Page 58 of For The Ring

“No, it wasn’t, it was . . . I don’t know exactly what it was, but it wasn’t nice. The family, it was my ex-husband’s family, his new wife, their baby, and I saw them and I just thought . . . I don’t know what I thought.”

“I take it it wasn’t an amicable divorce?” he asks, probably already knowing the answer.

“It was not. He cheated on me. With her. They got married like a couple of weeks after our divorce was finalized, and she was already pregnant. He quit his job in finance, the job heclaimed to love, and they’re, I don’t know exactly what to call it, but influencers, I guess? I don’t know exactly what they do, as my best friend blocked all their accounts for me.”

“That’s a good friend. I unfollowed my ex, but we grew up together, same small town, same childhood friends, so people think it’s fun to tag us in the same stuff. Sometimes I see her on a friend’s post, and she remarried Vaughn Keegan, you know the linebacker from the Rams? And fans will randomly post about her too.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Price of fame.”

“No, that’s ridiculous,” I argue. “People are the worst.”

“It’s fine. I barely go on that stuff anyway.”

“Still, you shouldn’t have to see that,” I say, reaching out and covering Charlie’s hand with mine, and his eyes flicker down to stare at how we’re now touching. Suddenly an air of tension simmers between us, settling gently where my pale fingers lay over the perpetually tan back of his hand. I try to break it with a question. “It was an amicable split?”

“It was, as much as it could be. She wanted to start a family and I knew that I couldn’t do that while I was playing. I was too selfish, too focused. I don’t know how some guys did it. They made it look easy too. Javy just always had his family around and Maria had her own company and that seemed impossible to me.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, though I don’t know why I’m apologizing.

“Nah, I’m sorry your ex was such a shithead. And who the hell would cheat on you? Fucking idiot.”

“I don’t think it was about me, really.”

“It wasn’t, but still,” he insists. “You don’t cheat. That’s just rule number one. You want out? You say something, you don’t cheat. Ever.”

“A pro athlete who thinks cheating isn’t okay: are you some kind of unicorn?”

“There are more of us than you’d think,” he says, and his hand shifts beneath mine, a shiver sliding through me when his calloused fingertips brush against the inside of my wrist, just like he did back at the ballpark.

“You . . .” I start and then stop when he does it again. “Fuck.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” I whisper, and his touch disappears and I nearly whimper at the loss of contact.

“No, you don’t want me to stop or . . . just no?” he asks.

“Don’t stop,” I clarify, finding my voice, trying desperately to ignore just how good his touch is making me feel, how incredibly aroused I am by the briefest contact, by the tenor of his voice, “but this . . . it can’t . . . we can’treallydo this. It wouldn’t work. We’re . . . we . . .”

“What happened inLAstayed inLA,” he says. “What happens in Arizona can stay right here.”

“Yeah?” I ask, cringing inwardly at how desperate and breathy the word sounded.

“If that’s what you want. That’s what we’ll do.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, yes? I need to hear you say it, no confusion, no misinterpretation. Do you want this, Francesca?”

Fuck.

“You called me that before,” I say, avoiding the question, buying time, trying to let the rational side of my brain, whatever’s left of it, talk me out of this.

“Did I?” he asks, setting aside his beer and mine before coming around the counter to stand in front of me, his hands reaching out as he steps ever closer.

My hands find his and he takes them, before lifting one to his mouth, his lips caressing the skin his fingers found just amoment ago and a jolt goes through me, a heady surge of pure lust.

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