Page 21 of One Night Only
DO NOT ENGAGE: For the record, I’m not gonna give up, Goldie. And soon enough you’re not going to be able to resist me. And when you finally do give in, I promise, it’ll be game over, baby.
Staring at the message, which is borderline threatening, I should be appalled. I should block him… hell, I should’ve blocked him when the texting began. I should report him. Save my own ass with Andy before it’s too late. But the more I read Dallas’s words, the more something long-forgotten stirs in the depths of my belly. I know I need to continue ignoring him. I can’t engage. There is too much at stake. But I can’t deny the temptation is there, and with every cute message, every laugh out loud confession, every glimpse into the man behind the façade that is the NHL’s most notorious playboy, I can’t deny the temptation is getting harder to resist.
I know Fran said not to bring anything, but I was raised never to show up to someone’s house empty handed. So, after trying on six different outfits and hating every single one, I ended upgrabbing a big bunch of slightly wilted flowers from a bodega on route from the subway station to Fran’s apartment building. And as I stand in the otherwise silent elevator, staring at my reflection in the mirrored doors, I still hate my outfit, but at least I come bearing gifts.
The elevator chimes, and I step off into a corridor with only two doors. Fran gave me the details, but even if she hadn’t, from the loud shrieking laughter set to the tune of what sounds like Taylor Swift’s “Cruel Summer” coming from the door on the left, I immediately know which one is hers.
With one last fluff of my unruly hair, I continue to the door and knock loud enough to be heard over the commotion inside, offering my most well-versed smile when I hear footsteps approach from the other side. But when the door is pulled open and the quiet corridor is flooded with Taylor Swift, laughter, and a low-hanging scent that makes my stomach growl, my smile and my shoulders fall.
You have got to be kidding me.
“You’re not Fran…” Are the only words I can find, my gaze flitting from the apartment number on the wall and back to the big green eyes staring down at me from the open doorway.
Leaning against the door jamb, Dallas folds his arms across his broad chest, a dimpled grin slowly claiming his face as he says, “What’s up, Goldie…”
CHAPTER 8
EMILY
Ihave just one thought as I stand here, frozen, staring up at Dallas filling the doorway; what the ever-loving fuck is going on?
I have another thought too, but it’s more around how infuriatingly good he looks dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt that emphasizes his ridiculous body, hair flopping adorably over his forehead, scruff lining his jaw like he hasn’t bothered shaving in a few days… but we’re ignoring that thought; that thought can go and eat a bag of dicks.
I clear my throat, shaking my head in the hope I can shake some sense into myself.
This was supposed to be a girls’ night. Those were Fran’s exact words. A girls’ night. Takeout, wine, and gossip. Judging from the hulking man looming in front of me, and the sound of deep male voices coming from somewhere over his shoulder, this is far from a girls’ night. I grip the strap of my purse a little tighter.
“Aw, you bought me flowers?” Dallas coos, looking down at the sad bouquet I currently have in a chokehold. He leans in so close, I’m inundated by that scent I haven’t been able to forget,momentarily rendered frozen when I feel his breath skate against my cheek as he says, “That’s my job, baby.”
Swallowing the heavy lump that’s implanted itself to the back of my throat, I take an unsteady step back, desperate for some space before my hormones go rogue and I launch myself at him. As if he knows exactly what he’s doing to me—and of course he does because he’s a professional playboy—Dallas rubs his stubbled chin in some lame attempt to try to conceal his shit-eating smirk before finally moving aside and granting me entrance.
I consider turning around and hopping straight back into the elevator when I’m stopped by Fran rushing out into the hallway.
“Hey!” Her big blue eyes are wide as she grabs me by my upper arms and moves me off to the side. Glancing over her shoulder, she spears Dallas with a warning look. “Um, a little privacy?”
Dallas sniffs a laugh, holding his hands up in surrender before turning and walking away.
“What is he doing here?” I hiss, throwing a hand in the direction of the space he just occupied.
“I promise, I didn’t know!” Fran says quietly, drawing a cross over her chest. “Honest.”
Frankly, I’m not sure I believe her, but I decide to hear her out.
“They were supposed to have guys’ night at Logan’s after practice, but something happened,” she continues. “They were going to go to Dallas’s place instead, but fucking Robbie the stupid dumbass invited the guys here knowing full well I was planning a girls’ night.Dick…” She rolls her eyes with an exasperated huff, and I almost laugh at the way she talks about her boyfriend.Almostlaugh. I’m too damn anxious to laugh right now.
Glancing at the open doorway, listening to the group as they continue talking and laughing, oblivious to my turmoil, I shake my head again. “Maybe I should just go.”
“What?” Fran scoffs. “No.” She grabs my wrist then, wrapping her hand around it like a vice. “You’re staying. I’ve ordered an obscene amount of food. You can meet the girls. The guys will eat and then they can fuck right off to playCall of Duty, or with each other’s balls for all I care, and we can just hang out.”
I haven’t even agreed before Fran starts towing me through the doorway and into the foyer which overlooks a huge open-plan living area full of far too many people for my liking, who all turn to look directly at me.
“Let me take this,” Fran says sweetly, gently pulling my coat off my shoulders and hanging it in the closet.
I smooth down the front of the loose, chunky knit I’m wearing, suddenly hating it even more now. Nervously, I tuck my hair behind my ear as she leads me farther into the cavernous space.
“Everyone, this is Emily,” Fran announces, waving her hand at me like I’m some major prize on theWheel of Fortune.
“Hey!” A beautiful blonde who looks like a glamorous five-foot-ten stick insect stands from the sectional, coming toward me. “I’m Vera.” She leans in and hugs me, which is kind of weird but seems genuine, so I try my hardest not to stiffen.
