Page 5 of Imperfect Player

Why doesn’t he seem to want me to go any more than I want to leave?

Walk away, Everly. Just walk away.

Taking a step back, I smile at him. “Thank you for the dance, but I need to get back to work.”

He nods his head in acceptance.

“Hey, Everly,” Ethan calls after me. I halt in my spot, but I don’t turn to face him. “Thanks for the dance. It was . . . real.”

It was . . . real.

Ethan’s words continue to replay in my head as I make my way through the party, chatting up a few clients and some potential sponsorship deals for them. I can’t help but agree with him. It was real. In fact, it’s the most real thing I’ve experienced in, well, a long time.

Even more than the real, unconditional love I was supposed to have shared with Kai.

Or maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s just hitting home a little more because of the breakup, my anger, the pain. Maybe it only felt real because it’s the first moment of real enjoyment I’ve had in weeks.

“We meet again.”

Even though tonight is the first time I’ve ever heard his voice, I recognize it instantly. As does my body and the way it viscerally reacts to the sound of it.

“Small world,” I say as I turn to face him.

Why is he here? Does he feel it too? This draw. A connection. Something so intangible, but undeniable at the same time.

Ethan turns to the bartender. “One whiskey and a water.”

He hands me a glass of whiskey and takes the water for himself, raising it in the air.

“Hold on,” I say, holding my hand in the air to silence him. “You mean to tell me you spilled water on me?”

A sly smirk graces his lips. It’s all the response I need to know that I am, in fact, right.

“Oh my God. So, the club soda?”

He shrugs.

I gasp, unsure what to feel right now. Violated? I should, but I don’t. Turned on? I shouldn’t, but I do.

“Ethan.” I say his name as though it’s a scolding.

“What can I say, one touch wasn’t enough.”

My mouth falls open to speak, but I have no words. No words for what he did, or him in general.

Pointing my finger in his direction, I say, “I can’t believe you did that.”

Can’t I though? After all, this is Ethan Ambrose. A man who does what he wants and gets what he wants.

Not to mention that smile. Those dimples. Fucking hell.

“For the record, I’m not trying to get in your pants,” he tells me, unprompted. “Or, in this case, under your dress.”

His words are a definite ouch to my ego, though I swallow down the bitter taste that they cause and smile at him.

“Good to know. I don’t date clients.” I stutter out the sentence, his words affecting me more than they should.

“It’s not you. It’s me.”

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