Page 5 of This Wild Heart

I grinned. “Isn’t that better than leading someone on?”

“I suppose.” She arched an eyebrow. “So I’m your shield?”

“Of a sort.” Anya hummed, and I found my eyes lingering on her mouth before I tore my gaze away. “How have we not met yet?” I asked her.

She shrugged. “I didn’t travel to see him play much when the two of you were in Ft. Lauderdale together. And I certainly don’t know everyone Emmett’s played with.”

“Aren’t you engaged to one of his teammates?” I asked.

She laughed, and damn if I didn’t like the way it sounded. “Yeah, I am.”

But as I looked down at her hand where she held the delicate crystal champagne flute, the sight of that ring had me straightening. “And where is he?” I asked.

Anya sighed, glancing somewhere on the opposite side of the room. “Not sure exactly.”

Maybe it was the color of her eyes or the way we stood leaning toward each other at that bar. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she was safe with that rock on her hand. Whatever it was, I followed the reckless impulse to saysomething, to acknowledge that flicker of interest I hadn’t felt in months, something else I thought had died. “If I was here with you while you’re wearing that dress, you could be damn sure I wouldn’t leave your side.”

If it hadn’t been for the flush creeping across her cheekbones, I might not have been able to tell she was affected. It took her a few moments to answer, her eyes locked on mine. “Does that line ever work for you?” she asked lightly.

I held her gaze. “It’s not a line. It’s a fact.”

Anya looked away, then swallowed. “I think you’re safe now,” she said, glancing meaningfully over my shoulder. Sheila had disappeared.

“I guess that means you are too.”

She exhaled a short laugh. “I was always safe from you, hotshot.”

Anya’s shoulder brushed my arm as she walked away, and I let out a slow breath as the persistent ache returned in her absence.

Chapter 2

Parker

Present day

“Yo, Parker, one more shot, man. Come on!”

“No way, ruin your own liver.”

Plus, I was already two shots past buzzed, and among my many faults the past couple of years, public intoxication was not one of them.

I kept that shit private, where no cameras could blast it over social media.

Robertson, who did a fantastic job protecting our quarterback, was slightly less fantastic at handling his liquor in public. Next to him, his girlfriend was doing some strange, slinky, hands-in-the-air movement that was probably meant to be sexy, but I kinda worried that she was about to trip over her own feet and face-plant into the table of our roped-off VIP area.

Right on cue, she stumbled on her own purse and pitched forward.

I stood and caught her arm before she could go straight through the table filled with glass bottles. “Easy there, Cora.”

She giggled, turning to fling her arms around me in a sloppy hug. “You’re thebest, Parker.” Her breath smelled like tequila, and I couldn’t help but worry I might get contact drunk just from smelling it. I cursed the more impulsive me from yesterday, who agreed to come with them to Vegas for a night.

But hey, that was what I did lately, wasn’t it?

Some mad, invisible search for flickers of life, no matter where I could find them. I was trying—trying very, very fucking hard—to keep that search in less impulsive, wreck-your-liver or break-someone’s-heart type pursuits the past few months.

Sitting at home was driving me up a fucking wall, though, so when Robertson told me they were flying to Vegas for two nights, I told myself it would be fun. It would be a harmless distraction. I sure as hell wouldn’t be able to let go like this on my next trip.

Sheila was far more worried than she let on, and I had the feeling she was one step away from staging a full Wilder Family intervention. She wasn’t even being particularly coy about it: the invitation to a weekend at home that wasn’t really an invitation. It was a command, and that sweet, supportive woman didn’t command us very often.

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