Was she really that transparent? Then again, she and Bex had been partners for the last seven years, so there wasn’t much she could put past her friend. Meeting was great. Unfortunately, I would have to work with the devil himself. Don’t know if I can do this.
The phone rang within seconds of her sending the text.
“What the hell is going on?”
Bree laughed. “Good morning to you, too.”
“Sorry. Good morning. Now, what the hell is going on? Who was at the meeting that would make you want to pass up this opportunity?”
She sighed, her finger tracing the bar. “Wes Adams.”
“The guy you met at the bar that night in London?” Bex let out a sigh of relief. “I know you’re bummed he didn’t call, but he’s a guy. Don’t take it personally. In fact, you should be glad you guys didn’t sleep together. That’d be awkward.”
“Today was awkward.” Bree balanced the phone between her ear and shoulder as she wrestled with the plastic-wrapped gift basket filled with goodies. She could use some chocolate. Stat.
“Why? Because you guys fooled around a little? You are seriously out of practice, my friend.” She laughed. “I told you not having a life would catch up with you.”
“Volleyball is my life.” Bree ripped open a chocolate truffle and stuffed it in her mouth.
“And it’s a great life, but it won’t always be there. We’re approaching thirty. Time to start thinking about life after volleyball.”
“You aren’t thinking of retiring on me, are you?” Bree mumbled through a mouthful of chocolate.
“No, but this injury has given me a lot of time to think. I don’t want to wake up one day and feel like I missed out on the things that are really important.”
“Like?” Her friend was surprisingly philosophical. It made Bree uneasy. She was usually the one reminding Bex to be more frugal and save for the future, when tournament money, appearance fees and endorsements were no longer flowing in, something they’d both been forced to think about more lately.
“I dunno. Like a husband. Maybe kids.”
“Wow.” Bree’s mouth curled in a smirk. “So what’s his name?”
“Shut up.” Bex fell suspiciously quiet before releasing a long sigh. “His name is Nick. He’s my physical therapist, and he is so cute.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But we’re not talking about me right now, Bree. This is about you. Why is running in to this guy again such a big deal? Do you have a serious thing for him or something?”
“No.” Even to her ears, her response sounded like that of a tween in denial, punctuated by an unladylike snort. Her mother would be so proud.
Bex paused, which told Bree that she heard her unconvincing denial, but chose to ignore it. “Then no harm, no foul. Certainly nothing worth giving up this opportunity. You could become the face of the hottest new beach volleyball event on the East Coast. Besides, Westbrook International Luxury Resorts is a worldwide organization. This could be the beginning of spreading your brand. Our brand. So don’t wuss out on me.”
Bree gritted her teeth and stared out onto the water. A huge wave licked the shore, the chilly waters chasing away a toy Pomeranian. “Okay, fine. I’ll figure out how to deal with it. With him.”
“That a girl. Whatever it takes. Just like on the court. Got it?”
Bree chucked the truffle she was about to open back into its box and nodded. “Got it. Whatever it takes.”
She talked to Bex for another half hour, getting an update on her injured shoulder and her hot new physical therapist before finally ending the call. Bree changed into a pair of yoga pants, a T-shirt and a sweater. She stepped out onto the back deck and inhaled the salty ocean breeze. It was sixty-two degrees out. A fairly warm day for early February.
She flopped onto the chaise and tried to remember her friend’s words. They hadn’t slept together. So why was she still so pissed at him?
Because she’d wanted to sleep with him. God, she’d wanted to. She’d fantasized about it in the wee hours of the morning, when she couldn’t shake the memory of his kiss from her brain.
She shuddered, remembering the touch of his hand when she’d been all but obligated to shake it and make up that story about why she was upset with him. There was some truth to the story.
A slight smile played on Bree’s lips as she remembered their argument about what football team had a chance of winning the Super Bowl. She just left out the part where he’d asked her to come back to his place. Bree had turned him down. He smiled, his eyes filled with understanding. Then he gave her the sweetest kiss. Sweet and innocent, yet filled with the promise of passionate nights ahead. They’d only spent a few hours together, but he’d managed to make the kiss feel meaningful. Real.
Real enough that she’d stared at her phone for a week afterward, waiting for him to call. Like he’d promised after their kiss.
Her response that night kept replaying in her head. Sorry, but I’m not that kind of girl. She laughed bitterly. True, she wasn’t the kind of girl who normally believed in one-night stands. In fact, she wasn’t the kind of girl who got laid at all. Not for a very long time. Not since...
She tried to erase the memory of the scornful mouth and hard, dark eyes she’d once found so intriguing. Sexy even. She’d been wrong about that asshole. Apparently, she’d been just as wrong about Wesley Adams.
The man was handsome and tall with warm brown skin. An athletic body that had felt incredible pressed against hers on the dance floor. And a killer smile. One worthy of a toothpaste commercial. He had the straightest, most brilliant teeth she’d ever seen.
And she loved his laugh, which he employed often. Because he was funny. And smart. And he liked sports. Just like she did. But he wasn’t intimidated because she was knowledgeable about sports and full of opinions she readily shared. He was the kind of guy she could see herself spending time with on those lonely nights she actually got to spend in her own bed back in Huntington Beach.
Wes was the kind of guy she wanted to spend more than one night with, so she’d turned down his offer to go back to his place.
She’d gone to the pub with Bex that night, determined to crawl out of all the insecurities that rumbled around in her head, barely leaving elbow room for her own thoughts.
She went to The Alley that night, intending to take someone back to her hotel. Just once she wanted to be a little naughty. To shed the good-girl image she’d worked so hard to perfect over the past two decades.
She was the scholarship kid who struggled to fit in at a private school, terrified that the kids would find out she lived in the run-down projects. Two of the front stairs missing and not a single blade of grass on their “lawn.”
She’d spent the past ten years creating her image as the perfect spokesperson. A successful player with a feel-good story and the kind of good-girl image that garnered endorsements and kept them. Not the kind of girl who would stroll into a club and pick up a
