20. Pink

Pink

I had a deep aversion to suits.

Always had, ever since my first visit to the tailor when I’d been a kid. The old man had poked and prodded at me for an hour, which might as well have been a lifetime to a seven-year-old. Suits were reserved for unfortunate occasions—funerals, fundraisers, and formal dinners with foreign dignitaries.

My least favorite F words.

I didn’t even wear them on game days, much to the disappointment of our coaching staff who demanded professionalism both on and off the field. That included our finest wares before and after every game. Thankfully, I had gotten away with slacks and sweaters so far this season, mostly because the bulk of my sweater collection rivaled a crossover between Harry Styles and a Ralph Lauren catalog. Apart from the Barbie-pink mohair one featuring a collage of tastefully nude bodies.

Management had fined me for that one, but the designer had emailed me the next day to express her gratitude for wearing her clothes, so it was still a win in my book.

The only suits I fucked with these days were saved for the pool and the occasional hand of poker.

But tonight was a special occasion.

I stepped out of the limo and straightened my tie for the fourth time in twenty minutes. Why was I so nervous? This wasn’t my first date. This wasn’t even my first date with Nessa. Yet here I was, quivering like a virgin on prom night.

Only Nessa could do that—make me feel anxious and excited and, sometimes, a little sick all at once. A thrilling combination that paired well with rainstorms and rutabagas.

Still, nothing could have prepared me for that text message.

That fucking photo .

It was tattooed on my brain alongside the taste of her lips from the day we’d kissed and the sound of her moan when she came.

I had always been attracted to Nessa’s body, but until today, I had never seen her in anything less than a crop top. Even the night she’d dry-humped the shit out of me, I had only felt her bare skin. Was it actually dry-humping, though, if one of us had been naked below the waist?

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I answered it after the third ring.

“Can’t talk right now, Belles.”

“Did you know that in her prime, a queen bee can lay an egg every forty-three seconds?”

“Wow. That sounds . . . exhausting.”

I leaned against the car, waving off the driver when he came around to get the door.

“I told my date that today and he thought it was weird.”

“Hold up. Your date?”

Bella barely talked about dating. Ever. As long as I could remember, she had always been too caught up in her schooling and hobbies to pay any attention to dating. That hadn’t stopped the guys from chasing after her—or our mother from foisting her on every “nice guy” she came across.

“Jeremy,” she said very matter-of-fact. “We met at the science department mixer. I must have mentioned him.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It doesn’t matter now. I don’t plan on going out with him again. He’s a slurper.”

“A slurper?”

“He slurps his food. Like, all his food.”

To be fair, that might have been a deal breaker for me, too. Soup was one thing, but a banana or handful of cashews? Straight to jail.

“Don’t worry about it, Belles. There are plenty more bees in the hive, so to speak.”

“Speaking of hives, I talked to Mom, and—”

I loved my sister more than life itself, but whatever story she was about to tell me about our mother and beehives was lost on me the second Nessa stepped out of the house wearing that blue dress.

I would never look at the color the same way ever again.

Holy. Fuck.

The dress was both elegant and sexy, molded to every delectable curve and swell of her body like it had been painted on. Oh, what a canvas she would make. Her generous breasts spilled over the heart-shaped neckline, barely held up by a jeweled spaghetti strap on either shoulder.

The slit in her skirt was the real showstopper.

Her entire left leg was exposed, from the toe of her silver heel to the— fuck me sideways —black-and-silver garter holding up her stocking. It was going to take every ounce of willpower to make it through this evening without sliding my hand up that slit and reaching for heaven between her thighs.

“Are you even listening?” Bella asked.

“Not even a little bit.” My eyes never wavered from Nessa. “Gotta go, Belles. I’ve got a hot date.”

I hung up before she could protest.

“A hot date, huh?” Nessa asked. Her apricot, glossy lips called out to me, begging for a kiss.

“The hottest.” She blushed under my gaze. “You’re stunning.”

“Thank you. You don’t look too shabby yourself, baseball boy.”

“Shall we?”

I opened the limo door for her. When she placed her hand in mine, it was like an electrical shock straight to my dick—the good kind. This was going to be a long night.

“I have to know,” I said, just as she ducked her head inside the car. “Are you still wearing them?”

She smiled coyly. “Wearing what?”

“Angel, you know what.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Yes,” I answered honestly. “Yes, I fucking would.”

To nobody’s surprise, the benefit was a massive success. Between the event staff’s efforts and the masterful social media push helmed by Clarke and Dani, the event had sold out within twenty-four hours.

For three hours, we had wined, dined—on something delicious, though suspiciously green—and danced the night away with sports fans from across the Pacific Northwest, all of whom were invested in both celebrating our successful first season and raising money for charity.

Personally, I could have done with a few less photo opportunities, but if that was what it took to buy the kids new sporting equipment, I’d rub Vaseline on my teeth and pose until midnight. So long as my feet could last that long—these shoes were killing me.

“The answer is no.”

We had been trying—and failing miserably—to talk Diaz into doing the Buns of Steel bachelor auction for nearly half an hour. He still wasn’t convinced.

“C’mon, man,” I pressed. “Everybody’s doing it.”

“Even me,” Soren added.

“Only because Clarke made you,” I teased.

“Don’t let the Southern belle act fool you. She’s an excellent negotiator.” His meaning was clearer than the crystal Champagne flutes.

I followed his gaze across the room, toward the trio of women on the opposite end of the ballroom.

At first glance, they couldn’t have been more different from each other. Whereas Clarke was a pastel princess, decked head to toe in a Tiffany’s blue dress with a high neckline that showed off her shoulders, Dani looked like the evil queen. She had traded out her electric-blue mullet for (what I assumed was) her natural jet-black color and had trimmed it pixie short. Her backless gown left little to the imagination.

I still hadn’t figured out which of my teammates she had been hooking up with or if they were even still a thing, but something told me this dress was a message, a warning without a label. Lord help him, whoever he was, because Dani was dressed to kill.

And then, there was Nessa, my angel is blue.

We had barely talked all night, each of us too caught up in conversations and canapés, but that hadn’t stopped me from always keeping an eye on her. As if feeling the weight of my gaze on her now, she flicked a glance over her shoulder, smiling when her sparkling green eyes met mine.

“Peer pressure won’t work on me, mi pana .” Diaz tilted his Champagne flute toward me. “We watched that same ‘say no to drugs’ video in Puerto Rico.”

I turned back to my teammates. “What if I can guarantee some grade A, high-quality man meat?”

“Please,” Diaz said, cocking a brow. “You think I need help catching a dick?”

“Just trying to help you out, man.”

He finished the rest of his drink before asking, “How high-quality are we talking?”

Perfect. One more name to add to Nessa’s list.

A soft hand grazed across my back at the same time as Clarke came around Soren’s side. “What are y’all talking about?” she asked.

“Pink’s trying to convince Diaz to do the bachelor auction thing.”

I reached my arm around, snagging Nessa around the waist and drawing her to my side. Pleasure rocketed through my body when she shivered under my touch. Her skin was delicate, a stark contrast to my callused palms. I loved it when she let me touch her, even more when she leaned into my touch, silently asking for more.

“That’s wonderful.” Clarke turned her attention my way. “I know you throw a mean curveball, Jared, but you might have missed your calling as a salesman.”

“Eh, talk to me about it again when I’m thirty.”

“Seriously, first the festival donation, and then the auction—”

“Wait, what?” Nessa asked.

Fuck.

“Jared matched the Roasters’ donation for the festival.”

Nessa searched my face. “You did that?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“He also talked all of us into volunteering,” Soren added, shifting his eyes away from my withering stare. So much for what happened in the locker room, stayed in the locker room.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke apologized. Her eyes bounced between the two of us. “I assumed you knew.”

I tracked her and Soren’s escape from the corner of my eye. It wasn’t Clarke’s fault for spilling the beans. The truth was bound to come out at some point; I just wished it had come from me.

“Let me explain,” I told her, spinning her in my arms until she faced me. “I would have donated to the festival either way. Rose City has been good to me, so it was the least I could do. As far as the volunteers go, Clarke mentioned to Soren that you were having trouble finding people, so I may have talked a few of the guys into pitching in—”

“More than a few.”

“—but it’s only because I know how much the festival means to you, which is a fraction of how much you mean to me, so—”

She yanked my lips down to hers, fusing us together without another word. This was the moment I had been dreaming about since the first time we’d kissed, only this time was just for us.

This should have been our first kiss.

My palms grazed her torso, pausing only when they met the bottom curve of her breasts. I swallowed her gasp of surprise, using my tongue to tease her lips open.

“ Mmmm ,” she moaned into my mouth. Our tongues vibrated in tandem. I longed to see what else that tongue could do.

But not now, not here.

This wasn’t the time and place. We had spent the past month putting on a show—for her friends, for my teammates—and tonight was closing night. The show was over.

“I want you, Jared,” she whispered against my lips, her eyes glazed with need. “Take me home.”

She snaked a hand beneath my blazer, scraping her manicured fingers down my chest, inching dangerously close to my belt buckle. Oh, angel, you’re asking for it.

And I was going to give it to her.

“We’re leaving. Now.”