Page 7 of Kiss Me Tonight

“The guy’s a goddamn legend.” That full mouth of his ticks up in a lazy grin. “Asshole or not, he knows the game inside and out. You can’t deny that.”

Sure, I can’tdenyit. But knowing the game doesn’t give him a free pass for everything he’s done off the field. I mean, this is the same player who told my ex-husband that Rick could offer him all the pussy in the world, and DaSilvastillwouldn’t consider taking the Steelers up on their multi-million dollar offer.

I’ve read the email.

DaSilva didn’t even bother to asterisk the heck out of the word pussy. Simply left it there—bold and brash and completely insolent. Just like him.

Feeling the Guinness-fueled adrenaline in my veins, I eagerly shift my weight to face the Hulk. Football has and will always be my kryptonite. Give me a chance to talk shop, and you’ll be begging me to call it quits within the hour.

But this guy sat down next to me—his first mistake—and Topherdidsuggest I hang out with people my own age. My boy knows me too well. He also knows that his good-for-nothing dad preferred to pretend that his “dear wife” was way too busy to be included in Steelers business.

Oh, my wife?I can almost hear Rick say to any number of his peers.Yeah, she couldn’t make it out tonight. Too much on her plate, the dear thing. Now, how about we grab a drink at that strip club you mentioned last time I was in town?

I’m not sure when Rick decided I was too much of a liability to bring around his fancy friends, but at this point in life, I don’t give a damn. He can take his holier-than-thou attitude and shove it where the sun hasn’t shined a day in his life, and I can . . .

Scrunching my nose, I survey the Hulk with a critical eye. Or as critical as it can be since I’m swaying ever so slightly and he’s swaying right along with me. On second thought, pretty sure I’m actually the only one swaying.Thank you, beer.“How old are you?”

He barks out a startled laugh. “Legal.” As if to prove it, he lifts the Bud Light and pointedly watches me as he takes a swig. “Does that count?”

Probably. As if I’m about to impart some big, crazy secret, I motion for him to meet me in the middle when I lean in close. “I told my son I’d come out tonight and get some adult conversation in. He thinks I need socializing.”

Another slow pull of his beer, and like a moth to a flame, my attention drifts to the way his bottle reflects the TV’s glowing screen.Focus. Nails scraping my pint glass, I look up at his face—or what’s visible of it, at least.

Even though I can’t see his eyes, I get the feeling that he’s studying me shamelessly. Elbow planted on the bar, the bottle hovering millimeters away from his mouth. When the curve of his lips deepens into a smirk, like he can’t help but find me amusing, I’m momentarily struck dumb.

“Socializing.” He draws out the word on the cusp of a dry, masculine chuckle. “Well, in case you’re concerned about corrupting a youngin’, let me tell you a little secret . . .” Lowering the Bud Light to the bar, he shifts forward until his mouth brushes the sensitive shell of my ear and a shiver shimmies down my spine. “I don’t have an innocent bone in my body.”

My breath hitches. “Not even one?”

“You sound disappointed.”

I blink. “Do I?”

“Nah, not even a little bit. But I don’t regret lying.” Warm lips graze my cheek. “You blush real pretty.”

Oh.Oh.

I jerk back, nearly teetering off the bar stool. “Hold on.” Tipsy me thinks it’s agrandidea to lift my hands, palms up, despite the fact that I’m on the verge of going ass-down to the floor. “Are youflirtingwith me?”

As though he’s used to putting up with the drunk and disorderly, he smoothly catches me with one of his mammoth-sized paws and hauls me upright. My naked bicep—thank you, universe, for creating tank tops—tingles at the warmth of his touch.

The physical connection lasts only seconds. One moment he’s saving me from absolute humiliation and, in the next, he’s sipping his beer again, cool as a cucumber. Slowly, he dips his chin.

Is he checking me out?

It certainly feels that way, especially when his chest inflates with a sudden intake of breath. In the year that I’ve officially re-entered singledom, I haven’t given much thought to dating. I revel in going to bed and not worrying about slamming doors or living with a man who has no concept of kindness. I don’t particularly miss sex, especially when my sex life with Rick dried up years ago.

He preferred the company of other women and, after the initial hurt of discovering my husband in bed with someone who was decidedly not me, I grew to treasure every moment that I didn’t have to fake my orgasm for the sake of stroking his ego.

But I think . . . well, based on the way I’m squirming on my stool and sneaking peeks at this man’s pouty mouth—to say nothing of the broad expanse of his shoulders or the hard pecs that stretch the fabric of his shirt—maybe I wouldn’t mind flirting.

At least, I don’t mind flirting with a guy like him. Whoeverheis.

Finding a small seed of sexual confidence that has long lain dormant, I arch my brows and bait him for a response.Ishe flirting with me?God, please let his answer be yes. “Well?” I ask boldly, going so far as to twirl a finger around a strand of my hair like the hot chick out of a romantic comedy instead of being, well,me.

“Old habits die hard.”

Come again?

---