Doing It Right_Harloe Rae Page 2

  I wave that buzzkill off with a swat. “Anywho, we should sit tight and be ready to celebrate our friend’s exciting news.”

  “Not sure why we can’t start the party early. Everyone knows the best events start with a bang.” Vannah gnashes her teeth with a purr. Sheer lust and hunger waft in every direction as she continues leering at her husband.

  “Clea doesn’t know she’s the guest of honor. Well, maybe she does by now.” I blow out a long breath to counteract the horny fumes secreting from her pores. As if I need to give my neglected hormones another reason to rage. “That’s beside the point. They have Tally with them. You shouldn’t be all flushed and mused.”

  She bats at the air. “That adorable little girl is seven, and clueless as to why I’d be disheveled.”

  Before I can provide an opposing—yet uplifting—response, movement in my periphery distracts me.

  “Peppy?”

  I swivel on my stool, jaw already halfway to the floor. The joint unhinges completely when I lock eyes with the owner of that alluring voice. My ex is hovering mere feet away in all his statuesque glory. His features are slack with a shock that mirrors my own.

  My mouth goes dry at the sight of him. I snort at myself. What a freaking cliché. But the man is smoldering hot. I’m almost afraid to get scorched by his intoxicating heat at this range. The magnetic attraction that’s been lying dormant explodes to the surface. I shiver involuntarily, goosebumps pebbling my skin despite the warmth enveloping me.

  It’s been six years since I’ve seen Mason Braxter, yet in this moment it feels like just yesterday. He’s broader and more filled out—the toned definition of a professional football player. Time has been very kind to him.

  The staple backward hat is tucked on his head. His cotton shirt is worn and faded, in the effortlessly casual style he always preferred. Dark stubble dusts his square jaw, somehow making the sharp angles more pronounced. I recognize him like a favorite pair of jeans. It would take zero effort to slip him on and let our history wear me out for a date.

  I easily recall that devastating smile he offered as a parting gift. Mason is grinning now, but his features appear weary and strained. The edges of his mouth waver as if he isn’t sure how to feel. Either that or he’s forcing himself to put on a happy face. Probably the latter. This throwback clash might not be a blissful occasion. That reminder calms the giddy cartwheels wreaking havoc on my nerves.

  Vannah sputters and begins hacking up a lung, effectively knocking me from the reverie. A mixture of vodka and soda shoots from her lips. “Peppy? Holy shit, if that isn’t the greatest nickname I’ve ever heard. Please tell me he’s talking to you.”

  Mason’s brow furrows as he glances at her. The confusion clears when his focus returns to me. “This is quite a pleasant surprise.”

  My lips part with a soundless gasp. I try again, gulping at the knot lodged in my throat. “What are you doing here?”

  His piercing green stare threatens to incinerate me. “In Minnesota?”

  “This bar, more specifically.” I jab a finger into the wood counter for emphasis. Last I heard, he was still in California recovering from an injury.

  He hikes a beefy shoulder. “It’s been a long-ass day and I need a beer. This place has excellent curb appeal.”

  I squint at him, scrutinizing the honesty in his eyes. “What are the odds?”

  My question is rhetorical, but he humors me with a response. “Heavily in my favor.”

  A hum rises from me to agree with him. “This is definitely a surprise. Not to mention an extreme coincidence.”

  Mason steps forward. “Can I join you for a drink?”

  I glance at my empty glass. A refill wouldn’t hurt. “Are you alone?”

  “Does it matter?”

  My gaze strays to him without permission. “Not really.”

  “I’m all by myself. Take pity on me?” he cracks with a smile. Even after all these years, those dimples are still the death of me.

  I laugh and shake my head. “Never have. Never will.”

  “That’s my girl,” he croons.

  The all too familiar sentiment grates on old wounds and I wince. “Yikes, Braxter. Just diving right back in?”

  “Force of habit.” He holds up a palm in apology. It’s probably my imagination, but a shimmer of pain passes through his gaze. “Let’s catch up. I won’t make it weird.”

  “Excuse me,” Vannah interrupts. “This reunion special is super cute, but I missed the entire original series. I’m going to need a brief, albeit thorough, recap.”

  “Oh, whatever. I’ve told you about Mason.” The rebuttal is weak, even to my own ears.

  “Not a chance. I wouldn’t forget stories about this one.” She makes a zagging motion down his muscular physique.

  “I did. He was my high school sweetheart. Right, Brax?” I bat my lashes at Mason for added impact.

  Vannah snorts. “And that’s about all the details you provided. He deserves far more.”

  Landon is quiet. Alarmingly so. His assessing gaze is pinned on my ex. “Are you the Mason Braxter from Central Cal and the 86ers?”

  “The one and only.” His monotone response lacks the enthusiasm I’d expect.

  “Damn, you’ve cost me a lot of money.”

  “Shouldn’t bet against me.”

  Landon chuckles. “Yeah, I figured that out. Learned my lesson last season. That arm of yours is a nuclear weapon.”

  “If only my knee didn’t blow from the impact.” A noticeable slump curls Mason’s shoulders inward.

  In a rare show of compassion, Landon cringes. “I saw that. Sorry, man. Those two pro seasons were killer, though. Your rookie year broke records.”

  “They’re bonding,” Vannah murmurs from the corner of her lips.

  A cramp pinches my chest. “I hope Landon doesn’t get attached.”

  “He’s not a keeper?”

  I sigh to release the brewing strain. “Not anymore.”

  She slurps at her cocktail until the contents are drained. “I can’t believe you kept him a secret.”

  “Not on purpose.” But that’s a lie. After Mason left, just thinking about him ripped at my heart. I couldn’t bring myself to reminisce about our relationship, even years later.

  “Tell me about him.”

  “Later,” I promise.

  “Fine, fine. In the meantime, take a long stroll down memory lane and get reacquainted.” Vannah mimics stroking a phallic object.

  Fire stings my cheeks. “What? No. That’s a terrible idea.”

  “Scratch that itch, girl,” she hisses with a gleam in her eye. She tips her head toward him in an entirely unsuccessful attempt to be subtle.

  I allow my eyes to land on him again. There’s no denying that the suggestion is tempting. But this isn’t Mr. Right For Tonight. This is Mason. Our past is messy.

  That’s when I notice the deep shadows swirling in Mason’s eyes. A hollow gleam replaces the vibrant charm I couldn’t resist. This isn’t the boy I used to know. I’ve memorized the subtle cues from his facial features well enough to note that the man standing in front of me is carrying baggage. He’s more jagged and broody. I find myself wondering what haunts him, but that’s none of my business.

  Mason must feel my blatant attention, putting an abrupt end to his conversion with Landon. My temperature spikes with his gaze back on me.

  “Can we talk, Pep?”

  Vannah giggles in an uncharacteristic fashion. “Peppy Presley. Wow, that’s better than my imagination could ever conjure. Just wait until Clea and Audria hear about this.”

  Mason narrows his eyes at her. “It’s not a joke.”

  The bite in his tone makes me blanch. His blatant hostility is unexpected and new. Not that I can claim to know him anymore.

  I break the tension cracking off him with a huff. “Don’t mind her. Vannah is a brat.”

  “Pardon me for trying to lighten the mood.” She mumbles under her breath about me gnawing on a bon
e.

  “Why don’t you see about that quickie?” The urge to shoo her twitches my fingers.

  Her gasp is dripping with exaggeration. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  My shoulders bounce as I laugh at her dramatics. “Yes.”

  “Fine, I can take a hint.” Vannah digs in her purse. “I’ll call Clea for an ETA.”

  Mason towers over me, bending forward until our cheeks almost brush. “Does that mean we have a minute alone?”

  “I suppose.” As if it’s a hardship.

  Relief crosses his expression, tension bleeding from his rigid posture. “So, this is unexpected.”

  “To say the least.”

  “Do you come to this bar often?” His watchful gaze scans our surroundings.

  I can’t stop a laugh from spilling. “Idle chit-chat? I thought you weren’t going to make this weird?”

  “Give me a second to recalibrate. It’s been years since I’ve seen you.”

  The reminder is painfully unnecessary. “I’m well aware, Brax.”

  He has the decency to appear flustered. “Right, of course.”

  A nagging thought wiggles to the forefront of my brain. “Shouldn’t you be with the team this weekend?”

  “Keeping tabs on me?” He sounds far too pleased about that prospect.

  “Just through the grapevine.” I’ll never admit it, but I follow the game schedule religiously. These fibs will catch me eventually. That’s a worry for another day.

  Vannah snaps her fingers, appearing out of nowhere. “Oh, it’s all making sense.”

  Her pesky disruptions are beginning to irk me. Mostly due to this squirmy desperation to be alone with Mason. It wouldn’t take much for me to collapse against him in a hormonal heap.

  Just for a few minutes.

  Or an hour.

  Maybe the entire evening.

  But by morning, we’ll part ways.

  I berate myself. Who knows if he’d even be interested. He likely already has a girlfriend back home.

  Home.

  That used to be in Meadow Creek, with me. That frigid reminder is enough to sober my wayward exuberance. Dammit. I can’t let prior attachments keep me clinging to him.

  My lovely bestie doesn’t appear to notice my internal crisis. The look she pins on me is pure trouble. “No wonder you always make me watch football.”

  I squish a finger against her lips. “Hush.”

  But Mason catches her comment. Those tired emerald eyes brighten while remaining fixed solely on me. “You watched my games?”

  “I might’ve caught a few.”

  “Quit playing coy, Press.” Vannah swats my arm, then turns her gleeful expression to Mason. “This girl is your biggest fan. Has your jersey and—”

  Now I clap a palm over her mouth, already stammering out an excuse. “That’s, um. We don’t need to get into—uh, she’s joking.”

  “Do you?” The hope resonating from his voice shatters my denial.

  I tip my face to the canvas ceiling with a silent curse. “Maybe. That doesn’t mean I’m still pining after you or anything. It’s just kinda cool that I had a personal connection to the star quarterback once upon a time. Call me sentimental or deranged or whatever. Just… don’t read into it more than for vanity’s sake.”

  He winces at my past tense phrasing. “I’m flattered.”

  “Good. It’s a fairly large ego boost I suppose.”

  “That means you saw—”

  “Yes,” I blurt. However he intended to end that sentence had the potential to crush me.

  His gaze burns into me. “Good.”

  Vannah fans her face. “Wow, this is getting steamy. You two have some serious unfinished business.”

  Mason ignores her yet again. “Can we talk, Pep?”

  I bite the tip of my cocktail straw. “Aren’t we already?”

  “Somewhere with more privacy.” His gaze strays to the couple pretending not to eavesdrop on us.

  Landon chuckles and grips Vannah’s elbow. “Let’s give them some space, Sugar.”

  She pouts but allows him to steer her away. Before they’re out of earshot, she points at me. “You better tell me everything.”

  I offer a wiggle of my fingers and a wink. “No promises.”

  Once they’re out of sight, Mason slides onto the stool next to mine. He expels a loud breath. “She’s a bit intense.”

  “Oh, that’s just Vannah. You get used to her brash attitude. It’s mostly a defense mechanism. She’s come to my rescue more often than I can count. There’s no one more protective or dependable.”

  “Not sure about that.”

  I quirk a brow. “You can’t possibly be referring to yourself.”

  “And if I was?”

  It’s my turn to release a thick exhale. “Then I’ll require a lot more liquor to survive this conversation.”

  Holy fucking shit.

  The expletive plays on repeat while I gawk at the raven-haired beauty sitting close enough to kiss. I still can’t believe my luck. Presley Drake is in my presence. Not a day has gone by in six years without visions of her running through my mind. My thoughts wander to her almost automatically, regardless of the situation. That fascination has caused quite an inconvenience on several occasions.

  But my obsessing finally conjured her.

  Walking into Knotty Knox is one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. The likelihood of stumbling across her was almost impossible. It helps that I’m in Minnesota, fifty miles from Meadow Creek where we grew up, but the chances were still delusional at best. That overwhelming doubt was misplaced.

  Static has replaced all common sense since catching sight of her across the room. That crackling noise only gets louder when I lean in. A burst of wildflowers, summer sunshine, and reckless passion drags me into the past. Damn, she still smells the same.

  My ravenous hunger bores into the woman responsible for every fantasy I’ve dared to dream. There’s no other term to describe my undivided attention.

  Presley dips her chin, peeking up at me through black lashes. “You’re staring.”

  “Can you blame me?” I refuse to take my eyes off her in fear she’ll vanish. She’s far sexier than my memories gave her credit for. Blood rushes south at an alarming rate, creating a bulge behind my zipper.

  She sucks in a sharp breath. “Wow, you’re being awfully forward.”

  That’s when I recall what she said before my brain nose-dived into the gutter.

  “But you haven’t left. Does that mean you’ll humor me and accept another round?” I gesture to her drink.

  Presley hums with a nod. “Yes, please.”

  “What’re you drinking these days?” Not like I have the slightest clue what she prefers where alcohol is concerned.

  “Margarita on the rocks.”

  I bob my head and signal to the bartender without removing my gaze from her. “Solid choice.”

  Her lips twitch. “Good thing it’s strong. Sitting with you after all this time is very… exhilarating. In the best possible way, of course. I’m going through a kaleidoscope of emotions just being near you again.”

  A smirk of my own forms on reflex. “Sunny as ever, huh? I’m glad you haven’t lost that sparkle.”

  Her blue eyes narrow on me. “Why would I?”

  “Reality has a way of adding harsh complications.” A dull throb presses against my temple, attempting to snatch the joy she unknowingly provides.

  Presley makes a noncommittal noise. “Aside from losing you and our breakup, I haven’t had a reason to wallow.”

  “That’s incredibly honest. And refreshing.” Not to mention bold to admit. Although her filter has always been flimsy. That’s one of the things I always loved about her.

  She accepts her fresh margarita with a grin, pulling the straw between her teeth. “What did you expect, Brax?”

  I tip the bottle of Coors to my lips. “Certainly not bumping into you at a random bar.”

  “That reminds m
e,” she drawls. “Why are you in town? You haven’t told me.”

  My sigh is rife with defeat. “Business, not pleasure.”

  “That’s vague.”

  I grunt and sag lower in my seat. “It’s not a simple answer.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  A rock settles in my gut. “This isn’t what I wanted to talk about first.”

  “You’d rather have me assume?” She taps her chin. “Maybe you’re stalking me.”

  “If only I were that mysterious.”

  “You’re stall-ing,” she sing-songs.

  “Okay, okay. It’s reassuring to know you haven’t gotten any less stubborn.”

  “Uh-huh.” She lifts her brows, motioning me onward.

  “Well, after I took that hit during playoffs, the doctors told me that I’d never play professionally again. My knee can’t handle the pressure and I’ve been forced to consider other opportunities.” At the mere mention, a blunt ache pulses through the joint.

  It’s been nine months, yet the pain feels fresh on occasion. My therapist assured me the sensation is mostly mental. I’m still not sure if that makes it better or worse.

  “Oh, no. I had no idea your injury was so severe.” Her hand rests on my arm. “That really sucks. Are you okay? How are you handling it? When did they tell you? Is it definite? Can you get a second opinion?”

  Presley’s barrage of questions eases the strain between my shoulders. That immediate concern rising to the surface is such a welcome relief. It’s not the artificial sympathy I’m accustomed to. Her version is sincere and compassionate. The glassy sheen glittering in her gaze reveals that she truly cares. This tender display has nothing to do with prematurely ending an expensive contract. It’s not about losing a lucrative client or valuable team member. She’s just worried about me. Period.

  That knowledge fills me with a warmth I haven’t felt in over six years. Forget rehab and meditation and wishing my body didn’t quit. All I need is encouragement from Presley to get me back on even ground.

  “I’m all right. Better now,” I confess with a smirk.