I nod, confusion likely knitting my brows together, watching as Cecelia strides away from me to join the men on the opposite side of the room.
What was that?
Sure, Max has asked me out a time or two—or ten—but he’s notseriousabout dating me. The man is a serial player; it’s highly doubtful he’s serious about datinganybody.
I’m probably the only woman not falling at his feet, and that drives him crazy. Guys like Max hate being turned down. I represent a chase, a challenge, nothing more.
Just another trophy in a long line of wins.
The fact that he’s alreadywonthis trophy once, but doesn’t remember is just the icing on the cake.
Gross.I’ve just compared myself to a trophy, haven’t I?
Snapping myself out of my thoughts, I stride to the door, joining Max in saying goodbye to the Bratts. As soon as the glass door swooshes closed, I spin to face Max, sucking in a breath when I realize exactly how dangerously close he’s gotten.Again.
My breasts would brush against his chest if I dared take too deep a breath.
My heartbeat stumbles over itself.
My mouth goes dry.
Why does heinsiston putting that big body so damn close to mine?
He towers above me, his six-foot-four height and the wide breadth of his shoulders eclipsing the room. I have to crane my neck back to look up at him, and when I do, my heart skips a beat. His eyes hold mine with such obvious interest that it steals my breath.
He’s always had this effect on me, to be fair, and I’ve always managed to push him away—except maybe that first time, but we don’t speak of that.
So why am I just standing here now, locked in his stare instead of pushing him away?
His lips quirk up on one side as we remain here, neither of us willing to move, and that smug smirk infuriates me just as much as it makes me want to push up onto my tiptoes and lick across the seam of his lips.
His gaze drops to my mouth as if following my thoughts, then he licks his bottom lip, and the slow, deliberate motion sets off a chain reaction within me, a heated rush of need that races through my veins to settle between my legs. I have to lock my knees to keep from swaying.
It’s unfair that he should look this goodandbe the bane of my existence.
“You were incredible,” he says, knocking my world right off its axis.
I suck in a breath. Forcing my gaze away from his sinful mouth, I search those hurricane eyes for any indication that he’s belittling me. “What?”
“If I wasn’t so goddamn good at my job, my money would be on you.”
I huff, thankful for his arrogance. It’s just the bucket of ice water I need to extinguish the flames of desire burning deep in my belly. “Don’t do that.”
His perfectly-manicured brows furrow as his gaze falls to my lips once more. “Don’t do what, exactly?”
“Patronize me.”
His eyes widen, then his fingertips brush my arm as he lifts his hand to his chest, and even that innocent,accidentalcontact makes my pulse speed. “I can assure you that I am doing nothing of the sort, Ms. Hart.”
I narrow my eyes, but, honestly, it feels like he’s being truthful.
Unfortunately, I know enough about the men in my business—players both onandoff the field—to know that ninety-nine percent of them are pigs. Worse, they’re wolves in delectable designer suits. His compliments won’t work on me.
I should grab that Cowboys-blue envelope and get the hell out of here, but I’m rooted in place.
Self-preservation? She doesn’t even go here.
“So…” he says, “guess I’ll be seeing you in Dallas.”
