Page 65 of Not Just a Trick Play

Rani commandeers another round of shots, and the girls clink glasses. Amelia tips her head back, gaze heavy-lidded as she brings it to her mouth, and I want to drag my lips along her throat. When she sways, I fight the urge to pull her to me, send a message she’s mine. We’re not together. Not really. But I can get close. Dance near enough to her to smell her perfume yet maintain a strategic distance—a perimeter of plausible deniability.

“If you’re going to keep eye-fucking her, you might as well go over,” Hunter says, snapping me back to reality with a smirk.

I yank my gaze from Amelia. “The fuck?”

“You heard me. It’s embarrassing. Even for you.”

I glance over at her, feeling like an idiot. My half-assed plan of getting closer hits a roadblock. I should probably hang with the guys for now. “I’m teaching her about football.”

Hunter laughs, clapping me on the shoulder. “Then, stop looking at her as if you want to rip her dress off with your teeth.” I suppose he’s being helpful.

“We’re not together.”

“You’re not together,” he echoes obediently.

I grimace, not liking the tightness that comes with that statement. I make a noise that is neither affirmative nor negative, because, honestly, what’s the right answer?

“Just football,” I reiterate.

Well, football and sex. I take a deep swig of my beer, snap the bottle down, and deliberately turn away. Plenty of other interesting stuff to focus on in this mess. Maybe.

But when I think I’ve succeeded, Hunter’s low whistle breaks through the din. “Look at that. Creepy Carl’s checking out Amelia. Guess you’re fine with him making a move. Doesn’t he have a knack for football, too?”

That snaps me out of my funk. Oh hell no. I push off the bar without a word, chuckles echoing behind me.

Carl from AV, notorious intern chaser, is in a cheesy devil costume and loitering near the girls’ table. He greets Rani, then zeroes in on Amelia, leaning in to chat her up.

Not today, Satan.

She responds with a tight-lipped smile and nods, takes a sip of her drink. What is that now—her third? I need to get the asshat away from her. Read the room and leave my girl the fuck alone.

I weave through the crowd, dodging Playboy bunnies, pirates, and a Shania Twain in a skimpy leopard print jumpsuit.I slide behind Amelia, my hands settling on the curve of her waist. She stiffens for a fraction of a second before relaxing into my touch, and satisfaction fills me. I lean in, close enough to convey my unspoken claim.

Carl’s eyes flicker between us, and he slinks off.

She sways to the beat of “Tainted Love,” her bloody bridal costume making her look like she just staggered out of a gothic romance. Her movements possess a hint of the undead.

She turns in my arms, a dreamy smile on her face. Her breath is tinged with tequila.

“Why, hello there, Willy Wonka.”

“Hi.” One word, but it’s packed with everything we’re not saying. The air crackles as we hold each other’s gaze, caught in a bubble of our own, even as people swirl past.

I clear my throat, forcing myself to break the spell before I do something reckless. I sweep over her bridal getup. “What’s this then?” I murmur, my voice dipping low. “A bride who had a rough day? Did the groom bail, or did you skip straight to the ‘till death part?”

“Let’s just say he had cold feet. Cold, dead feet,” she quips, her words slightly slurred, but her wit as sharp as ever.

Amelia tilts her head, her finger trailing down the buttons of my purple suit, slow and deliberate. “How’s the chocolate business, Mr. Wonka?”

“Booming,” I grin, leaning in. “Especially the dark and bittersweet varieties. They pair well with tragic nuptials.”

She giggles. “I do have a bit of a penchant for the bittersweet. Maybe you could give me a taste later?” She tries for a sultry wink, but it ends up somewhere between a blink and a twitch. Still adorable.

“Sweets, was that an attempt at dirty talk?” I tease, my lips brushing her ear. “Because I’m not gonna lie, I’m kind of into it.”

She swats at me, but I duck. Her laugh mingles with the music and chatter around us, a touch louder than expected. I drop my voice. “I’d be delighted to offer a private tasting. What would people think if they found out the tragic bride was sweet on the chocolate mogul?”

A Michael Jackson and his zombie partner walk by, giggling. “Did you catch any of the parade earlier? How many times did you hear ‘Thriller’?”

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