Page 65 of Scoring the Player
“You got it.” He brushes my hand while taking my empty glass.
Straightening my shirt sleeves, I scan the room and zero in on a man clad in a tux who has Salem’s complexion and build. My shoes tear across the ballroom floor, only to slow before coming to a stop when I’m an arm’s length away.
What would I even say?
It’s been three weeks.
Not that long, I guess.
He didn’t text or call either.
Though I’m the one who got off and then ran like a coward.
A man with salt-and-pepper hair steps into my path.
Looking past his shoulder, my stomach plunges asnot-himturns in my direction.
I turn and sweep the rest of the crowd. A part of me, the cringe-fest side, was counting on him being here.
“Arnaz?”
I turn around.
“Rocco,” the man says, like it’s been said before, and I missed it.
I shake his hand.
“You smoke?” He offers me a cigar.
“No.”
“You enjoy the ocean?”
The fuck?
“It would be my pleasure to have you aboard my yacht.”
Ugh, a yacht guy.
A husky laugh has my head whipping around and tracking the voice to anothernot-him.
Damn.
I turn back.
“…your career with keen interest, and given your exceptional talent and the new opportunities available to you following your recent…revelation, I believe there are uncharted territories that I’d like to help you?—”
“Rocco, I’ll stab you in the eye with my heel if you try to poach my favorite client,” Catharine warns as she floats over in a black ball gown with one of those mermaid-tail hems.
“But you steal my top point guard at my anniversary party, and I’m supposed to exercise decorum?” he claps back.
“Babe. He came running to me. I tried to get him to stay with you. What was I supposed to do?”
She grins as I dip down and plant a kiss on her cheek. “Happy Birthday, Cat. You look gorgeous.”
“You too. Love the dark blue. Look”—she nods to my cravat and then points to her red diamond solitaire necklace—“we’re matching.” Leaning up, she loudly whispers, “Watch yourself around this one—he likes ’em young.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Rocco scoffs.
