Page 50 of Her Greatest Mistake

Maddox shakes beside me with a low laugh. His bicep flexes against the side of my bare neck, where he has it slung over my shoulder. The tight-sleeved, black T-shirt he wore tonight fits him a littletoowell and leaves all the roped muscles of his arms on full display.

I nearly swallowed my tongue when he picked me up earlier, and that just won’t do. Not even a second after I slid into the passenger side of his truck, I promised myself that I wouldn’t embarrass myself tonight by drooling over him. Our kiss at his parents’ house left me in shambles—wounds torn open that I couldn’t seem to stitch shut again. It’s obvious we’re both ignoring our rule break and the obvious tension it left between us. If I thought I could have gotten away with it, I would have said no to coming out tonight.

“They rated me an eighty-seven,” Bentley, one of the teammates Maddox seems closest to, chimes in proudly.

Out of all Maddox’s friends, I think I like Bentley the most. He’s outgoing, but not in the type of way that can get on your nerves. He doesn’t need to be the centre of attention but doesn’t mind when the spotlight finds him. Maddox really likes him too, and I trust his judge of character.

“See? Now I know they fucked up,” the first guy replies, scowling at the bottle of Don Julio on the table in front of us.

Tequila is my drink of choice, but I haven’t reached for the bottle once. Neither has Maddox. It’s not that I don’t trust these guys . . . actually, I don’t. But that’s only because I don’t know them.

“What’s your rating?” I ask Maddox, my voice low.

His arm flexes as he tilts his head toward me to reply just as quietly, “Ninety-two.”

“That’s high.”

He keeps our heads close, and I can smell mint on his breath. “Highest there is.”

“Who’s after you?”

“Elias Svensson. A rookie.”

“He’s that good?” I ask.

He hums. “Better than I was at his age.”

“I doubt that,” I mutter.

Just because I didn’t exactly follow his career after I skipped town doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten how amazing he was, even as a teenager.

Crossing my left leg over my right, I grate my teeth when my leather skirt digs into the outside of my thigh. The heeled boots I chose to wear aren’t high by any means, but they still make the soles of my feet ache, and the relief that rushes through me when I lift my foot and let it dangle over my leg is enough to have me stifling a moan.

My black top is tight, with long sleeves and a deep, plunged neckline that makes my boobs spill out a bit. Five years ago, I wouldn’t have known how a good bra can make all the difference for big-chested women like myself, but now? Now I’m not afraid to slip on a bustier beneath a low-cut dress to show off one of my best assets.

I think that I look sexy tonight, but I was hoping that once we got here, I would feel a bit more confident. Maybe it’s the other women sitting around our little section of the club that are making me doubt myself, with their popping collarbones and toned legs that look like they go on for miles and miles, or maybe it’s not. I’ve spent years learning to stop comparing myself to the women who don’t share my shape, but everybody has low moments. Moments of self-doubt and that stupid voice that reminds you that you’re either trying too hard or not enough.

It’s easier to say you’re better than that, but it’s a hell of a lot harder to believe it.

Maddox draws my attention back in as he pushes out a rough, raspy exhale. I risk a glance at him and find him staring at where the bottom hem of my skirt cuts into my thigh, making it bulge from the pressure. My lungs pinch as I watch him, not able to tell why his eyes narrow, his jaw jumping as he continues to stare at my leg.

I gasp when he removes his arm from my shoulders and drops a hand to that same thigh, his thumb drawing a line along the hem of the skirt. His palm is warm, so, so warm as it rests there, not moving, just squeezing ever-so-slightly.

“What—what are you doing?” I sputter, swallowing thickly.

His eyes are dark as they find mine, snaring them. “You’re supposed to be my girl, right?”

“Yes.”

“There isn’t a chance in hell that I wouldn’t be all over my girlfriend if she looked as good as you, Braxton,” he says, voice deep and growly.

His hand moves then, and the thumb he had brushing the hem of the skirt slips just beneath it. The rough pad of his thumb glides along the tightly pulled material, toward the inner part of my thigh, where the pressure releases and the skirt is no longer biting into my skin.

The compliment makes my core clench, and I want to rub my thighs together, but he’s taken that option away from me.

“Thank you,” I breathe, unsure of the correct response here.

He laughs, but it’s bitter. “Anytime.”

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