Page 35 of Hard to Hold

Add to it? Fucking Rush. The devastating smile he flashes my way through the crowd of people clamoring for him. The way he leans over when he passes by me and whispers with that knee-melting accent into my ear something to make me smile.

He’s not doing me any favors.

Especially to the promise I made myself the minute he walked into the conference room earlier when Cannon “introduced” us for the first time. After that initial sucker punch of seeing him again, I told myself that I’d put my career before my own physical needs and use this opportunity with the MLS to do just that.

In many respects, being away from the family makes that a little easier. I’m not someone’s sister here or someone’s daughter. And I will recruit Rush away from Sanderson to KSM, gaining a new star client without my father’s intervention.

I stand offstage and behind the curtain as Cannon drones on and on to the crowd, waiting for his SportsCenter moment, which I’m sure Cannon has calculated with precision to get the most bang for his buck.

But if he keeps talking much longer, he’s going to lose his audience’s attention.

“Hey there.” Rush’s smooth whisper hits my ears the same time everything else about him does—his cologne in my nose, his hands on my waist, the heat of his breath on my cheek.

I stiffen immediately, when all I want to do is a cross between sinking into him and turning around and kissing him senseless.

Neither is an option.

“Are you avoiding me, Kincade?”

“No. Of course not.”

“I’m thinking you are. I’m thinking you’re still mad at the list I made in the conference room.” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice and I have to fight my own urge to be playful back.

Playful is only going to end up with me in trouble.

“Your list was ridiculous.”

“I beg to differ,” he says as he leaves his hand on one side of my waist but moves in front of me. “Taking me to a game so I can tailgate. Teaching me what the American fascination with ice cubes is all about. A muscle car—I need to drive one. A huge pancake breakfast.”

“Ridiculous. I’m not your tour guide.” I chuckle and take a step back to give myself some space from him and those lips I keep glancing at.

“I could make another list for you, you know.” The step he takes eats up the space I just gained. “Of what else you could do to make me an even happier man . . . but that one doesn’t need to be put on paper.” He taps his temple. “That one is memorized right here.”

There’s arrogance in his voice and seduction in his eyes, and hell if this little alcove just didn’t become ten times smaller.

I swear my swallow is so loud it’s the only thing I can hear over the pounding of my pulse in my ears, but I hold tight to my resolve.

“Rush. I can’t. We can’t. It’s not professional of me—”

He squeezes the side of my waist, and my body heats beneath his touch as he leans in and whispers so his breath tickles my ear. “I love the prim and proper thing you have going on right now. The pencil skirt, the high heels, and those square shoulders. I really do. In fact, I’m not sure if I love this look or the one from the other night where you were staring at me and all but begging me to kiss you more. But—”

“I was not.” I was too. “Please. You think too much of yourself.”

His low rumble of a chuckle is a temptation all in itself. “You keep telling yourself that, Lennox, but we both know the truth.” He runs his hand down my body so it rests on my hip, a soft groan coming from the back of his throat that would sound crass from any other man but from him sounds like seduction. “Today, you’re closed up tight, like you’re so bloody afraid to give in to what you want. And what you want is me.”

“You’re—”

When Rush’s lips meet mine, I tell myself this is crazy. He’s kissing me when he has to be on stage any minute. If someone sees us, my professionalism would be shot to hell.

I mentally fight him off, while I part my lips to touch my tongue to his. My body reacts before my head can process otherwise.

There’s always something in a first kiss. The first hint if you fit together. The initial inkling whether his style of kissing is one that makes your stomach flutter, your core ache, and causes your hands to fist in his shirt. That immediate knowledge that you want to do this again or that you need to walk away and never look back.

The problem is when the kiss—every soft and demanding moment of it—ends, I’m staring straight into those amused eyes of his and know this will be harder than I thought. There is undeniable chemistry here. But . . . I need to be strong. Resistant. In control.

I can try. Damn it to hell, I’m going to try, but he’s like the most potent of drugs—addictive at the first hit.

“We can work together, Lennox,” he says, his accent hitting the last syllable higher, “and still sleep together.”