Wylde Read online

  “You sound panicked,” she replies with a chuckle. “Relax… it’s just dinner.”

  Oh, it’s so much more than that. I’m going out with a man who knows the truth about my entire sordid, humiliating past, and he doesn’t seem to care about it.

  I deflect, though, because I don’t feel like getting into it with my bestie just now. Instead, I ask, “How are things on your end?”

  “It’s going fine,” she replies. “Going to be turning the ship over to Nina any moment now.”

  Veronica covered the store for me this afternoon, after insisting I should go get a mani and pedi before my date. She’d also said, “And when you shower, make sure you shave. Everywhere.”

  I blew her off. “I am not having sex with him tonight,” I’d said with a staunch lift of my chin.

  And just to drive home my resolve, I refused to even shave my legs just a bit ago when I showered. I’m wearing a jumpsuit with flowing pants so I can get away with the stubble. It will ensure my clothes stay on all evening, even if Aaron tries to persuade me otherwise.

  I’m sure he will. I mean, while he’s been a complete gentleman since I’ve met him, I know tonight is different. He got me to willingly go on a date with him, which puts us in different territory.

  It’s not as if I’m opposed to sex. I’ve had a lot of it over the last few years, and I’ve enjoyed it. My first experience with Tripp Horschen was a disaster, but contrary to what he told the world in his drunken rant on video, it was mostly due to his own inadequacies. Simply put, he doesn’t care if a woman experiences pleasure. He’s a fumbling oaf who’s only interested in getting himself off. I’m sure anyone can imagine what a horrid experience that would be for a virgin.

  But I digress.

  Bottom line, I’ve learned a lot since that first time, and I find sex to be quite enjoyable. Not earth-shattering by any means, but fun.

  Still, I don’t just fall into bed with men. I have to go out with them a few times, start to feel comfortable with them. I have to actually like and respect them to get naked. It’s just an integrity thing with me. So all that being said, sex with Aaron is not happening tonight. It’s too soon.

  “Did you shave?” Veronica asks.

  “Nope,” I say with a grin into the mirror. I’ve already done my makeup, and, I have to say, I look pretty good. I don’t wear it a lot… usually only if I go out at night, much preferring not to mess with it at all. But I did a dark gray on my eyes, smoky underneath, and my lashes are so long they’ll rub against my glasses.

  Hmmm.

  I set the wand down, then grab my glasses off the sink. They’re only needed for reading—progressive bifocals, actually. I put them on and, sure enough, my lashes with my extra-thick formula mascara rub irritatingly against the lenses.

  “Crap,” I mutter, taking them off.

  “What?” Veronica asks.

  “I’m going to have to put my contacts in and I haven’t worn them in so long they’re probably going to irritate my eyes all night.”

  “But Aaron will be able to see your lovely eyes up close. They’re by far your best feature.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I reply dryly, curling the last lock of hair that needs a spiral. “I thought it was my keen intellect and humor.”

  “Yeah, maybe if you were sixty years old, widowed, and looking to score a new man at that age.”

  She has a point.

  I remove the wand, turn it off, and set it down, giving myself a comprehensive look in the mirror. “Okay… on a scale of one to ten, I think I’m a solid eight tonight.”

  “You take off a point for hairy legs?” Veronica asks.

  My voice is sullen. “No.”

  “Then you’re a seven,” she says confidently, and I can’t help but let my laughter fill my small bathroom. “But seriously… here’s my pep talk. Have a great time, okay? We both know sex isn’t happening with hairy legs and pits, but you better come out of it with at least a hot kiss or two to tell me about, okay?”

  “Got it,” I reply, snapping off a salute she can’t see. “Call you when I get home?”

  “I’ll be waiting,” she says, then blows a kiss into the phone before disconnecting.

  I glance at the time, realizing I have less than five minutes before Aaron is due to arrive. Grabbing some lip gloss, I slather a bit on and pucker my lips.

  Then I lunge for my small linen closet beside the toilet, scrounging for a box of contacts. It’s been weeks since I wore them, and I hope this doesn’t spell disaster. Worst-case scenario, I’ll bring my glasses as back up, and I’ll deal with the irritation of my lashes smudging up my lenses if need be.

  When the doorbell finally rings, I’ve been so busy with last-minute touches I haven’t even had time to get nervous. It hits me now, though, with a massive tilt to my stomach and a moment of nausea.

  I swallow it down, remembering how sweet Aaron was when I told him about my great humiliation and how persistent he was in seeking a date with me. While I’m still skittish and wary, he’s proven to be nothing more than a nice—albeit famous—guy so far. It still scares me a bit, but it isn’t debilitating.

  I dash through my small house and open the front door, realizing I forgot to put my shoes on. My first look at Aaron causes my breath to catch, and I wonder if I’ll ever get used to his level of hotness. He told me to dress semi-casually. He’s wearing navy dress slacks and a golf shirt with the Vengeance logo on it. It fits his large frame well, stretching across his broad expanse of chest and fitting oh so snugly around his thick biceps.

  His hair is brushed back from his face, a slight wave held in place with gel, and he’s clean-shaven. I take a small sniff, and damn… whatever cologne he’s wearing smells good.

  Only after I thoroughly ogle him do I finally look up and notice he’s checking me out to the same degree. There’s something on his face I’ve not seen before. He’s told me I’m pretty—beautiful, actually—but he’s never seen me with my hair down or evening makeup applied. My auburn hair falls in gentle waves around my shoulders, stopping halfway down my back. I disagree with Veronica, considering my hair my best feature.

  My jumpsuit is straight out of Veronica’s closet, same as the last two outfits I’d worn on my dates with Aaron. It’s not like I don’t appreciate nice clothes or enjoy buying them, but it’s kind of useless to do so when my bestie is a super-rich divorcee fashionista who wears the same size as I do.

  “You look amazing,” Aaron says in a low, overly appreciative voice that causes the hair on my arms to stand on end.

  “You look very handsome yourself,” I admit, feeling foolish for saying it. It sounds trite when he looks beyond handsome, but if I don’t shut up about it now, I’m likely to start blabbering. So instead, I snag my purse off the table in the foyer and announce brightly, “I’m ready to go if you are.”

  Aaron cocks an eyebrow, a tiny smirk on his lips. His eyes travel down my body slowly, landing on my feet. “Pretty sure they won’t serve us if you’re not wearing shoes.”

  “Crap,” I mutter, slapping my palm to my forehead. “Guess I’m a little nervous.”

  “Would it help if I tell you I’m nervous, too?” he suggests.

  I step back from the threshold, inviting him in with a sweep of my arm. “Are you really?”

  “Actually, no,” he replies truthfully, stepping inside my small living room. He looks around with interest, remarking, “Your house is great, and I love this neighborhood.”

  “It actually belongs to my parents,” I say, closing the door. “One of their rental properties. And I’m sure quite a humble abode from what you’re used to.”

  The minute the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. My tone was patronizing, and while it’s an inherent distrust of all things bright and shiny that has anything to do with fame and fortune, Aaron doesn’t deserve to have me judge him like that.

  He doesn’t respond, which immediately has me apologizing. “I’m sorry. That was a bitchy thing to say.”
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  “It’s fine, Clarke,” he assures me, then makes a shooing motion. “Go get your shoes or we’ll be late for our reservation.”

  I hide my grimace until my back is turned, bolting to my bedroom for the sexy sling-back shoes Veronica loaned me.

  Shit. We’re off to a great start, and it appears I might be unwittingly sabotaging my evening with Aaron. At the rate I’m going, I figure I’ll have him run off for good by the main course.

  ♦

  “I’m glad to finally see you relaxing,” Aaron observes, his fingers playing at the base of his wineglass. He’d ordered a bottle of red after consulting with me to check my preferences. He even had the sommelier pour me a taste when the bottle was opened and presented to Aaron for approval.

  I pick up my own glass, take a small sip, and relish the robust taste of the pinot noir he’d chosen. I’m by no means an expert, but I do love trying new wines.

  “The wine has helped as has the excellent meal we just ate,” I admit with a smile. Setting my glass down, I glance around the darkened restaurant, which is a small Italian place in a strip mall. It’s reputed to have some of the best food in Phoenix, though. It barely holds twenty tables, but they’re spaced far enough apart diners feel a measure of privacy. I look back to him, taking the moment to apologize. “I’m sorry about what I said at my house… painting you as something you’re not. An elitist.”

  Aaron shrugs, shooting me a teasing smile. “Maybe I am.”

  He receives a slow shake of my head. “I don’t think so. Truly. At least from what little I’ve observed so far.”

  “Well, I appreciate the vote of confidence,” he murmurs. “I come from a humble background. I know how fragile the line between fortune and destitution can be.”

  “How do you know that?” I ask. I don’t mean to pry, but he did crack the door.

  “Let’s just say while growing up, I was in a position where I had a solid, comfortable life, then had it all snatched out from underneath me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I reply, feeling the punch of emotion in his words. But given the fact he started off by saying, “Let’s just say…” leads me to believe it’s a subject he doesn’t want to expound on.

  Aaron shrugs again. “I’m just saying I don’t take anything about my current fame, wealth, or the ability to pursue a career I’m passionate about for granted. I’m grateful for it every day.”

  “That is something we definitely have in common. Not the fame or wealth part,” I tack on with a laugh. “But I’m really grateful for what I have, too.”

  Aaron shifts forward in his chair, pushing his empty plate away and placing his forearms on the table. A move that warns an intimate question is forthcoming. “Why do you distrust fame and fortune? I mean, I get how horrific what that douche did to you was, and I totally get how that would blow your trust in men. But do you blame it on his celebrity, which, in turn, you’re projecting on me?”

  I wait for a rush of affront, but it doesn’t come. Aaron’s not belittling my feelings, just trying to understand. Maybe it’s because I took the risk in telling him the whole sordid tale that makes it easier for me to accept his curiosity, but I try to explain it as best I can.

  I, too, move forward in my chair, mimicking his position with my arms on the table. My arm is perilously close to my plate, which has a bit of red sauce on the edge, but I ignore it. “I’m not sure if it was his own celebrity that made him such an asshole, or maybe it just contributed to it. It’s a good question. All I know is I wouldn’t have been such a viral joke without his power or fame.”

  Aaron’s eyes search mine, wondering if there’s more to it than that. But I think I’ve boiled it down as best I can about where the source of my mistrust lies.

  “You’re a conundrum, Clarke Webber,” Aaron finally announces, his tone mischievous.

  I laugh, nabbing my wineglass for another long sip. Looking over the edge, I ask, “Is that a good or a bad thing?”

  “It’s an intriguing thing,” he admits.

  “You know I’m not intentionally trying to be intriguing to get your attention, right?”

  “Oh, I know that very well,” he murmurs, his tone low and seductive, and makes me wish, just a tiny bit, that I’d shaved my legs.

  “I’m going to tell you a secret about me,” he says, reaching across the table and removing my glass from my hold. He sets it down, immediately placing his hand over the top of mine.

  The touch is so intimate, yet mysterious at the same time, and my breath stalls in my lungs. Still, I manage to whisper, “What’s that?”

  “I’ve never done this before,” he states boldly, waving around the restaurant with his other hand. “A quiet, romantic dinner. Not a single intention within me other than to have some great conversation with you. No ulterior motives.”

  This revelation shocks me. It’s a vulnerability, really. It’s so profound I immediately try to make light of it, merely so he can have an out if he wants it. “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t shave my legs, because I came out tonight thinking you might have ulterior motives.”

  Aaron tips his head back, letting out a laugh that seems to fill the space around us. It’s a beautiful sound and I’m mesmerized by his carefree joy at what I just said.

  He points a finger. “You see… that right there is why I’m doing something I wouldn’t ordinarily do.”

  “And what’s that?” I ask, curious beyond imagination. Because damn if he isn’t just as intriguing.

  “I think…” he says thoughtfully, eyes sparkling with challenge and excitement. “I think I’m trying to court you.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Wylde

  “That’s the last of it,” Tacker announces as he pulls one last stick off the back of the trailer, then tosses it onto the pile we’d just unloaded.

  “Awesome,” I reply, taking off the work gloves he’d given me three hours ago when we started this project. “It sounds like that means it’s beer o’clock.”

  “Definitely,” he replies and we both hop into the Gator to head back up to the ranch house.

  I’d gladly come out to Shërim Ranch—where Tacker lives with his lady love, Nora—to help with clean up after a storm took down several trees a few months ago. There was simply no time for him to tackle the project during the playoffs, but I’d told him when he was ready to give me a call.

  That’s what best friends do.

  Tacker and I haven’t been friends our entire lives, but we’re as close to that deep bond as one can get. We first met while playing on the Dallas Mustangs together and through a shared love of working out, badly dubbed martial arts movies, and hockey, we became very close.

  That’s why it hurt so deeply when he stopped being my friend for a while. But he had reasons.

  Good reasons at that.

  Tacker went through a loss no man should ever have to endure. He’d been piloting a small aircraft with his fiancée, MJ, aboard and due to an instrument malfunction in bad weather, the plane crashed. MJ died a brutal and slow death in front of him while they were trapped in the wreckage.

  Tacker might as well have died in that plane, for the man who returned from that remote slice of land was not the man I’d known. He withdrew from all relationships. Stopped communicating with me, closed himself off to other friends, and generally became a bit of a liability to our hockey team in Dallas. I tried everything—from giving him space to railing at him for letting himself slip away. None of it worked. Nothing mattered to him because he was dead inside.

  His saving grace ended up being his transfer to the new expansion team, the Arizona Vengeance. He was traded in the expansion draft, and I’d missed him sorely when he was gone. I’d still tried to maintain contact, but he only sporadically responded. Even when he had, he’d never offered up anything of substance. The few times our teams played against each other, I’d tried to get him to meet up with me after, but he’d declined. While I’d never let him know exactly how deeply that had cut me, I had my ow
n period of grief and mourning over losing my friend in that plane crash.

  But everyone has a second chance inside. Fate brought Tacker to the Vengeance team, which ultimately led to him meeting Nora. While I can’t go as far as to call her a savior, I will say she’s about as close to a saint as one can get by mere virtue of the changes she brought about within him.

  Namely… how to forgive himself and move on with his life.

  Fate also brought me to the Vengeance, where I’d found my old friend again. While I’m close to many of the men on this team, Tacker is, and always will be, my best friend.

  Which is why any day is a good day to hang with him in my book, even if I’m exhausted, sweaty, and covered in scratches.

  We ride in companionable silence across rocky terrain toward the main ranch house. Nora actually owns Shërim Ranch, where she specializes in equine therapy. As much as I’ve enjoyed my reconnection to Tacker, I’ve equally enjoyed getting to know the woman who brought him back from the brink of disaster. She’s warm, funny, kind, and doesn’t take any shit from Tacker. Best of all, she makes him ridiculously happy, which is something I thought I’d never see again.

  When we reach the house, we find Nora lounging in a rocking chair. She has her booted feet kicked up on the porch railing, a beer in her hand, and a small cooler at her feet.

  As we climb out of the Gator, she says, “Figured you boys would want a cold one.”

  “I beg of you, Nora,” I call out as I round the front and head up the porch steps behind Tacker. “Leave this knucklehead behind and be mine forever.”

  Nora gives a throaty laugh, but she doesn’t respond. She’s too busy tipping her head back for the deep kiss Tacker bestows upon her. Ignoring them, I grab a beer from the cooler, plopping down on the porch swing that’s perpendicular to the rockers. Tacker takes a seat next to Nora after grabbing his own beer.