Page 48 of Heartbreaker
“The Lunatic” Grady Chandler stands at the top of the ramp with the EWE Championship belt hanging loosely around his waist. The logo is surrounded by gemstones and gold, making it glitter and shine beneath the bright lights. “Oh, don’t stop on my account. I, like everyone else here, want to know wherethisis going…”
Brooks narrows his eyes and takes a small step in front of Skye, placing a protective arm in front to usher her further behind him.
Grady chuckles, rubbing at the scruff on his chin. “I’m sorry to ruin your moment, but I just wanted to come out and say thank you. You both saved me from having to deal with arealwrestler on Sunday. You’ve just made my job a whole lot easier.”
Savvy scoffs, stepping out from behind Brooks. “Why don’t you come down here and say that inside this ring?”
“Oh!” Grady’s face lights up in surprise. “You let her speak for you now, Brooks?”
Brooks rolls his eyes, taking the microphone from the ring announcer.
“A man worthy of carrying this title would never let his side piece have a say in his business affairs.” Grady scoffs. “How pathetic.”
“Keep running your mouth, Grady, but at the end of the day, I’m not the one you should be worried about.” Brooks smirks and casually leans over the top of the rope. He glances briefly over his shoulder at Savvy Skye, who glares up the ramp at her partner’s future opponent. “When I win at Capitol Punishment next Sunday, when I’m holding that belt high over my head…you’re going to see what a real champion looks like. I’ll have the title and the girl, and you…you’ll just be a footnote in our story.”
I’ve never been one to break the rules, but I guess after tonight, I can no longer say that. I spent most of the day trying to talk myself out of this, while pretending like nothing was wrong every time my best friend asked. Raelynn and I were together for the better part of the morning—first for breakfast, then getting our nails done, before rounding it off with a run down the canal and lunch at my condo—and the last thing I needed was the added pressure from her to make tonight go well. I lied when she asked what I was doing tonight, because if she knew the truth, she would have lost her mind and never would’ve left my place until she was satisfied with my appearance. I’d already felt a weight on my shoulders since I’d agreed to it, and I didn’t need her (or anyone) making it worse. I knew better than to say yes to him, but I couldn’t stop it. Like the filter between my brain and my mouth was missing.
Valentine’s Day was meant for staying home, ordering pizza, and spending it with two men named Ben and Jerry. But this year I’ll be spending it with one man named John Brooks.
Last night, John stopped me after his match, pulling me between some of the larger black production boxes to shield us from any lurking eyes backstage. “Do you want to grab dinner tomorrow?”
“You do know what tomorrow is, don’t you?” I asked, but he didn’t answer. Whether that was from a lack of knowing or just not wanting to admit it, I couldn’t be sure. “Valentine’s Day, John. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.”
“Okay.” The answer was so simple, so matter-of-fact, I wasn’t sure how to feel. Did he forget that we weren’t actually dating? It was only a storyline, and you don’t go out to dinner with people you aren’tdatingon Valentine’s Day. Everyone knows that.
“And you want to go to dinner?”
“Yes.”
“Is this you asking me on a real date?”
His tongue poked out to wet his lips before he rolled them between his teeth. “What if it is?”
“John—”
“It doesn’t have to be, Sav,” he says, shrugging. “It can just be dinner between friends, coworkers, storyline partners…whatever you want.”
Whatever I want. What I wanted was the man standing in front of me…who just so happened to be asking me on a date on the annual day of love. I should take it as a sign, right? That’s what Cass and Kingsley—andRaelynn—would say.
“Don’t you dare ask me to be your girlfriend on Valentine’s Day, John Brooks. That’s corny,” I said, pointing my finger at him, and when I laughed, a genuine smile formed on his lips.
Dating a wrestler—a coworker—was never part of my plan. I didn’t want to complicate things. I didn’t want to make a mess I couldn’t escape, but the time John and I have spent together lately has only confirmed what I already knew: he’s the one. The one man on the roster I would break my rule for. And the harder I search for a reason to cancel tonight, the more obvious that truth becomes.
I did what I set out to do. I made a name for myself in the industry and with the fans, firmly cemented myself as a top female wrestler, and had what is already being called one of the top ten matches of the year—the championship match between me and Rae last month. The problem is that the higher I’ve climbed the proverbial mountain of success, the more I realize there will always be something else, some new challenge to overcome. So, why should I continue to deny myself? Why shouldn’t I get the only other thing I’ve truly wanted the last few years?
John said he would pick me up at five, but my building phone rings at 4:54 p.m., and my doorman tells me I have a gentleman guest who wants to be let upstairs. When I open my door, my breath catches in my throat at the sight of him. Both of us seem equally nervous, and that makes me feel a little less so.
“You look…” His gaze lifts to meet mine, and he bites down on his lip. “Beautiful.” It’s so simple, but the compliment warms my being. John outstretches his hand. “Shall we?”
A large hand envelops my waist when he meets me on the bow of the sailboat. He pulls me into his side and kisses the top of my head. “Warm enough?” John asks with a slight chuckle in his tone.
When we pulled up to the marina earlier, I glowered at him from the passenger seat. He forgot to mention I’d need a wetsuit for this date. John laughed softly to himself, noticing my glare, and gave my leg a gentle squeeze through the fabric of my white-knit midi skirt. “Relax, we’re not going swimming”—he shot me a toothy grin—“unless you want to.” His thumb dipped beneath the small slit to caress my thigh, and his touch set fire to my skin.
“I’m fine,” I say, settling a little further into his embrace.
“How am I doing on the cliché meter?”
“On a scale of one to ten, this is definitely an eight. But I’ve never been on a sailboat, let alone a sailboat during sunset, so I’ll bring it down to a six.”
