“You look like you're contemplating murder,” Roman says conversationally. “Should I be concerned?”
“I'm fine.”
“You're many things, Beckham, but 'fine' has never been one of them.” He sips his drink, studying me. “What's the story there?”
“There is no story.”
“Bullshit. I've known you for fifteen years. You've got the same look you had before you broke Sanderson's nose in that bar in Detroit.”
I tear my eyes away from Hennessy, focusing on Roman. “I said drop it.”
“She's what, twenty-two now?”
“Twenty-three,” I correct automatically, then curse myself.
Roman's eyebrows shoot up. “Interesting that you know that.”
“I know a lot of things about a lot of people, Roman. It's my job.”
He snorts, clearly not buying my bullshit. “Right. And I'm sure you know the exact ages of all your rivals' daughters.”
Her eyes lock with mine across the crowded ballroom, dark and knowing. The fucking coach is still talking in her ear, oblivious to the fact that she's no longer listening. Without breaking eye contact, she reaches for a glass of red wine from a passing server.
Time slows as she raises the glass in my direction. A mocking toast. Her lips curve into a dangerous smile that promises things I have no business wanting. She takes a deliberate sip, leaving a crimson stain on the rim that matches her dress.
My jaw clenches so hard I feel a muscle jump in my cheek. The room suddenly feels too hot, too crowded, the Christmas music too fucking cheerful.
“I need some air,” I mutter to Roman, already moving toward the exit.
“Beck—” he starts, but I'm gone, cutting through the crowd with only one purpose.
I push through the double doors and into the mercifully empty hallway, my breath coming too fast. The wall is cool against my palm as I lean into it, trying to get my shit together.
This is a fucking mistake. All of it. That kiss by the elevator. The way I can't stop staring at her. The fact that I wantto go back in there and drag her away from those vultures circling her.
I loosen my tie further, feeling like it's choking me.
I’m not going to make it through the weekend with her here.
Chapter 2
Hennessy
Iwatch him storm through those double doors like the big bad wolf he is—running from Little Red Riding Me.
My lips are still tingling from that elevator kiss, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I'm sure everyone in this ballroom can hear it. The wine tastes bitter compared to him, but I take another sip anyway, my eyes still fixed on the door he just disappeared through.
“So anyway, our defense has really stepped up this season,” the Eastwood coach drones on beside me. Gary? Gerard? I honestly can't remember his name and don't particularly care to.
“Mm-hmm,” I murmur, not bothering to look at him.
God, he's so fucking easy to read once you know what to look for. All that control, that discipline, and I'm the thing that makes him lose it.
“We're projected to make the final four this year,” whatever-his-name-is continues, leaning closer. His cologne istoo strong, nothing like Beckham's subtle spicy orange scent that makes me want to bury my face in his neck.
“That's nice,” I say absently, swirling my wine.
Six years. Six fucking years, I've been watching Beckham Kingston from afar. Since I was seventeen and he came to that first game after taking over as head coach at St. Charles. I remember sitting in the stands, watching him prowl behind the bench, barking orders at his players.
