“Very funny,” I say, my body warming, recalling the way it felt to settle on his lap. He’d slid his hand around my back, generating enough heat inside me to set off the overhead sprinklers.
Hook up with Rider and forget about life for a while.
As Lindsay’s words tumble around my brain and entice me, Rider says. “That’ll be my cue. I’ll tap my leg.”
Dani finishes her song on stage, and they call Lindsay. She squeals, jumps up and drags a grumbling Kane up with her. When Dani comes down, I push from my chair and stand in her way.
“Oh, excuse me,” she says and is about to go around me until I block her again. Honestly, this isn’t like me. I’m completely stepping out of character here, but I can’t deny that it’s fun. Since I’m so far out of my comfort zone, maybe I should go ahead and sleep with Rider.
“You have a great voice,” I tell her, and she beams.
“My friend over there thinks so too.” Her gaze slides to Rider, who is now talking to the man he pointed out earlier, and I can’t help but wonder what he’s saying about me. Something ludicrous, I’m sure.
“He’s your…friend?” she asks.
“Just friends.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me? That’s Rider Lewis. Seattle Shooter’s wingman. How could you keep things platonic with a guy like that?” I hold my hands out, about twelve inches apart, and catch Rider’s eye. His mouth drops as he approaches with the guy he’s trying to set me up with, and I grin. I turn back to the girl and whisper in her ear. Her eyes go wide, and she turns to Rider, a new appreciation backlight her baby blues.
“Rider, this is—” Before I can get her name out, she sidles closer to Rider, and for some strange reason, I want to call abort, and position myself in between them. Which is insane. I don’t want to date Rider and he clearly doesn’t want to date me.
Yeah, but you want to sleep with him.
I shut down that inner voice and watch the exchange. “I know who you are,” she says. “And I’m Dani, a huge fan.”
“Hey Dani,” he says in a sexy way that has probably already melted the girl’s panties. I resist the urge to look down to see if mine are steaming.
“Jules, this is Tate,” he says.
“Hey Jules.” The guy is cute enough, but he’s no Rider. “Want to grab a drink?”
“Sure,” I say, and exchange a smile with Rider before I go off with Tate. We grab drinks from the bar, and head back to his table. As soon as we sit, his gaze drops from my eyes to my snug shirt.
“Rolling Stones, huh? Have you seen them play?”
“No, my sister b
ought me this for my birthday.”
“You and Rider,” he begins, a little unsure. “You’re just friends?”
“That’s all.”
He shakes his head, and smiles, like he’s completely enamored with the guy. “He’s a hell of a hockey player.”
“So I hear.”
His head rears back. “You mean you don’t watch him?”
“I don’t love hockey.”
“How can you not love hockey?” he asks, and I tip my wine to my lips for a sip. Tate leans forward, braces his elbows on the table, and as the sounds of Kane butchering the song, Jeremiah was Bullfrog, reaches my ears, I resist the urge to cringe. I steal a glance at the stage, and while the man can’t sing, he looks like he’s having a hell of a time. I guess hockey players are used to the attention. My gaze slowly slides from the stage and searches the room for Rider, but he’s nowhere to be found. Wow, that didn’t take him long.
I work to ignore the bitter taste in my mouth. I have no right to feel any sort of jealousy. I set him up for God’s sake, and he set me up. I focus in on Tate, wanting to make this night work, needing to make this work so I can stop thinking about Rider already, but my eyes glaze over as he continues to talk about hockey. Like. Non. Stop.
I eventually finish the wine in my glass, and toy with my phone in my back pocket.
“And in game seven, the guy they call The Playmaker…”