Aiden was right. I went headfirst into this, and the fallout will be brutal if Ace finds out.
Panic starts to claw at my throat. I can’t be here when she wakes up. I can’t face the reality of what comes next. I need to think, and I know if I see her green eyes and her smile, I’ll forget every warning going off in my head right now.
I slip out of bed like I’m some kind of ninja and gather my boots and clothes from the floor, then move to the other room to dress. Her ripped thong must have gotten mixed up with my clothes, and instead of leaving it here, I lift it to my nose, smelling her sweet scent, and then stuff it in the pocket of my pants like a man obsessed. At least I’ll have this to remember this night.As if it’s not already burned into my memory forever.My hands are shaky as I put on my clothes, and I take one last look at her from the doorway of the bedroom.
She stirs, buries her face deeper into the pillow, but doesn’t wake up.
I grab my keys from the entryway table and slip out of the house, closing the door softly.
As I walk across the lawn toward the long driveway, avoiding the main house, the silence is nearly deafening.
I finally made my play. Finally got the girl I’d wanted for years.
But as I get into my truck, all I can think about is that I just threw a grenade directly into my own family.
CHAPTER TWO
TWO MONTHS LATER
EVANGELINE
It’sthat weird time of year on the East Coast where the weather can’t decide if it should hold on to summer or tease us with crisp fall air. Either way, it feels like perfect weather to kick off a new season of football. I pull my headset tighter over my ears, check the battery pack clipped to the waistband of my jeans, and pull the notebook and pen from my back pocket, ready for the game to start.
I know I’ll see Aston. Front and center. We’re covering the Titans game tonight, and of course, he’s one of the key players on the defense.
Two months.
Sixty days since I woke up in an empty bed on the Grant property at Alie and Liam’s wedding, the sheets cold on his side, the faint smell of his woodsy cologne the only proof that the entire night hadn’t been an alcohol-induced hallucination. Aston Griffith snuck out on me like a coward, leaving me with a roaring hangover, no panties, and a hollow ache in my chest that no amount of work hours could quite scrub away.
But tonight, my hurt feelings have to wait. Tonight, I’m thefield producer for the game, and I have a live multimillion-dollar show to help run.
“Eva, we’re three minutes out from the pregame toss.” The director’s voice crackles through my headset from the production truck parked outside the stadium. “Is Sam ready to roll?”
I look over at Samantha Easton, who’s currently checking her reflection in the lens of our primary sideline camera. She is thirty-eight, possesses an encyclopedic knowledge of football, and wears high heels on the turf with a level of confidence that defies the laws of physics. She’s easily the most popular field reporter on television and the best asset I have.
“Sam,” I call out, stepping over a thick bundle of camera cables. “Truck says three minutes. Drop the lip gloss.”
Sam twists the stick from her lip gloss back into the tube with a sigh, turning her perfectly styled hair toward me. “Listen, Carrington, if I’m going to stand in this indecisive weather, my lips need to look hydrated on camera. It’s in my contract.”
“In your contract, my ass,” I shoot back, a grin breaking through my professional mask.
Sam and I have become good friends in the short time we’ve worked together. We have great chemistry, and honestly, I’m not too proud to take tips from her. I have a tremendous amount of respect for her. She’s paved the way for a lot of female sports reporters on and off the field.
“Did you read the updated injury report from the trainers I emailed you?”
“Sure did. Pitz’s left ankle is completely fine, Vaughn’s shoulder is taped but no injury to report, and St. Clair looks like he’s been fed a steady diet of raw meat and pure malice,” she says, her eyes flashing with that sharp veteran intelligence that makes her a legend. She leans in slightly, lowers her voice beneath the roar of the stadium crowd, and covers her microphone with her hand. “Speaking of the defensive line … Griffith has been staring at you since they walked out for warm-ups.”
My stomach flips. I’ve been trying not to look for him. Iforced my eyes to stay glued to the crew, refusing to watch the tunnel.
“I don’t really care about what he’s staring at, Sam. I care about your audio level.”
“Uh-huh. Don’t think I didn’t see you hanging out with him and that whole group from Walker at Alie and Liam’s wedding,” she murmurs, her voice dripping with sharp, older-sister-like curiosity.
Sam was also at the wedding because she knows the Grant family, but I didn’t really spend time with her there.
“I slipped out before it got too late, but from what I saw, I’d say you threw him off his game.”
“Aston Griffith doesn’t get thrown off,” I say, my tone crisp, well aware she’s wearing a live mic and everyone in the control room can possibly hear our conversation even though she covered her mic. I point a finger in the air. “We’re live in five, four, three…”
