Page 18 of Biggest Player
I know, I know. I shouldn’t have done it, but I felt bored and she’s smokin’ hot, and sure, maybe it isn’t the smartest thing I’ve done this week—especially coming off that bad date with Claire. All I wanted was a little redemption in the dating department, something to fill my time—maybe get a decent meal and a good drink—and Madisson felt like the easy, fun solution.
So I created a new profile.
Harlow said that’s what I needed to do since, technically, you’re not able to update or change pertinent information on Kissmet once you create your account.
Hence, a new bio was born. Even added some photos of myself from college and none with my current team or of myself in a football uniform. Nothing about my career, nothing about my famous friends.
I was all business this time around.
Instant match.
Instant fun.
Except . . .
This date isn’t going as smoothly as I was expecting it to, not by a long shot. In fact, it’s taking the same kind of turn the date with Claire did but in a completely different way, and I’m about to get to that.
Be patient.
Catering primarily to older couples, groups of pompous gentlemen, and golfers at the bar for happy hour, Dickson’s is posh—the kind of restaurant with outdated velvet wallpaper and cherrywood paneling. The kind of restaurant with an attendant in the bathroom who gives you a warm towelette once you’ve finished washing your hands. I’d bet money that they have a cigar-smoking lounge too.
Classy.
Impressive.
When the server asked what we’d like to drink, Madisson tried to order a bottle of their most expensive wine. An entire bottle, for herself.
The server’s brows raised, and he glanced at me for approval. “Ma’am, the most expensive wine is fifteen hundred.”
My date squealed in delight, clapping her hands, smiling brightly.
It was that moment I thought to myself,Self, how the fuck do you find these women?
I shake my head. No way am I paying fifteen hundo for a bottle of alcohol for a woman I’ve known ten minutes.
“She’ll have something by the glass.”
Pouting, Madisson crosses her arms—crosses her legs—bouncing her knee like a petulant child.
“Are you angry I didn’t order you an entire bottle of wine? ’Cause for the record, I’m having beer.”
Her chin tilts up in the air. Sniffle. “It’s fine.”
Bounce, bouncegoes her knee ...
My eyes, damn them, choose that moment to trail over her smooth, tan legs, stopping short at the strap on her ankle—the black box there has me doing a double take.
Please tell me that’s not what I think it is.
It can’t be.
Madisson uncrosses her leg, the black anklet disappearing from my view.
Nosy, I pull back, tilting my large body for a better vantage point beneath the table so I can see for myself, one way or another.
The box on her leg does indeed appear to be what I think it is.
Shit.
