Page 5 of Playing Mr. Perfect

“Let’s go, you guys,” Brindle calls out. “The limo is here.”

As we head for the door, Clay falls into step beside me and says, “You know, if you wanted me to be your date for the concert, you could have just asked. You didn’t have to ask Dash to do it for you.”

“I didn’t ask him to invite you.”

“If you say so.” His cockiness rivals Axsel’s. “How long are you going to play hard to get?”

“I’m not playing hard to get.”

“Then why haven’t you responded to any of my texts?”

He puts a hand on my lower back as we follow the others outside. Cold air stings my cheeks, but my body is warm from his proximity. “I don’t text people I haven’t given my number to.” It turns out that talking about his texts is as nerve-racking as fighting the urge to respond to them.

“I got your number from Dash, who got it from Amber,” Clay says. “That has to count for something.”

“It does. Bad judgment on their part.” We wait as Trace and Brindle climb into the limo, and all I can think about is how I’ll probably spontaneously combust if I have to sit close to Clay. After Brindle climbs in, I snag my window of opportunity to get away from him. “I’ll get in next,” I call out, rushing forward to slip inside the limo before Morgyn. I feel bad for being rude, but my sanity is on the line. I breathe a sigh of relief as I settle in beside Brindle, pleased with my strategic move to sit between her and Morgyn.

“Clay, you can go next,” Morgyn offers.

Are you freaking kidding me? Is this some kind of conspiracy to make me as uncomfortable as possible?

Clay flashes those disarming dimples as his big body lands beside me, and he claps a hand on my leg, giving it a squeeze as the others pile into the limo. “Of all the limos in all the towns in all the world, she’s sitting in mine. It must be fate.”

As if trying to ignore my quickening pulse isn’t hard enough, the heat of his hand sears through my jeans, and I like his quick wit so much, I’m smiling like a teen with a crush. What’s worse is that I can’t seem to stop. It’s so infuriating, an incredulous laugh slips out. “Does that kind of pickup line ever work for you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t usually have to speak to pick up a woman.”

And there it is. The perspective I need to keep my distance from Mr. Perfect. I lift his hand off my leg, meeting his gaze as I place it on his leg.

Big mistake.

His blue eyes are no longer mesmerizing.

They’re challenging.

Seductive.

Dangerously alluring in a way that would appeal to rebellious souls like Sable and Brindle, not to a rational woman like me.

Only they do.

My skin goes hot, my heart races, and suddenly I understand what Sable and Brindle have been claiming forever—that there are certain types of chemistry that are so all-consuming, they seep into your pores and saturate the very air you breathe. Inescapable.

That’s when I realize I’m wholly and completely screwed.

Chapter Three

Pepper

Drinks are flowing and the air feels electric in the VIP lounge of the Paris Lá Defense Arena, where dozens of men and women are moving to the beat, as captivated by my talented twin and her band as I am. Well, maybe a little more so, given that even across the crowded room I can feel Clay’s eyes on me. The heat of his gaze has had me in a choke hold since dinner. I fight the urge to look over, and fighting it makes me worry I’ll accidentally glance in his direction and those all-seeing eyes will catch me doing it, erroneously feeding into his belief that I’m just playing hard to get.

My nerves flame with the pressure not to look over.

I know he’s with my brothers-in-law and a handful of men and women who were here when we arrived. Another group had converged on Axsel right away, but a few others had flocked to Clay and Dash, thrilled to be among the American football players. I don’t know how Amber deals with it. Dash is retired and people still consider him public territory. At least Dash kept his distance from the ladies. Clay, on the other hand, hammed it up, putting his arm around the women as they took selfies.

I try to quell the pang of jealousy that I don’t even understand. Clay is not for me, so why do I care? A voice in my head whispers, Because there’s something there. Something hot and sharp and enticing.

The roar of the crowd rises with the crescendo of the music, drawing my attention from my runaway thoughts to Sable strutting across the stage, playing the guitar like it’s an extension of her fingers. A dozen crisscrossing lights call her out like the celebrity she’s become. I get chills watching her, so confident and unafraid, living out a dream she never wanted and few could ever achieve. We shared a womb, but that’s where our similarities end. Sable is loud and rebellious. She has a gorgeous voice and an ear for music, and she has always taken what she wanted without allowing anyone’s criticism to affect her actions. I, on the other hand, speak my mind but would rather walk away than raise my voice. I just don’t see a need to fight every possible battle. On top of that, I couldn’t carry a tune if it came in a suitcase, and I pick apart criticism to see if any of it is applicable before setting it aside to overthink it later.