Page 36 of Wrong Number, Right Player
“McKenna!” Derek bellows from over by the darts. “Finally! Tell these idiots that jalapeños count as vegetables.”
I haven’t even made it to their table, and they’re already dragging me into their nutritional debates.
“Technically, jalapeños are fruits,” I reply, and the entire table erupts in groans.
“Traitor!” Derek shouts. “I thought you were on our side now.”
“I’m on the side of botanical accuracy,” I reply, sliding onto the stool Emmitt holds out for me, his hand immediately settling on my lower back. “But I appreciate your optimism in thinking anything on that plate resembles actual nutrition.”
The tables are covered with appetizers that, combined, look like a heart attack waiting to happen. Loaded nachos, buffalo wings, and enough fried mozzarella sticks to feed a village.
“What can I get you to drink?” the blonde waitress asks.
Emmitt orders a Four Peaks IPA, and I ask her to, “Make that two.”
Connor nearly chokes on his wing. “Did McKenna Ryan just order a beer?”
I look around to find shocked expressions on all the guys’ faces. Except for Petrov.
He only smiles and lifts his glass. “Is celebration time. Vodka is basically potato, very healthy. And hops also.”
“I’m off duty,” I say with a shrug, stealing a nacho from the closest plate. “Although this cheese sauce is basically liquid heart disease.”
“See? She can’t help herself,” Derek says.
“Prove it,” Connor challenges, sliding his plate of wings toward me. “Eat one without telling us about the saturated fat content.”
I pick up a wing and take a bite. It’s terrible and delicious.
“Well?” Derek prods.
“It’s not bad,” I choke out, reaching for a stack of napkins as my tastebuds are set aflame.
Emmitt chuckles and slides me an untouched glass of water, his fingers brushing mine. “Better?”
“Much,” I say, after guzzling enough to extinguish the fire in my mouth.
“We’re playing pool.” Derek’s eyes light up dangerously. “You any good?”
I wipe the orange goop off my fingers and cock an eyebrow in his direction. “Define good.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m lining up a corner pocket shot while Emmitt comes up behind me.
“Let me help,” he says, his arms coming around me, chest pressed against my back as his hands cover mine on the cue.
“In case you didn’t notice, I’m winning,” I protest, but I don’t pull away.
“Yes, but your ass, wiggling as you bent over, was calling my name,” he murmurs against my ear.
“Get a room!” Derek shouts.
I press back against him, the thick ridge of his cock between my cheeks, and sink the shot cleanly. Then I turn in Emmitt’s arms to kiss him. Hard. The guys groan collectively.
“Not bad for a nutritionist,” Derek admits grudgingly, as he tucks his cue back in the rack on the wall.
When we return to the table, Connor asks, “So, McKenna, what’s it like dating Captain Serious over there?”
“Well,” I say, running my finger along Emmitt’s arm, “he’s got his moments. Like when he leaves little notes on the—”
