His strong hands kneading at the arches of my feet feels so good, I struggle to keep my eyes open. The only thing going through my mind is how thankful I am that I decided not to wear my stinky, old Converses to the game.
“You were right, Retta is the shit,” he says through laughter, catching me staring at his hands on my feet.
“Told you so,” I say, pretending he didn’t catch me staring.
One of his hands pulls away and I suppress the urge to groan in disappointment and beg him to keep going. But then, he leans over, his finger gently grazing the side of my face as he tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear. All of the air inside my lungs evaporates and my chest burns with the need to breathe, but I can’t. My body has suddenly forgotten how to do anything except stare at this gorgeous man and accept any attention he’s willing to show me.
We hold eye contact for a moment—or an eternity, who really knows, because it’s a proven fact that time ceases to exist in the monumental moments in life. The air around us thickens and my hands begin to tingle with the need to reach for him. My lips part, preparing for his mouth, and my eyes flutter shut as the space between us slowly becomes smaller and smaller.
“Maxwell!” booms a familiar voice before the doorbell starts chiming and a fist connects with his door. “I brought pizza and wings, and if you don’t let us in soon, Poppy’s going to decorate your rosebushes from being stuck in the car with the food.”
“Hurry!” Ace’s small voice calls out. “You gotta see how green she turns!”
Ace’s voice lacks any indication that he is concerned for his mother. Instead, the glee in his tone holds the fascination that is possible only in a tween boy when it comes to bodily fluids.
“Fuck,” Maxwell mutters, rubbing a frustrated hand over his short hair. “Here I come.” He jogs to the front door and makes quick work of the locks.
“I’m so sorry,” Poppy says, pushing past him and taking off down the hallway, the bathroom door slamming behind her, but her gagging and retching still notable from my spot on the couch.
If I ever wondered before, I now know for sure that the sound of your friend vomiting is an extremely effective mood killer.
“Crap, Ace, cover your eyes!” TK runs in front of Ace when he sees me. “Did we interrupt something here?” He wiggles his eyebrows, and Ace starts giggling uncontrollably behind him.
And your friend’s obnoxious husband can ruin what was left of it.
Fifteen
I fucking hate high heels.
I have fancy tennis shoes.
But when I told Vonnie that, she threatened to find me and beat the term out of me.
I told her that I’m working the auction, not actually participating in it, and I needed to be comfortable.
She told me if I showed up in bedazzled tennis shoes, she’d pull all business from HERS.
So here I am, looking like a newborn giraffe, tripping all over my restaurant and spilling copious amounts of alcohol all because of the torture devices some masochist decided to call fashion that are strapped to my feet.
And the event hasn’t even started yet.
“Damn, maybe you should’ve worn the tennis shoes,” Vonnie says, eyeing me with both concern and embarrassment.
“I know where you live and I will hurt you while you sleep, Lavonne Lamar.”
“Touchy, touchy.” She tsks.
I’d go after her with my bare hands right now, but there’s no way I could catch her.
The crashing and subsequent sound of shattering glass gives Vonnie the distraction she needs to escape my wrath.
“Shit, sorry!” Vince yells, swiping his unruly hair underneath his baseball cap and lifting up the now-ineffective stage light.
I close my eyes and count to ten. Despite all of my planning for this night, I conveniently forgot this would be filmed for Love the Player. I’ve gotten to know the crew over the past few months they’ve been in and out for filming. I love them, and most of the time they don’t have mountains of equipment, but for an event like tonight’s, they brought enough to film a Hollywood movie. And these lights are going to give me a heatstroke.
“Fuck it,” I mutter beneath my breath, yanking off my heels and marching to my office, where I have a pair of UGG slippers tucked away. “Okay, what do you need me to do?” I ask when I return.
“Oh hell no,” Vonnie yells, eyes laser focused on my sheepskin-covered feet. “I forbid you to wear those monstrosities!”
“It’s my bar! You can’t forbid me to do anything in here. I can’t wear the heels during setup, I’m fucking useless. When we’re done, I’ll change.” I swing a broom at her to prevent her from physically removing the slippers from my feet. “Now go do whatever you were doing and let me sweep up the glass before one of the players comes in, slices their feet, is out for the season, and you’re blacklisted.”
She narrows her false-lash-adorned eyes at me. “I don’t trust you,” she says, turning back to the step and repeat she’s been perfecting.
Eh. I can deal with that.
“All right, Vinny-boy. Let’s get this glass cleaned up before you get us all sued.”
* * *
—
IF I WASN’T part of the setup, I’m not sure I’d be convinced I was still in HERS.
My usually laid-back and welcoming bar is being manned by giant security guards the Mustangs organization provided. There is a booth with five young men in khakis and crisp white polos providing valet parking for the throngs of luxury cars starting to arrive.
The entryway looks as if the outside has been brought inside. The wall is covered in greenery with the Mustangs logo made out of orange flowers Vonnie had shipped in from California. A group of about ten photographers chat while snapping pictures of guests as they begin to filter in.
The ceiling can barely be seen behind the white lanterns strung over our heads and the twinkling lights dancing like stars. The TVs are running a slideshow with the names of all of the sponsors who helped make tonight possible. Everything turned out better than I could’ve imagined, which is saying a lot considering it’s all I’ve thought about since I signed the contract.
“Are you going to put these drinks on the menu, or is this a onetime thing?” Aviana drains the last drops of her Dreamsicle—an orange Creamsicle-inspired cocktail—from the bottom of her Mustangs-etched martini glass. “Because I’ve been trying really hard not to get drunk on camera, but I’ll make an exception if I have to stock up on these.”
Not getting drunk on camera is a second-season rule she came up with. During the first season, they took a trip to Miami to watch an away game. Aviana got so drunk and caused so much drama, they stretched it into two episodes. I thought it was brilliant. Aviana was understandably mortified.