Prologue

PROLOGUE

DECEMBER

KATE

W ho knew dickheads could be so handsome?

Well, I do, and I'm looking at one right now.

I mean, really, who the fuck does he think he is?

First, he proposes we head back to his place for a night in bed, where he's oh so convinced he'll be the best I've ever had. And when I refuse to succumb to his apparent charm, he goes after someone else.

Just because I wore his jersey to the game tonight doesn't mean I'm going to instantly fall into bed with him.

Okay, there was a slim chance of that happening. But with the way he was so sure of himself and me , well, I wasn't handing anything over.

All this nonsense about jerseys and true love means nothing to me. Sure, he's hot, and I can't deny I've thought about what lies beneath those pads a time or two, but did he really think I was that easy? If I want to wear his jersey, then I'll wear it. There are thousands of jerseys in circulation, and not everyone who wears number eighty-eight automatically wants to get railed by the Scorpions goalie, despite what he might think.

And that's exactly what I said when I slid off his knee and told him to go fuck himself.

"Come on, babe. Why else would you be wearing my jersey? Let's get into it."

Ugh.

So I stormed to the bathroom and angrily fixed my blush before returning to the bar only to find Mr. Dickhead himself had moved on to another woman. A redhead with long, slender legs and a banging body, to be precise. She looks younger than me, too. At least five years, and with me being thirty-four, the fact that he's moving onto a younger model makes me feel even worse.

Is that all I was worth? A quick attempt to get me between the sheets? We're supposed to be part of the same friend group; all he wanted was to use me and then throw me away. I might enjoy casual sex from time to time, but I want him to at least work for it. One-night stands are not my thing.

So here I am, alone in a bar and sipping on a mojito of rejection.

"He's not even that hot," I grumble under my breath as I take another mouthful.

"Oh, I don't know. I don't think I'm bad looking," a deep voice says from behind me.

Slowly, I turn to locate the source.

Hmmm, not bad. Tall, dark, handsome, and probably younger than me.

I cautiously glance to my left and see Mr. Dickhead's hand has now found Red's lower back.

Yeah, well, two can play that game.

I take another sip of my cocktail and smile sweetly up at him. "No, I suppose you aren't."

He smiles and then leans down to whisper in my ear, and I instantly detect the strong smell of booze on his breath.

I'm mad at myself. Playing games to make Jensen Jones jealous has already backfired on me.

Ignoring completely what this guy has to say, I glance over at Mr. Dickhead once more. His back is to me as he stands at the high-top table with his arm now fully wrapped around Red's waist, and I can tell that look he has on his face because it's the look he was giving me not a half hour earlier.

But what really annoys me more than anything is the fact that I'm bothered. That I'm even the slightest bit affected by his attention being anywhere other than on me.

I might be loud and sometimes a bit brash, but I'm not an attention seeker, and I definitely do not want the attention of this guy standing next to me. So why do I want Jensen's?

"I'm Todd. What's your name, sweetheart?"

I fight back an eye roll and take another sip of my drink, swirling my straw around to mix the mint leaves. "Kate," I reply in a clipped tone.

He hums in appreciation and steps even closer. My back is against the bar, and he's standing in front of me. Another few inches and his body will be pressing into mine. "Are you here alone, Kate?" he asks in a lecherous voice.

Alone? I fucking hate that word. It frames my life.

I look up at him and narrow my eyes. "Why do you ask? Does it affect your next move?"

He chuckles quietly. "Well, if you're here with another guy, then yes."

"No guy with me. But I have no plans on leaving with someone tonight."

I look over at Jensen again. He still has his hand above Red's ass and his back firmly to me, like I don't even exist.

"Can I do anything to change your mind?"

I shake my head. "No. I don't leave with strangers."

"I wouldn't say I'm a stranger anymore."

Fuck me, Kate. You really got yourself into something here.

I pat him on the shoulder and go to turn my back, but just as I do, I catch a flash of red moving across the bar.

He's fucking taking her home.

Right in front of me.

Bastard.

I fight to close my gaping jaw at the audacity of this man just as he looks over his shoulder and throws me a wink and a goddamn grin.

His tousled dark hair falls over his tanned forehead, and his deep brown eyes sparkle with satisfaction. And when he throws me what I know is a faux sweet smile, the dimple in his right cheek pops. He's twenty feet away from me, but I know it's there. And it pisses me off.

He pisses me off.

Jensen Jones is officially at the top of my shit list.

But as I turn to face the bar fully and wave at the barman to bring me another drink, I wish I could hold onto my rage.

Through the mass of people rammed into Riley's Bar, I can still make out the way he helps the redhead into her jacket and then throws his arm over her shoulder. The streetlights outside make it unmissable.

That really fucking hurts.

He really fucking hurts.

Vulnerability shoots through me. We might be part of the same friend group, and my best friend might be dating his captain, but I'll never go near Jensen Jones again.

That man is dead to me.