He’d said some things before, when he and his wife had hit their rough patch. But he hadn’t explained the situation and how it had led to a divorce so quickly.
“I will if you want me to,” he offered. Selfishly he hoped that Braden didn’t want him to. “I’ll have to run over to the bar and let her know, though.” Since he didn’t have her number...
He’d known Matt for six years, but he’d barely ever seen or talked to the guy’s sister. As Matt had said, they weren’t close. So why was she so upset over his career aspirations?
“But then we can talk,” Wyatt said. “As long as you want...”
Braden laughed. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Well, I was just kidding about the sex earlier,” Wyatt joked. “You’re not my type.”
Braden smacked his shoulder now. “I’m just saying that maybe you need to take your own advice.”
He was a little sexually frustrated himself—more so since Fiona O’Brien had walked into the weight room and slapped him. And he’d touched her...
He might have kissed her if she hadn’t tried to hit him again. That had brought him to his senses. He had no business kissing a woman like Fiona, let alone having sex with her.
He shook his head. “No...”
“You’re warning me to steer clear of women like her,” Braden reminded him. “Maybe you should, too.”
Wyatt laughed. “But I’m in no danger of falling for her.” For any other woman, either, but most especially not a woman like Fiona. He wanted nothing to do with bossy and controlling.
“She’s beautiful and sexy,” Braden said. “Yeah, no danger at all...”
“No,” Wyatt said again.
But moments later he turned the water cold as he stepped into the shower. After that passionate encounter with her, after nearly giving in to the temptation to kiss her, he needed to cool off. But no matter how cold the water was, his skin was still hot. His blood still pumping fast and hard through his veins.
She was beautiful and sexy. But he had known plenty of women just as hot. And he hadn’t fallen for any of them.
He was not going to fall for Fiona O’Brien.
“WHERE ARE YOU?” Howard asked, his voice squeaking in her ear. Not that he had a squeaky voice. It must have been the bad cell reception and the noise in the bar that made his voice sound so whiny and petulant.
Fiona considered walking out to finish the call on the street. But then she would lose the booth she’d found in the back of the crowded bar. And she would have to walk past all those guys who’d whistled at her when she’d walked in. Since she was one of the only women in the place, she hadn’t been particularly flattered. The other woman was heavily muscled and tattooed and had also whistled at her.
She pressed her mouth against the phone and said, “I had to take a meeting.”
“In a bar?” he asked. And there was definitely petulance in his tone.
She couldn’t blame the cell reception. And she couldn’t blame him for being upset that she had canceled. She should have been flattered that he was so disappointed. But was he disappointed or merely irritated?
Of course, she hadn’t canceled until he was already on his way to the restaurant where they met every Friday night. A nice restaurant—not a place like this with a loud jukebox, louder patrons and peanuts crushed against the scarred wide-planked wooden floor.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But something’s come up with Matthew—”
“Your brother.” Now a sigh, one that sounded long-suffering, rattled the phone.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. Did she talk that much about Matthew?
Sure, she was worried about her brother; she had been worried about him pretty much since the day he was born. She’d only been six at the time, but she was the one who’d rushed to him every time he’d cried. She was the one who had been there for him...until she’d been taken away. After her stepfather’s death of a drug overdose, her paternal grandparents had decided her mother was unfit to raise their granddaughter. They’d sued her mother for custody of her and won—taking eleven-year-old Fiona away from her five-year-old brother.
Fiona wanted to be there for Matthew again. But he wouldn’t let her. Maybe he resented that she’d left him. That hadn’t been her choice, though. The judge hadn’t listened to what she’d wanted. And now Matthew wouldn’t listen to her, either. He only listened to Wyatt Andrews.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to your meeting with him,” Howard said.
She opened her mouth to correct his misassumption that she was with Matthew. Would he be jealous over her meeting another man in a bar, though—even if it was just to talk about her brother?
But before she could say more, he continued, “I’ll see you next Friday.”
“Why not before?” she asked.
Wyatt hadn’t been talking to her when he’d been teasing about being edgy and tense. But he could have been.
She just hadn’t been aware that she was...until she’d seen him, lifting weights—his naked arms and chest straining, muscles rippling, skin glistening with sweat. Her mouth dry again, she wondered where the drink was that she’d ordered when she’d walked in. And then it suddenly appeared on the table in front of her. She grabbed the glass and took a quick sip.
And gasped as the fiery liquid burned her throat. This wasn’t the club soda she’d requested. It tasted more like gin than tonic water.
Howard was talking—something about busy schedules or sticking to schedules. She barely heard him as she looked up to tell the waitress that the bartender had gotten her drink wrong. Since she hadn’t seen a waitress when she’d walked in, she’d given her order directly to him. But it wasn’t a waitress who stood beside the booth.
It wasn’t Wyatt, either. This man was nearly as tall and muscular, though. But while Wyatt’s hair was dark and too long, this man’s was light and clipped short. His eyes were light, too, a pale green. Was he a waiter? A different bartender from the one she’d spoken to?
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
Howard thought she was talking to him. “You’ve already apologized,” he said. “I understand you need to talk to your brother. We’ll see each other next week.”
“Yes,” she said. “Goodbye...”
Howard had already clicked off the phone. She did the same and dropped her cell back into her purse.
“I’m sorry,” she said again to the man leaning over her booth—over her. She raised her voice so that he would hear her. “But this isn’t the drink I ordered.”
