“What do you mean you applied?”
“Oh, girl, there’s a whole application process. I had to be vetted, have my background checked, the whole kit and caboodle.”
“Who says that?”
She laughs, then tosses back the last of her filthy gin martini. “Anyway, I honestly didn’t think I got in, because it took so long to hear back. Apparently, you’re supposed to have asponsor, and without one it’s just a crazy waiting game. But then that invitation arrived!” Mo’s face lights up. “Hand-delivered by courier, though not when I was home.” She pouts at that, clearly disappointed that she didn’t get to see who delivered the sleek envelope. “So anyway, we’re going shopping tomorrow, for masks and evening gowns, then walking into this party like we own the place.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Well, I can’t afford an evening gown right now, Mo, but I have something that should work, and why don’t we make the masks?” We’ve had craft nights before, and we’ve made plenty of our own Halloween costumes over the years. I can’t imagine it’s very difficult to create a mask. A little glitter, some feathers… How hard could it be?
“Sutton, no.” Mo shakes her head, clearly repulsed by the mere suggestion. “We’renotDIYing masks for this. It’s fine; I’ll pick some up. What dress do you think you’ll wear? I need to make sure I get the right color.”
I don’t bother arguing because I know my friend. She’s not going to budge on this—the mask issueorthe fact that she’s dragging me along on her journey toexpand her experiences. Just like she knew going into our lunch date that I would agree to go to thisexclusiveparty with her, she knows I’m going to let her plan our outfits, whatever that means.
I think about my closet and the limited options, then settle on the perfect dress. “Do you remember when I attended that party with…” I grimace.Ugh. Stephen.
“Stephen.” She sits up taller before adding in a nasally voice, “With a ph… D”—she chuckles—“because I have a big one.”
“Oh god.” I groan, then shiver dramatically. “Why was that impression of him so good, Imogen?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know, Sutton, why did you date that guy?”
I snort. “I mean, hewasa doctor, but fair point. That was a weird six months. Anyway, Stephenwith a phaccompanied me to that awards ceremony gala after that championship game against…”
My words trail off as Mo’s eyes go wide, locked on something directly behind me.
If we were in the forest, I’d be ninety-nine percent sure I was about to be mauled by a bear, but—
I smell him before I see him, that deliciously sinful, citrusy, musky,manlycologne he wears assaulting my senses. Before I can even turn around to confirm what has caught my best friend’s attention, my body justknows.
Oh god.It’s so much worse than a bear.
The muscles in my thighs tense, as if that man has any right to have such an effect on me.
My mouth goes dry.
My pulse does a little jive.
I lick my lips and close my eyes, because,goddammit, it’s not just Max Cruz who can’t take a hint. My own body wants to prove me a liar.Freaking traitor.
I bite back a growl and clench my teeth.
“Forgive me for interrupting, Ms. Hart,” Max says, his deep voice and that hint of southern drawl doing strange things to my belly. (Mostly twisting it up into knots.) “But I thought it might be rude to see you and not say hello.”
I close my eyes on a long blink, take a steadying breath, then spin my barstool around and force a smile that he probably doesn’t deserve.
I’m shocked to see he doesn’t have a matching set of Rams’ cheerleaders draped on either arm. I’m also oddly pleased by this fact, even though I have no business having any sort of feelingsat allwhere this man is concerned.
“Mr. Cruz, hello.”
He inclines his head. “How are you?”
I swallow hard as his gaze travels slowly from my eyes to my mouth, then dips down to the open V of my blouse. It’s Friday, so I’m dressed a bit more casually than he’s used to, in a sheer black blouse with a lacy black tank beneath, snug black jeans, and low-heeled black boots. I don’t believe the man has ever seen me out of a suit, though my floral blazer hangs over the back of my seat.
“I’m well, thank you.”
Mo clears her throat behind me so I motion toward her and reluctantly make the obligatory introductions. “Mr. Cruz, this is Imogen Kelly. Imogen, this is Max Cruz, CEO of Apex Athletics.”
I don’t have to add that last bit in; my best friend is well-versed in all things Maxwell Cruz and Apex, having spent the last few years listening to me whine about him. From the disastrous one-night stand only one of us has the displeasure of remembering to the countless NFL hopefuls he’s scooped up right out from under me, I have a laundry list of complaints about this man.
