Chapter 5 Desiree Dixon

A Meal, a Drink or Two, a Dance, and Then…

My parents introduced me to the general manager as soon as we walked in, and my mom got involved with a conversation with the wife while my dad chatted up the husband, so I excused myself to the bar.

I start with a shot of vodka since I don’t know anybody here, and then I move onto my martini. I head over toward the silent auction tables to browse the items, and I’m reading about a couple’s weekend at the Red Rock Resort in Vegas when a woman in a black mermaid dress that’s fitted down to her knees walks up beside me.

“So sorry,” she says, and she grabs the pen to write down her bid on the auction item.

“Ellie Dalton,” I read off the list. “Are you related to the Dalton brothers?”

She nods. “Luke’s wife,” she says, and she sticks out her hand for me to shake.

“Lovely to meet you. I’m Desi Dixon, the new OC’s daughter.”

“Oh, right!” she says, and she leans in to give me a hug. “We’re so excited to welcome you to the Aces family.”

“Thank you,” I say. Luke Dalton is a legend. He was a wide receiver for the Aces for a decade, and he’s a household name even to families who don’t tune into football every weekend.

“I’d heard Coach Dixon had a daughter. Are you sitting with your parents tonight?”

I shake my head. “I was a last-minute addition.” I glance at the card I picked up when I walked in that boasts my table number along with the menu for tonight’s seven course meal featuring classic French dishes. “Table thirty-one.”

She presses her lips together. “Damn, we’re at fifty-seven.”

“Too bad,” I lament.

“So did you move here to Vegas, too?”

I shake my head. “No, I’m visiting for the weekend. I’m still in San Diego.”

“Well, look me up when you’re in town. Always happy to leave my children at home to meet a new friend for a drink.” She winks at me, and I chuckle, though knowing she has kids at home makes me feel like there’s a pretty big difference between the two of us.

She’s a mom, and I don’t even know if I want kids—never mind the fact that I don’t know a man who I’d want to knock me up with said kids.

“Will do,” I say warmly, and I see it before it happens.

She offers me a wide smile as she turns to walk away, and just as she turns, a waiter carrying a tray filled with champagne flutes walks by.

She crashes into him.

The tray drops to the floor, and champagne bounces everywhere, soaking the bottom of Ellie’s beautiful black dress. A bit of the liquid splashes in my direction, too, coating my feet with the sticky drink.

“I’m so sorry!” Ellie groans, and she asks the waiter, “Are you okay?”

He nods, apologizing profusely as he bends down to pick up what must be ten glasses of champagne. She turns to me and asks the same question since she doesn’t seem to be able to bend down in her dress that’s now wet.

“I’m fine,” I say, and I move over to help the waiter pick up the mess.

“No, ma’am,” he says to me. “We don’t want you to cut yourself.”

“It’s fine,” I say, though the second I pick up a piece of glass, sure enough, I cut my pointer finger. “Fuck,” I mutter.

It’s not bad—no worse than a paper cut, really. I straighten and excuse myself for the bathroom to wash my hands and feet.

Or, I try to.

This is one of those bathrooms with no paper towels and only hand dryers, so I grab some toilet paper and scrub at my feet the best I can as I hold another piece of toilet paper around my finger to get the bleeding to stop.

When I emerge from the bathroom fifteen minutes later, all I can do is hope nobody saw me walk in there, spend fifteen minutes, and walk out looking flushed. I can only imagine what they’d think.

I hear the announcement before I even walk back into the ballroom. “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. Dinner will be served shortly.”

My mom and dad are up front at table four, and I swing by to say hi on my way to the bar to grab one more drink before dinner.

I’m not the only one who had that idea, though. The line is ten people deep, and by the time I turn around with my drink in hand, I see the servers clearing plates after the first of the seven-course meal, an amuse-bouche consisting of a cheese puff with truffle butter.

Damn. That sounded good.

I practically run to my table, and I grab the only open seat. I see the cheese puff thing still sitting there, and I slip it into my mouth just as someone comes to clear my plate.

“Perfect timing,” I say triumphantly, holding my fist up in the air.

And then I glance around my table.

It appears I’m sitting with a bunch of football players and their spouses. There are ten chairs, and it’s a big enough table with enough noise surrounding me that there’s no way I can hold a conversation with someone across the table from me. I glance at each couple, and they all smile and wave, and finally I look at the man sitting to my right.

Our eyes connect, and…

Holy shit.

It’s Asher Nash .

I’m a huge football fanatic, and of course I know the Nash family. Who doesn’t? They’re household names.

And whoa.

He’s hot .

Not just, like, hot , but steamy, spicy, sexy, book boyfriend material hot.

He’s got dark hair that’s styled in a trendy sort of lazy way, and his blue eyes seem to hold me hostage. He looks surprised, and my eyes fall to his full lips that are slightly parted and the scruff peppering his strong jawline.

Holy hell. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a man up close like this that’s just so…so…so…gorgeous.

He’s wearing an obnoxious paisley gold jacket, and oddly, it’s the perfect complement to my dress, as if we planned the coloring even though we didn’t. I look around him at the woman on the other side of him, and she’s leaning in and kissing the man she’s with, so I assume she’s not his date. As they part, I see the man she was kissing is Grayson Nash.

I realize my father coaches for an NFL team, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a bit starstruck by these men.

Still, I pull it together. I act like I have no idea who he is.

“Oh, uh,” I stammer. “Is this seat taken?”

He chuckles. “It is now. I’m Asher.”

“Desiree,” I say, giving my full name rather than the shortened version everyone calls me by.

I leave out my last name on purpose. I can’t tell him that I’m the daughter of his new OC—especially because I’m interested, and there’s a very real possibility my father has already warned his players off dating his daughter.

He puts out his hand to shake mine, and as our palms touch and his eyes catch mine, a crackle of something sizzles between us.

He glances down at our joined hands, and he pulls mine up closer to inspect the cut on my finger. “What happened?”

“Champagne tray accident a few minutes ago,” I admit, and he chuckles.

He presses his lips to my fingertip, and it’s both oddly intimate and extremely hot. “All better.” He lets go of my hand and leans in playfully toward me. “Want to play the role of my date tonight?” He jerks his head at the woman next to him. “Everyone at this table is married, and they’re pretty much always doing, well, that.”

I chuckle even though heat rises up my back. The role of his date? Hell yes . “I think it’s sweet.”

He wrinkles his nose. “I was just sitting here hoping this seat would get taken so I had someone to talk to.”

“You’ve got me now,” I say. “And I’m interested in hearing more about what playing the role of your date would entail. Is it talking through dinner?” If it’s more of his lips on my fingertips, I’m in.

“Well, the seat you’re in was supposed to be for my date, and I gave it up at the last minute since I couldn’t really come up with someone I wanted to drag along to this. And now you’re sitting here, so it feels like fate.”

I roll my eyes. “Are you always this cheesy?”

He laughs. “See? You’re already calling me out on my shit. It’s like we were meant to be.”

I giggle. “Okay, so fate had us written in the stars.”

“Right. So we share a meal, maybe a drink or two. Dance the night away, and then…” His eyes are on mine, and his are getting darker and hotter.

Or maybe it’s my imagination.

Maybe it’s the shot plus the martini and a half.

But I want him to say something else—something that’ll take us past a meal, a drink, and dancing.

He wouldn’t be that forward, would he? I think I want him to be. I’ve heard about his reputation, and as sleazy as it sounds, part of me wants to be one of the women on the list of women he’s been with. He’s hot as hell, and my curiosity is piqued. I want to know if the rumors are true.

All of them.

Maybe this is my shot at a friends with benefits thing, or maybe he can be my Vegas hookup. I want to have the kind of Vegas experience that I can use to brag to my friends when I get home. I want the book boyfriend treatment in real life—the hot, bad boy football player with a bit of scruff and navy eyes taking a random woman he meets at a charity event somewhere private where they can bang.

I can tell that beneath that paisley jacket, he’s fit and trim. I’d love to snag a peek at the full package.

“And then?” I whisper, my eyes never leaving his.

“Your scallops, ma’am,” a server says, and I nearly jump out of my seat as he places the dish in front of me.

Shit. Right. Scallops. The second course. I pick at the prosciutto on the side of the scallops, avoiding the shellfish altogether.

“You don’t like scallops?” Asher asks, his voice deep and low.

“My dad’s allergic, and I saw his reaction once, so I’ve never tried them. I avoid eating mostly anything that swims.” I scrunch up my nose.

“Really? Even shrimp? Fuck, I love shrimp.” He licks his lip, and whoa, the dart of his tongue out to wet his bottom lip does something to me.

Something I’m not sure I’ve felt before. Something insane . Paired with the way he utters the word fuck , I’m not sure I’ve ever felt the pulse of need that throbs down low.

All I can think of is that tongue as it moves along my skin, his scruff leaving a delicious burn in its wake.

Well, that and the word fuck coming from his mouth while he performs the act of said word on me.

I suck in a deep breath, and I shake my head to answer his question.

He doesn’t ask, instead reaching over with his fork and stabbing my scallop. “Speaking of weird allergies, my brother’s allergic to mustard.” He shoves his fork in his mouth and savors the taste of my scallop.

I wish that was a euphemism for something, but sadly, it is what it is.

“Mustard?” I repeat.

“It’s not real common I guess.” He shrugs.

“What happens when he eats some?”

“It starts with an itch, but if it’s really severe, his mouth swells up and it can get pretty nasty. What was your dad’s reaction to scallops?” he asks.

I wrinkle my nose. How did we go from that sexual “and then” insinuation a moment ago to talking about how my dad reacts when he eats shellfish?

And what’s worse, I’m not about to admit he had diarrhea for days the last time he ate a scallop.

I clear my throat. “Stomach pain.”

Our plates are cleared, and for the third course, we’re served cream of wild mushroom soup.

It’s Asher’s turn to make a face. “Cream of mushroom? No thanks.” He pushes his bowl away as if the mere smell is upsetting to him.

“The cream or the mushrooms?” I ask as I dip my spoon into my bowl. I blow on the hot soup before I stick my tongue out to check the temperature, and then I take the spoon into my mouth.

His eyes are on my mouth through the entire process. I’m literally eating a bowl of soup, and he’s looking at me like he wishes he were my spoon.

And the longer I sit beside him, the more I want to make that particular dream a reality.