Page 46 of The Defender
He kept his Lamborghini, but he also bought a discreet black Range Rover for everyday errands because the Lambo was too recognizable and he didn’t want people following him home.
It might have been overkill considering we hadn’t had issues with fans showing up at my flat so far, but it was better to be safe than sorry.
We were on the same page when it came to his intruder, so no, that wasn’t the issue.
My thoughts swirled as I tried to relax with a hot shower.
Was it his reaction to Mason? If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought Vincent was jealous, but I’d casually mentioned how Mason and I were texting, and he’d continued eating his dinner like I hadn’t spoken.
What else could it be? The silly secrets we’d shared? The mere exposure effect from seeing him all day, every day? The glimpses of the man beneath the player, and the annoying realization that I couldn’t dismiss him as another overhyped jock with an overinflated ego and the depth of a kiddie pool?
A part of me already knew there was more to him than what he showed the world. We’d had too many conversations for me to truly believe he was all brawn and no brains. But seeing him let his guard down at the arcade, if only for a little bit, drove that home deeper than I would’ve liked.
It doesn’t matter.A bet was a bet, no matter how much I’d softened toward him. I couldn’t forget that with the emotional stakes of it all—the potential humiliation of losing to Vincent DuBois, coupled with the knowledge that he would be right and that Icouldn’tresist him after all.
Soft moments had to remain just that. Moments.
I turned off the shower with a squeak of metal and dried off. I wrapped a towel around myself, stepped into the hall, and—fuck.
Vincent rounded the corner at the exact same moment that I exited the bathroom. We froze in unison.
This wasn’t the first time we’d run into each other fresh out of the shower. However, thiswasthe first time he’d seen me practically naked. I’d forgotten to do laundry earlier, so the only towel I had on hand was a minuscule one that barely covered my private parts.
Vincent’s gaze slid down the length of my body before it came back up to my face. His jaw ticked, but he didn’t say a word.
Heat suffused my cheeks. I was tempted to dash into my room and lock the door, but if I turned, he’d probably see my butt hanging out from under the towel.
I wanted to win the bet, but not at the expense of my dignity.
“You’re dressed up,” I said in an attempt at small talk.Cool. Casual. Totally not freaking out over the fact that my nipples are one shrug away from popping free.“On your way back from a date?”
Instead of his usual trainers and T-shirt, Vincent wore a perfectly tailored blazer and dark jeans. The jacket emphasized the broad width of his shoulders, and I detected the subtle, spicy scent of his cologne.
He looked good. Really good.
His inscrutable expression fell away, replaced with a hint of his dimple. I winced, mentally kicking myself for making it sound like I cared whether he was out on a date or not.
“Just got back from a meeting with my agent, actually,” he said. “Zenith wants to have dinner next week, so we were coming up with a game plan.”
Surprise replaced my self-consciousness. “So the rumor’s true? They’re looking for a new ambassador?”
“Seems like it. My agent says they’re putting out feelers now. The CEO and the rest of the exec team will be at the dinner, and Lloyd thinks that means I’m already on their shortlist. Hedid some digging around. He’s pretty confident it’s down to me, Alarik Filipovic, and Rene Martin.”
Alarik Filipovic was a twelve-time Grand Slam champion while Rene Martin was the reigning king of F1. They were tough competition, but Vincent was a legend in his own right. Besides, he was a hundred times more charismatic than either of those men, though I’d never tell him that. His ego was inflated enough.
I opened my mouth to make some sort of quip about him always coming in third sinceSports UKrecently named him the third-best player in the Premier League, but the words died in my throat.
One, that was kind of mean, and two, he didn’t look cocky. He looked anxious. A frown creased his brow, and tension disrupted the usually confident set of his shoulders.
“Are you nervous about the exec dinner?” I asked instead.
“A little.” He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “I really fucking want this sponsorship, Brooklyn.”
My chest clenched. I was so used to arrogant, self-assured Vincent that this moment of raw honesty hit me harder than expected.
“Listen. I have no idea who they’ll choose in the end, but out of all the athletes in the world, you’re in thetop threeshortlist. That’s already incredible,” I said. “Clearly, they see something in you, or they wouldn’t have invited you to dinner. As long as you don’t dump a glass of wine over their heads or, I don’t know, choke to death at the table, you’ll be fine. There’s nothing to be nervous about.”
Vincent’s face softened. His dimple made a brief reappearance. “You giving me a pep talk, buttercup?”
