Page 52 of Playing Mr. Perfect

It’s a good thing we had dinner before the show. It gave me time for the idea of watching a nude show to settle in. Although I was too nervous to eat much of the lavish meal, I did indulge in champagne to help calm my nerves. Our time together truly is an experience of firsts. I’ve never pictured myself watching nude dancers, but here I sit under dizzying lights, utterly mesmerized by the tantalizing cabaret of perfectly sculpted, long-legged women perched on sky-high heels, wearing nothing but red lipstick and a few straps of strategically placed leather, which covers absolutely nothing. The stunning dancers look identical, save for their vibrantly colored wigs.

“This is incredible,” I whisper to Clay, surprised by how much I’m enjoying the show.

“Yeah,” he says, a little clipped.

I glance over and see him rubbing his neck. I noticed him doing that during dinner, too. When I asked if he was okay, he said rubbing his neck is just a habit. But now his curt tone has me wondering if it’s more than that.

“Hey,” I whisper, bringing his eyes to mine. They’re a little stormy, and that worries me, too. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. Just watching the show.” He flashes a wolfish grin and squeezes my hand. “I hope you’re taking notes, because I want a private show with the prettiest woman in here later.” As I try to work out whether he means me or one of the dancers, he says, “Stop overthinking. I’m talking about you.”

I swear he can read my mind.

We watch a number of performances with short magic shows in between each set while the dancers change from one alluring costume to another. Their current costumes consist of leather straps crisscrossing over their shoulders and ribs, leaving the rest of their bodies exposed. Thigh-high fishnets and mid-calf high-heeled boots finish off the scant outfits.

After an hour and a half of watching back-arching, body-baring, provocative dancing, I’m embarrassed by how turned on I am. Applause rings out at the end of the show, and as the lights come on, I notice Clay rubbing his temple, but his eyes brighten as he takes my hand and we follow the crowd out of the building.

When we’re safely in the Bentley, he says, “What did you think?”

His voice is tight, but I don’t ask if he’s okay. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to talk about whatever is bothering him. “I thought it was fantastic. Those women were gorgeous, and so fit. They must practice all the time. Did you like it?”

“Yeah. It was good.” His brows are knitted, but he gives me a half smile and pulls me into a kiss. He threads his fingers into my hair, which I love, and in between kisses, he brushes his lips along my cheek, whispering, “I’m so glad you stayed.”

When we get up to his suite, I reach for the light switch, but he intercepts my hand, pulling me into his arms. “No lights.”

The discomfort in his voice is too harsh to ignore, and when I take a good look at his eyes, they’re shadowed with pain. “Clay, what’s going on?”

His hands slip down to my ass. “We’re about to have an unforgettable night.”

Knowing he’s pushing through whatever is causing him pain for me kills me. “The night has already been unforgettable. The whole day has been better than anything I could have dreamed of, but you’re obviously not okay, and that worries me. If you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong, that’s your prerogative, but if you’re trying to brave whatever this is for me, you don’t need to.”

“I’m fine,” he insists.

I can see he’s not even close to fine, and that’s when a harsh and unwanted realization hits me. “If you’re trying to act fine just to keep your man card in place, you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to tell anyone you couldn’t perform.” It hurts to say it, but my rational brain refuses to ignore the truth anymore. This is a fling, and I need to keep that in mind.

He rubs the back of his neck, wincing as he grits out, “Is that what you think?”

“I don’t know what to think. I trusted you with all of myself, and I can see you’re hurting, but apparently you don’t trust me enough to be honest about it.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you.” He pauses, the muscles in his jaw bunching. “It took me a long time to get you to give me the time of day. I just don’t want to let you down.”

“Let me down?” I laugh incredulously. “How can you say that after the wonderful day we’ve had?”

“I don’t want you to go home unsatisfied and regret staying.”

“How can I possibly be unsatisfied when—” Understanding hits me like a brick. “You mean sexually?” Ohmygod. What is wrong with men? “I’ve had more sex with you than I have had in the past year, and better sex than I’ve had in my entire life. I’m more than satisfied. But even if I weren’t, your well-being should come before my sexual satisfaction.” I soften my tone. “Please tell me what’s going on with you. I refuse to ignore it.”

“It’s just a migraine. I get them sometimes from my shoulder injury. I’ll take some Tylenol, and I’ll be good to go in no time.”

He heads into the bedroom, leaving me to stare after him in disbelief. Good to go in no time? Most migraines are not that friendly, and I have a feeling his has been building all day.

I grab a bottle of water from the mini fridge and find him in the bathroom, lights off. He’s leaning on the sink with one hand, rubbing his temple with the other. He straightens the second he notices me, grabs a bottle of Tylenol from his toiletries bag, and shakes a couple of pills into his hand.

“I brought you water.” I hand him the bottle.

“Thanks.” He takes the medicine. “I’ll be good to go soon.”

“Clay, you’re not on the field. Your fans aren’t watching.”