Page 72 of Her Game Plan

“He’s a stallion, Callan.” A laugh bursts out of me, drawing the attention of the people at the nearby tables. I bite my lip and turn into the protection of Callan’s body, hiding from the interest.

Callan leans close, his breath tickling my ear. “I’ll show you a stallion.” His voice is husky as he whispers it into my ear.

“Promises, promises,” I goad him.

The sinful smile that crosses his face really is full of promise. “Can we go home yet? I have a horse to upstage.”

I snort again. “Not yet. We at least have to wait until the program starts. Plus, you’re good, but…” I trail off.

“Realized you were getting too close to the line of bestiality, didn’t you?” The mirth in Callan’s expression makes me want to say fuck it and ditch this place. Unfortunately, there are two more men who are supposed to be here tonight who I need to talk to.

I nod. “It was going to get weird.” Pausing, I consider it. “But I’m sure there is a hung-like-a-horse joke in there somewhere.”

Callan leans his elbows on the high-top table between us. “I’m here all night. You let me know when it comes to you.”

The event passes quickly after that, both men I need to talk to arriving within minutes of one another. Since this is the first time I’ve talked to either of them, I use Callan as bait once again, the lure that only a professional quarterback can provide, calling them both over to us during the cocktail hour.

Watching him hobnob with people should be a turnoff—it’s the exact things about him that used to drive me crazy—but now I see it for what it really is: sure, he loves the attention, but he also genuinely cares. He wants to hear people’s stories. He wants to chat with them. And he wants them to like him. But not for the sake of his ego. Because, deep down, I’m starting to realize there’s still that little boy who was left behind by his parents, time and time again. And that little boy wants to do everything in his power to make sure people aren’t leaving because of him.

And for some reason, it makes my chest light up, as if I’ve found the place in my body where love lives.

Not that this is love. Right?

“Nice event, isn’t it?”

I’m startled from watching Callan by a tall man standing next to me. He’s not as well-built as Callan, but he has that I-express-myself-through-my-art vibe to him that I used to chase after like catnip. From the tattoos sneaking out of the top of his dress shirt, I’m guessing drummer.

“It is,” I agree. “Have you tried the bacon-wrapped dates they’re passing around? So good.”

His laugh is deep and throaty, and it… does absolutely nothing for me. I wonder what’s wrong with me. I should be all about this guy. Instead, I’m barely able to focus on him, wanting to find Callan again. Shit. I might be in deeper than I thought.

He leans closer like he’s confiding a secret. “I tend to prefer the appetizers at these things to the main courses. I can only eat mass-produced mashed potatoes and cooked carrots so many times.”

I shake my head. “The limit does not exist for how many mashed potatoes I can eat.”

“Orion Baker.” He extends his hand in greeting, the way his eyes are tracking me letting me know that he, at least, is interested.

I shake it. “Charlotte Langford.”

“Are you here with someone tonight, Charlotte?”

“She’s mine.” Callan rests his arm around my waist, his gaze burning through Orion as if it could burn him to the ground. And there’s that attraction I’d been missing a second ago.

“Hi, Princess.” He kisses my cheek.

I smile at him, my insides warring between complete arousal and a tightening in my gut at his claiming.

Gesturing between the two, I say, “Orion, meet Callan Devine. Callan, Orion Baker.”

We chat for a few moments, Callan’s arm never leaving my waist, his fingers stroking gently over the side of my hip, until eventually, Orion says goodbye to go talk to someone else he knows.

I decide not to ask Callan what his claiming me meant. Because it felt real. And I don’t want him to tell me any different. Instead, we make our way to Conrad Ferguson, chatting with him about his work and his most recent trip to his private golf course in Wild Bluffs, Colorado.

Finally, we’ve talked to all three men on my list for the event, plus Orion, who I mentally catalog as a maybe. Turns out, he’s not a drummer, but a chef. I’ll have to do more research on his company, spending power, and regional influence before I can truly list him as a candidate.

“Ready to go?” I whisper to Callan as the people around us start moving to take their seats for dinner.

He yawns as he nods, but doesn’t make a move toward the door. “You’re sure we don’t need to be at the dinner?”