one thing, but I know in my bones that she’s going to turn my world upside down.
One
Present day
Brynn
How did I get here?
I look around my little bar. When I found this building, I had hoped HERS would bring in a moderate crowd and not put me in bankruptcy court. Now it’s packed to the brim with reality stars and professional athletes. I never imagined that hiring Marlee would get me here, but holy shit am I glad it did.
“Hey, Brynn,” Maxwell Lewis—with his brown eyes that I swear can see to my soul, and full lips that always look so soft and sweet—says, sliding into the barstool across from me. “Wild night.”
I smile my brightest lipstickless smile at him and try to not let his overall sexiness cause me to forget how to speak. “Yeah, it’s a little crowded.”
Understatement of the century.
Tonight is the premiere of Love the Player, the newest reality show on TV following the lives of a handful of Denver Mustangs WAGS—wives and girlfriends of sports players, if you’ve been living under the same rock I was. I assumed the viewing party would be in LA or Miami or someplace super glamorous, but the producers thought since so much of the drama happens at HERS, this was the perfect place to host the party.
Knowing how much publicity I’m going to get from this show sends a thrill up my spine.
Being a “female-centered bar” is a concept not a ton of people understand, but now it won’t need to be explained, it will be seen, nationwide.
Fucking amazing.
I never thought I’d love Aviana and her flair for the dramatic so much. I’ve practically been floating in my Vans all day long. When photographers from a major magazine came to take behind-the-scenes photos and started snapping shots of the bar I spent blood, sweat, tears, and my entire life savings on, I almost wept.
And now, as the cherry on top of the already decadent sundae that’s becoming my life, I get to talk to Maxwell Lewis, defensive back extraordinaire, whom I’ve been crushing on since he walked into HERS all those years ago, despite the fact that getting him to talk in a group setting is like pulling teeth.
If you know me, you know I don’t do boyfriends and I most certainly do not do crushes.
I’m too old and jaded to act like a twelve-year-old girl anymore. But there’s always an exception to the rule. And Maxwell is my four-years-and-counting exception. Plus, I’m always listening to my friends and their stories with entirely too much information. Now I can’t look at Maxwell without thinking he probably really knows how to lay down the D. I’m also totally on board for a friends-with-benefits situation, something I assume a professional athlete is very familiar with.
“How’d you get talked into coming to this tonight?” I ask, doing my best flirty eyes and trying to squeeze together my barely there cleavage. “You don’t seem like the typical reality show fan.”
Ever since our first encounter, whenever he comes to HERS, I try my hardest to get him to flirt with me. And I think maybe, in his quiet Maxwell style, him sitting at the bar is him flirting.
He watches me through thick, dark lashes that I know women pay for, and his throaty chuckle, which I’ve come to the conclusion is so raspy because he never does it, washes over me. “I’m not. But I promised Crosby I’d swing by, he wanted this to be perfect for Aviana and thought a big showing of his teammates would help out.”
“That’s nice of you.” I pull out the lowball glasses I bought just for this event. “Being around the Lady Mustangs without all the extras of tonight can be draining. I feel like Crosby might owe you one.” I place an old-fashioned he didn’t order in front of him. I know it’s not exactly playing it coy, memorizing his drink order and all, but I’m not ashamed to let him know I see him and I’m interested.
“Well, if I get to spend the night talking to you, I think I’ll owe him,” he says, his light brown eyes never leaving mine.
My stomach does backflips like I climbed onto a roller coaster and just went spiraling toward the ground.
In a room filled with women who have literally been cover girls, Maxwell’s attention is on me. And even more than that, he’s not the kind of guy who says things he doesn’t mean. In all the years I’ve known him, he’s never been this forward. I don’t know what changed, but I’m not mad at it.