Page 9 of Imperfect Player

Nothing is going to happen between me and Everly Mann.

Nothing.

Nada.

Zilch.

The visual of her in that blue dress is still vivid in my mind.

She was fucking stunning in it, despite the fact that it wasn’t very revealing. It left plenty to the imagination, and fuck if my imagination didn’t go into overdrive.

I’ve spent more time than I care to admit over the past several days thinking and fantasizing about a woman who is off limits. Jerking off to the visual of her too.

It’s not just her beauty, those amazing tits, or how her ass felt as it ground against me while we danced. It’s her. The way she laughed, her smile, the almost shy look she got every time my eyes scraped over her body.

More than anything it’s the way she made me feel.

There was a connection. Something that I can’t quite put my finger on and sure as fuck couldn’t explain if I tried. But it was there, and it was real.

Thanks for the dance, Everly. It was real.

The most real fucking thing I’ve felt in my life.

That right there is the problem. She’s not just some woman that I can fuck to sate a need and then run. No, Everly is so much more than that. She is the whole damn package. The kind you keep around, dote on. Love.

Things that I’m not capable of. Things she deserves.

I nod in acceptance of his answer. What else can I do?

“Well, no worries. Your agent is safe from big, bad Ethan Ambrose. I promise.”

The look on his face says he doesn’t believe me, and quite frankly, I’m not buying it either.

I can tell myself to stay away. I can do whatever I can to avoid her. I can do all the things, make all the promises. But deep down, I can’t help but feel like I’m going to be breaking every one of those fucking rules.

Why?

Because Everly Mann is worth everything.

If only I had anything worth a damn to offer her.

Chapter 3

Everly

“So? How was the party?” Chelle asks, as we sit in the Mexican restaurant down the street from my house.

It’s Margarita Wednesday.

That’s what Chelle and I like to call the days that we meet at La Caretta and drink margaritas while consuming way too many tortilla chips dipped in our favorite queso.

It’s a weekly ritual where we spill our guts about our lives, something we started when she first moved back to Remington. I swear, without it, one, if not both of us, would lose our minds.

“Everything went great. Tripp was pleased.”

“Tripp is pleased with everything you do,” she says with a shake of her head. “I honestly don’t know why you worry so much. The man literally went out of his way to steal you from another company and offered you a salary he couldn’t afford to pay you.”

That right there is exactly why. I never want to do anything to let him down.

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