Page 25 of Shot Taker

“You left your fan club,” I inform him.

“Not mine.”

I cock my head. “Pretty sure if they have your name tattooed on them, they’re yours.”

He rubs a hand over his face like he’s trying to hide a smile.

I shouldn’t care. It’s a prize in a game I’m no longer playing.

But I’m not in a hurry to get back to Brooke, who’s safe with Miles, and Clay doesn’t seem like he’s in a hurry to go anywhere.

He steps closer, doing a slow inspection of my body. “I like your hair.”

“You said that already,” I call over the music pulsing through the club.

“Still true.”

Alcohol buzzes in my veins, giving me a false sense of bravery. I need all my wits to handle him, but thanks to the two drinks, I’m a little short.

I bite my cheek. “What else do you like?”

Stop flirting, Nova.

But telling myself not to flirt with Clay is like telling myself not to breathe.

His gaze doesn’t move from mine. “Like your dress.”

Awareness has the hairs on my neck lifting. In this place surrounded by darkness and music and sexy people in sexy outfits, it feels like we’re in another world. One where the usual rules don’t apply. As if I can say or do anything and it will be forgotten tomorrow.

“Keep going,” I say, and his nostrils flare.

“Like your wall. Passed it twice today.”

The quickest path to practice and games is going in the back door, which doesn’t take him past there. Which means he made an effort to go by my work.

“I’m working on the players next. I wish I had that drawing from the Kodiaks' charity auction as a reference. It should be easy, but sketching you is harder than I remember.”

“Wonder why that is.”

The song changes to something downtempo. I toss back the drink in my hand in one gulp and set the glass on the bar.

“I thought I saw you. I was wrong.”

When I straighten, Clay’s watching intently. “Nova. About the wedding—”

“You were right,” I interrupt, because I can’t stand to hear him break his stony silence just to tell me all the reasons we’d never happen. “It wouldn’t have worked with us. Thank you for seeing it before I did.”

Clays brows draw together in a frustrated line.

I hold up a finger for the bartender and order a tequila shot.

“When I said we were nothing, I didn’t meanyouwere nothing,” he says as the bartender fills the shot glass.

That’s not better, because I valued what we had. It was like a tiny blossoming flower, and he crushed it under his Kobes.

I reach for my wallet.

“She with you?” the bartender asks Clay.

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