Page 3 of Imperfect Player

Standing before the mirror, I try to blot out the dampness. Luckily, whatever he was drinking was clear, so it doesn’t appear to be staining, but the fabric is still soaked.

Behind me, a figure appears in the mirror. I jump, startled by his presence.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” I ask, astounded, as I turn to face him.

Only Ethan Ambrose would think he has carte blanche to walk into any room he wishes, including the women’s restroom, without repercussion. I would argue it, but let’s face it, very few women would complain. Including me.

He holds up a rag. “Club soda. It’ll help.” He takes a step toward me. “May I?”

Unable to speak, I nod my response, gaze fixed on his hand as it attempts to clean up the mess.

He chuckles. “Might be better off if we just stick you under one of the hand driers. This is only making you wetter.”

Holy hell, he has no idea just how true his words are.

I clear my throat before I speak. “It’s okay. I’m not worried about it.”

“I’m Ethan,” he tells me, as if he, of all people, needs introduction.

“Everly. Everly Mann.”

“The Everly Mann?”

“The? You’ve heard of me?”

“Not a player in the world who hasn’t. Beautiful, smart—the go-to agent.”

“Glad to hear my reputation precedes me.”

“That it does.” He pauses for a moment, eyes searching mine—for what, I’m not sure. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just a little . . . wet. Like I said, it’s—”

“Not that. The guy. The one that was . . . being insistent.”

The tension eases from my body as I stare at him. This was no accident. This was a . . . save?

“You saw that?”

“Him not letting go of your hand? Yeah. The way he was looking at you?” His fists clench at his sides. “Saw that too.”

“I’m fine, thank you. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal. You shouldn’t have to deal with that shit. I’ll talk to Tripp.”

“You will do no such thing. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“I’m sure you are, but—”

“No buts. I am. The last thing I need is some knight in shining armor trying to save me by making me die of embarrassment.”

I brush past him to leave, but his hand grabs my arm.

“Wait, please. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to help.”

The sincerity in his voice weakens my resolve. My adamant behavior is indicative of me always feeling like I have to try to survive in a man’s world. I have to be tougher. Stronger. More willing to put up with shit that others wouldn’t or don’t have to.

“I know. Thank you.”

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