The opposite occurs as he strides over to me, proffering a corsage, then the words, “For you.”
Blue roses bloom brilliantly, and he slides it onto my wrist, next to my watch. My breath hitches as his fingers graze my skin.
Nothing is going to happen at the wedding.
My skin seems to feel otherwise though, all lit up and electric from the barest touch.
“Gorgeous,” I whisper as I stare at the roses, then at my ruby ring, which seems to catch their reflection. I tear my gaze away to take the matching boutonniere and affix it to his lapel. My fingers are steady, but my senses are frantic, out-of-whack radars that are going haywire as I slide the pin through the back of the boutonniere. A faint hint of his aftershave drifts past my nose, the scent woodsy and clean, and it scrambles my brain, sending those wild neurons into hyperdrive.
He smells so enticing.
And he looks like he belongs on a magazine cover beneath the headline “Rugged All-American Athlete.”
The suit, the five-o’ clock shadow, the twinkling eyes.
Everything.
Just everything.
I step back. “Excellent flower choice,” I say, doing my best to sound friendly.
“Glad you approve.”
He offers his arm, and I drink in the sight of him once more.
My libido roars, rises up, taps my shoulder, and whispers like the she-devil she is in my ear, He looks crazy hot, doesn’t he?
Yes, Crosby Cash looks insanely yummy in that non-ruffled, non-bell-bottomed blue tux that hugs his muscles and shows off his flat stomach and makes me want to climb him like a tree.
He looks incredible with his dark hair that demands fingers be run through it, with his stubble that begs for hands to roam over it.
And those eyes . . .
Those eyes that simply say he’s imagining a woman naked.
He gazes at me with those eyes right this second.
My skin heats everywhere.
Dear God, my rabbit is going to be working overtime tonight.
Especially when Crosby flashes his grin at me. That easygoing grin on his stupidly gorgeous face.
When he links arms with me, a hot shiver rushes over my skin, pulses between my legs.
He leans in closer and whispers, “That dress.”
That’s all he says.
Two words that if written down, if placed in the middle of a poster on a wall, wouldn’t inherently seem like a lusty, sexy compliment.
But from his mouth, in this moment, with heat in his eyes, they feel like the sexiest thing anyone has ever said.
As we walk down the aisle arm in arm, I don’t feel friendly.
I feel something else entirely. Something I haven’t felt in ages.
Maybe ever.
A dangerous desire.
6
Crosby
Two weeks.
My turn-off-the-nuclear-reactor-of-my-love-life experiment is fourteen days strong, and I haven’t texted an ex or swiped right.
Hell, I killed my Tinder account.
I deleted all my exes’ contact info from my phone.
Total reboot. Clean fucking sweep.
But now the real work begins.
No matter how good my best friend’s sister looks, smells, or feels with her arm linked through mine, I won’t move her from the friend zone to the I-am-dying-to-take-you-to-bed-tonight zone.
But standing next to her is an unexpected test of my Ladies’ Men Anonymous resolve.
With each step down the aisle, my mind narrows to thoughts of her.
She smells like . . . a whispered moment, like the hint of a kiss.
And it’s going to my head.
The faint scent of something tropical, a juicy mango or a lush flower, is tickling my nose, teasing my senses.
To make matters harder, she looks like a jewel. That sapphire dress hugs her lithe body in all the right places, while letting my overactive imagination do its favorite thing—picture what’s underneath that material.
Halfway down the aisle, she steals a quick glance my way, her eyes flashing me a smile under her lashes, as she hooks her arm more tightly through mine.
My heart pounds a little harder.
How can one person look this good, smell this good, feel this good?
I have no answers.
We reach the justice of the peace, and I breathe a quiet sigh of relief as we fan to opposite sides—me with the groom, her with the bride.
Thank fuck for the ceremony.
The vows and promises will take my mind off the sensory overload in my body.
But that’s easier said than done.
As the justice of the peace speaks, my mind wanders, tripping back in time, making a few quick stops along the way at the LGO Excellence in Sports Awards Gala last year, at the Sports Network Awards the year before, at a local hospital’s big fundraiser for pediatric cancer a few years back. All these events where I’ve chatted with her, shared a joke or a drink.
The images of us laughing flicker before me.
As the justice of the peace talks about Eric and Mariana, my mind stretches further, reaches further into the past, landing on Nadia’s senior prom.
I’d just come home from college at the end of my sophomore year to find her going to the dance with Charlie Duncan, a senior too, captain of the debate team and one of those guys who looked like he’d be cast as the best friend in a Netflix Christmas special.
Inoffensively handsome and completely forgettable.
Nadia was the opposite.
She’d practically floated down the stairs and through the living room in an emerald dress, with her chestnut hair in a twist, several strands framing her face in loose, curled tendrils.
Her lips were bright, slick with pink lip gloss.
But her eyes did me in. They knocked the breath straight from my lungs.
I couldn’t get enough air.
Had her eyes always been so can’t-look-away-from? So brown and warm? So big and open?
Or had I only just noticed?
I was parked on the couch, watching a ball game with Eric and his dad. The bases were loaded, and I didn’t care.
She walked over to us on confident feet, the heels making her taller.
“Hey, Wild Girl,” I’d said, my voice dry and husky.
I needed a bottle of water. I needed ten gallons. My throat was the Sahara.
“Hey, Wannabe All-Star,” she’d said, then I stood and leaned in for a hug.
I was a
