Page 12 of Taken By the Grumpy Player

Willow gives a smile, sweet and kind, and shakes her head. “Clare’s fiancé is picking us up.”

A wry chuckle escapes me, my gaze sweeping over her, taking in her tight top that hugs her chest, the slope of her neck and curve of her waist. “You’re never getting in my car, are you?” This is the second time I’ve offered to drive her, and the answer has been the same.

Her smile changes, her eyes getting a look that electrifies my blood. But not as much as her words do when she says quietly, “I have a feeling if I got in your car, we’d end up somewhere we shouldn’t.”

The blood rushes to my groin. Twice now, in the span of five minutes, Willow has teased the implication of us giving in and hooking up, and pulls such a visceral reaction from my body that it throws me off. When was the last time I was this attracted to someone? Is it just physical?

For a moment, I’ll think that it is. But then I see her eyes, her damn smile, and the voice in the back of my head taunts me that this attraction I have to Willow isn’t just because of lust. There’s a want that goes deeper than that, and I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with it.

My voice is nothing but a low rumble, too quiet against the music playing but loud enough for Willow as I dip my head, just slightly, and ask, “Would that be such a bad thing?”

A breath shudders out of her, and I’m bombarded with images of what she would look like if I had her trembling under different circumstances—under me, my cock buried so deep inside of her that we would both forget why this is such a dangerous idea.

Willow let out a breathless laugh, her cheeks still colored a pretty pink. “I think you already know the answer to that.” She finishes off the rest of her drink. She sets the empty cup on the bar and gives me a smile that knocks the air out of my lungs once more. Fuck. “Thanks for the drink, Reed. And the offer for a ride home.”

I shoot her a small smirk. “Maybe one day you’ll take me up on it.”

She smiles, and there’s a look in her eyes I want to explore, to analyze and find the meaning behind it as she murmurs, “Maybe.”

Chapter 7

Willow

“You’refuckingwithme,”Vick gapes, staring between Clare and I with blue eyes widened in disbelief and dismay. “Please tell me you guys are joking.”

I give her an apologetic smile and a shake of my head. “Sorry to say that we’re not, babe.”

She lets out a groan that pounds slightly in my head, and I can tell in hers, too, as she squeezes her eyes shut in pain before lowering her head until her forehead is resting on her arms, folded on top of the counter. The messy bun on top of her head bobs with the movement, and I find myself debating if I should take another Tylenol to quell the thundering in my head. The coffee isn’t doing anything to help—it might be making it worse, actually—but I find myself taking another sip, anyway.

“So, you mean to tell me,” Vick begins miserably, lifting her head to look at my own wincing expression while Clare looks all too amused. “That I was in the same room as a bunch of sexy, rich NFL players—and I was too fucking drunk to notice?”

Clare soothes Vick’s back as she sits next to her on the stool. “There, there. It happens to the best of us,” she says, clearly trying to stifle a laugh.

“Fuck off,” Vick grumbles, shrugging off Clare’s hand. “You’re already engaged.”

“Not to an older, sexy, rich NFL player,” Clare reminds her with an exaggerated, disappointed sigh.

I arch a brow over the rim of my coffee mug. The smell is delicious, now that the nausea from last night’s drinking has disappeared for the most part. “I’m gonna tell Alex you said that,” I tease lightly.

Clare rolls her eyes with a dismissive wave of her hand, unworried. We all know she and Alex are solid—just like the blinding rock on her finger. He may not be an NFL player, but he’s the head chef at one of Chicago’s most popular and elite restaurants. “Okay, even if it does suck that Vick didn’t get her chance at a football player—” Clare’s hazel eyes sparkle dangerously, and I’m suddenly wary as her gaze swings to me. “The same can’t be said for Willow.”

Vick’s gaze snaps over to me, sitting up with renewed interest lighting up in her eyes. “Oh, my God—yes. What the hell did you and Reed Maxwell talk about?” she asks with an eager grin.

Fire lit up within my cheeks. “Nothing,” I mumble into the rim of my mug.

Clare scoffs, shooting me a disbelieving look. To Vick, she says, “I’m pretty sure they both said they want to fuck each other withoutactuallysaying the words outright.”

The mug nearly drops from my hand, ignoring Vick’s thrilled gasp as I glare at Clare. “We did not!” I deny vehemently, even if I’m sure my cheeks are probably fire engine red by now because—shit, she had a point, didn’t she?

I may have been horribly drunk last night and my tongue a lot looser thanks to the alcohol that had been coursing through my veins, but goddamn it, I mostly remember what Reed and I talked about. This morning, I woke up still wrapping my aching head around the fact that we even talked in the first place at the club, and when the topic of conversation resurfaces, embarrassment sweeps through me unforgivingly.

If my inhibitions had been just slightly more lowered than they had been, I’m sure I would have woken up in Reed’s bed this morning instead of my own.

I’m still not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed that I didn’t.

The professional answer, of course, is relieved.

The want that still pulses through me, however, disagrees.

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