Page 37 of For The Ring

Charlie blends a bit better, his jeans well broken in, his heather-blue t-shirt just on the other side of washed enough to hug his large frame just right.

“Fake-ass cowboy shit,” Charlie mutters from my side.

I laugh. “Exactly! I was trying to figure out what felt so wrong. It’s trying too hard.”

The bar is as packed as the rest of the town – overflow fans who don’t have tickets to the game but who want to watch it with a crowd.

“C’mon, let’s find a table,” he says, shouldering through groups of people scattered through the room, reaching for my hand. I hesitate for a second, flashing back to the hotel, the feeling of connection so unexpected and intense that it feels like I shouldn’t want to feel it again. Like it’s dangerous.

It is dangerous.

But I’ve never played it safe in my entire life.

So I take his hand and let that feeling wash over me again.

There’s a freedom here that I wouldn’t feel if we were back in New York, an anonymity that makes it okay when the bodies surge around us and I have to step even closer, our arms entwined as I press into his side.

And there’s something about that contact, the solid muscle of his bicep, the warmth of his body, the way he maneuvers me through the space, anticipating collisions and avoiding them, putting himself between me and the rest of the room.

That doesn’t keep me from nearly getting decapitated by a guy throwing his arm out wide to gesture the size of something as we pass, though. I brace for impact, but Charlie must have seen it coming because he yanks me closer and I fall into him, so the guy’s hand only hits air.

“You good?” he murmurs into my ear, his breath ghosting across my skin and making me shiver despite the heat created by the crowd. It’s so easy to imagine him asking that in a different context, his body wrapped around mine, his hands everywhere, pushing inside of me, his mouth at my ear, trailing down to my neck, his teeth sinking into the curve where it meets my shoulder just firmly enough to leave a mark.

“Yeah,” I manage to breathe out, despite the images whirling around in my mind, disappearing as quickly as they arrived.

I half want to spin around and tell the guy off, but that would require pushing away and breaking this odd little bubble we’ve created as we make our way to the one open table at the far end of the room.

Instead I lean in closer and, while Charlie doesn’t pull away, I can feel the surprise as he looks down at me as he gives me a slight squeeze.

What am I doing?

It’s just been so long since I’ve felt this way.

Protected. Sheltered. And, if the way he’s looking at me is any indication, wanted.

Is he feeling this too?

There’s always been tension between us, but it was easy enough to explain away. Our jobs are pressurized, the stakes were high and both of us are incredibly competitive. But this? It was never like this, not until that last night at Dodger Stadium.

And now, apparently.

No.

This cannot happen.

When we get to the table, I slide away from him, planting myself firmly in the center of one side of the booth while he takes the seat opposite mine.

“Are you hungry?” I ask, knowing my tone is too bright, too high pitched, too everything.

And he’s not an idiot. He knows what I’m doing. I’m sure of it, but he allows it, easily, and as if nothing just happened between us.

What am I saying?

Nothing happened.

And nothing is going to happen.

So, it’s fine. I’m fine. He’s fine. We’re both just fine.

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