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Or perhaps it’s because I assume he’ll show up, and I have this pressing need to talk to him. I’m ready to confront him with what Sam and I talked about the other night.
I hope he shows up.
It probably has more to do with the fact that I saw him kiss some woman at my bar than anything else, and it’s total bullshit that he chose the Gridiron of all places on Earth to meet her.
He did it to shove her in my face. He didn’t know I’d be there, but he certainly had to think there’d be a chance. Or maybe he didn’t and my ego is just overinflated.
Either way, I’m right. He shows up and uses his keycard to enter the front door, and he freezes when he spots a figure sitting by the media room.
“What are you doing here?” he demands, his hand moving to his chest like I startled him.
I push to my feet and take a few steps over toward him. “Hoping to run into you.”
I can’t help but study him for a beat. His dark eyes follow my every move as I close the gap between us until we’re within arm’s reach. It’s too close. I shouldn’t be this close to temptation, especially not when that familiar smell hits me.
I can’t help it. I draw in a breath, and when I open my eyes, they flick to his lips for just a beat. Scruff outlines his mouth and jaw, as if he couldn’t be bothered to shave for the last few days, and I hate that someone else’s lips were on his.
I hate that other women have been beneath him.
That was supposed to be reserved for me…and now, it’s not. It can’t be.
And I’m not innocent. I have a son. Clearly I didn’t save myself for some reunion when it’s been very clear to me for a number of years that any reunion between the two of us would not be a happy one.
He glances back at the door he just unlocked to get in before his eyes return to me. “How’d you get in here?”
“I have a keycard.” I hold it up to show him.
“But…how?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He grunts a little, conceding. “I guess you’re right. Why were you hoping to run into me?”
He cuts right to the chase, and I should, too.
Instead, my stupid mouth takes over. “Who was that woman?”
His brow quirks. He seems surprised by my direct question, but he masks it quickly. “At the bar?”
“At my father’s restaurant,” I grit out.
“None of your business. Is that why you’re here? To ask me about my personal life? Because that doesn’t seem very professional, Ms. Bailey.”
“Neither did cornering me in the break room and bringing up my child, Mr. Nash.”
He sighs, glancing away from me. “I shouldn’t have done that. You’re right, and I’m sorry.”
My brows shoot up. “Whoa. Did you just admit…you were wrong?”
He offers a wry chuckle. “I suppose I did.”
Silence spans between us, and I’m not sure how to bridge the gap that lies there.
He clears his throat and says, “Listen—” at the same time I say, “Lincoln—”
We share a bit of an awkward silence, and I hold up a hand indicating he should go first.
“She’s an old friend who was in town and wanted to get together for a drink,” he finally says. “I assume that’s not for a story?”
