Page 34 of Mad Rivals
It’s just hard to concentrate when I can’t stop staring at her hair. Or when her eyes meet mine and I forget what the fuck I was saying.
“I’ll run this by my office and let you know if we anticipate any changes,” I say as we wrap up the meeting.
She nods. “I’ll do the same and get back to you via email by next Tuesday. If all goes well, hopefully we can get this timeline to SCS and get started on the permits in the next few weeks.”
I stand and reach my hand across the table to shake hers, and she stands, too. She sets her hand in mine, and fuck it if fireworks don’t start booming and crackling all around us.
Can her dad see those? Clem? Dave?
Can she?
Or is it just me?
I don’t know what the fuck is happening, and I don’t think I like it. But the more time I spend around this woman, the more one thing is clear.
There’s heat between us.
And I’ve never ignored heat. It’s too dangerous to ignore. It could lead to heatstroke, or fire, or worse.
Now I have to figure out how to get her to stop ignoring it, too.
I head back to the office and send the timeline to the rest of the team. I wrap up a few other loose ends, and then I head home.
I don’t have anything planned tonight—a rare occurrence on a Friday night for me, but since I’m no longer playing in Chicago, the opportunities have already dwindled. Clubs and bars want local players, not traitors, which I’ve been called more than once since I signed the trade deal.
I didn’t even have a choice, but people neither understand nor care.
I should’ve planned a trip to San Diego this weekend, but I didn’t. I didn’t know if the meeting would turn to shit today and I’d have to spend all weekend revising the timeline or what. Thankfully that’s not what happened, but now I’m left on a Friday night with nothing to do.
I grab a beer from the fridge and turn on ESPN for some background noise, and then I open my phone and find myself navigating to her contact.
I read through our text messages from yesterday.
I can’t help my smile at the one where she called mehot.
And then I stare at the bar where I’m supposed to draft my next message, and I think about what the hell I can say to open the door to try to get to know more about the mystery that is Kennedy Van Buren.
CHAPTER 15: Kennedy Van Buren
New Message from Madden Bradley
My bedroom in my parents’ house has a big bench built in under the window, and that’s where Clem and I find ourselves after work on Friday evening.
Dinner’s done, and we grabbed a bottle of vodka to bring up to my room. Now we’re sitting on opposite sides of the bench, feet up and resting on the side of each other’s legs as we sip our drinks and stare out the window.
“How are you liking VBC so far?” I ask.
“Much better than that shit show I worked for before,” she says. “And did I tell you about Lance?”
My eyes dart over to hers, and her cheeks are flushed—not from the vodka since we just started. “Lance?” I raise a suggestive brow.
“He’s in the same department as me, and he’s just, like, socute. He’s kinda dorky, and he’s tall and skinny, and we’ve been sort of flirting. He gets all awkward, but then he hits me with this totally unexpected deep voice, and I just melt.”
“Someone’s smitten,” I say with a smile.
“Yeah, you.”
I roll my eyes. “You said you were dropping it.”
