The thought of going back to live in the house I grew up in sends a shot of dread straight through me. The house itself is nice enough. One of those cookie-cutter homes in Aurora Hills, East Denver. And it’s not my parents, either. Not really. They’re good people, always offering to help me. But they’re doctors. They live their lives by structure and routine.
Living under their roof again would mean returning to a life that once felt like it might suffocate me. A life where every step I had to take to become the daughter they wanted was mapped out for me. It doesn’t help that I’m the youngest in the family. Where my sister, Amelia, and my brother, David, followed the plan—med school, white coats, perfect families, picket fences— I’ve always been the wild card in their otherwise pristine deck. The one who never felt like they belonged.
I even tried to play their game. I got the grades. I followed them into med school. But it wasn’t for me. One month in, I dropped out to marry a country singer. I was eighteen and in love, and when he promised me freedom and fire and forever, I believed him. But of course, that all fell apart faster than a cheap buckle at a rodeo.
I start to shake my head at Flic’s question, about to tell her I don’t know what choice I have, when movement at the far end of the bar catches my eye. The guy in the black baseball cap, lost to his bourbon, turns on his barstool and stands, heading in the direction of the restrooms. I didn’t pay him any attention whenI first arrived, but I’m hardly going to forget those impossibly broad shoulders. That half-hidden scowl.
I shake my head. “Unbelievable.”
Of coursehe’s here. Of course the universe would drop this man back in my path for the second time today, on the same day Bill’s ranch sale is going through. The horses—Moonlight, Rusty, Bramble, Logan, and so many more. I love them all. I know they’ll be well cared for by the ranch out in Dallas that bought them, but saying goodbye this morning broke a piece of my heart I don’t think will ever heal.
Suddenly I’m irritated as hell, like no time has passed since those bills were shoved in my hands.
“What?” Flic asks.
“That’s the guy,” I say under my breath. “The dick driver.”
She frowns, and then barks a laugh. “Dylan Sullivan called you ‘little lady’? That’s hilarious.”
Dylan Sullivan? I know who he is. He’s Flic’s friend, alongside Jake and Chase. She spent so much time at their ranch growing up, she talks about them like they’re her brothers. They’re regulars here, but with no interest in football players or their egos, I’ve always kept out of their way. The last time I saw Dylan Sullivan, he was full-bearded, shaggy-haired, and walking with a knee brace. It’s no wonder I didn’t recognize him earlier.
I watch him as he stalks toward the restrooms at the back of the bar. He doesn’t so much as glance my way. What does a guy like him—a professional football player with money and fame, and no doubt every woman in Denver swooning at his feet—have to look so pissed about?
“I’ll be right back,” I murmur, slipping off the stool and striding after him, my annoyance pounding in my ears. The door to the restrooms swings closed just ahead, and I push through, letting it thud behind me. The hallway is narrow and dimly lit,the kind of place where more than a few bad decisions have been made.
He’s standing halfway between the men’s room and the hallway exit, looking like he’s taken a wrong turn. He shifts at the sound of the door, his eyes locking on mine.
For a second, neither of us says anything. Then I break the silence. “You,” I hiss, hand digging into the pocket of my shorts for the bills he shoved at me earlier. “You think you can just throw money at me and drive off like some big-shot hero?”
Beneath the baseball cap, his jaw tightens. “I paid for the damage, didn’t I?”
“That’s not the point.” I close the gap between us and thrust the bills at his chest. “Take your damn money back.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for it. Just looks at me with those brooding eyes that somehow manage to be both infuriating and unfairly hot.
“You really want to do this in a bar hallway?” he replies, voice low and rough.
“I didn’t start this,” I fire back.
He shifts closer. I don’t back up.
We’re toe to toe, the bills still pressed against his chest, crumpled between us, but I don’t drop my hand. His breath is steady. Mine, not so much. His leather and wood aftershave fills my senses, making my head spin like I’ve drunk ten beers instead of one.
His eyes drop slow and deliberate like he’s drinking me in, and when they drag over my body, I feel something low in my stomach clench tight. His eyes settle on the curve of my hip, then flick back to mine, and that ache between my legs roars to life, and oh my God, I’ve forgotten this feeling. This fierce, fiery want I haven’t felt in years.
And the look in Dylan’s eyes right now? It isn’t hunger—it’s need. It leaves me feeling both exposed and somehow powerfultoo. My life is a mess. My job’s about to disappear. My entire future is uncertain. But none of that exists in this moment, and suddenly all I want to do is lose myself.
I’m not sure who makes the first move. All I know is one moment we’re staring at each other, both gunning for this fight. In the next, there’s a shift. A spark. I don’t know which of us moves first, but suddenly, his mouth is crashing into mine.
It’s not soft. Not gentle. It’s as furious as the anger between us just moments ago. It’s his hands gripping my waist, his body pressed to mine. It’s fire in my core and the hottest, most infuriating kiss I’ve ever had. Dylan’s mouth claims mine like he has something to prove, and my back hits the wall with a thud. He cages me in with his body, one hand fisting the hem of my tank top, the other tangled in my hair. And all I can do is pull him closer.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I meet him with every stroke, matching his intensity. His hands are everywhere—running down my body, over my hips, around my ass. His touch is possessive and a little desperate. And fuck, I’ve never wanted anything more.
Then reality crashes back into my thoughts. My life is imploding. And like a cherry on top, I’m kissing a pro athlete asshole like it’s the best idea I’ve ever had.
Typical, Izzy, absolutely typical.
I pull back, breathless and furious, with myself as much as him. “What the hell are you doing?”
