Breakaway (The Rule Book Collection) Read online

  “I’m jealous of your locks.”

  “I can do your hair this color, too. Or anything really. I’ll cancel some appointments for you, fit you in before you go. I used to love it when you sported that fire engine red, it was sexy as hell.”

  I snorted. “I was sixteen… and Ben would go postal. I told him I wanted to get that tattoo—”

  “The phases of the moon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh my God, let’s get it done before you go.” Her excitement bubbled and brewed in her green eyes.

  “Ben flipped when I suggested it. Said tats are trashy.”

  “Trashy?” She was appalled.

  My gaze scanned the half sleeve of ink on her left arm. “He’s different, Ray. He’s changed.”

  But I was still me. Still not good enough.

  I finished the last sip of wine and set my glass on the table, avoiding Ray’s shrewd stare. I lifted my hair off my neck, letting the cool air of the bar tickle away the humidity on my skin. I closed my eyes and breathed in the deep scent of the south, and the beer and sweat of the bar. I let the loud punk music rage in my ears and remembered whom I’d once been.

  “Um… Stevie, the guy to your six is seriously digging on you right now. And sweet Jesus, he’s hot.”

  My eyes popped opened but I kept my gaze on my friend. “Stop. No one is looking—”

  “Hey.” The deep caramel tone of his voice painted my cheeks with heat. Reagan’s Cheshire grin made it worse. It was an epic feat, but I somehow managed to keep my eyes on her. His clean scent. Ocean water and something masculine filled the air around me. Smothered me, begged me to turn and give him one look.

  “Hey.” Reagan’s sweet voice had my eyes narrowing.

  I suddenly wished my wine glass was full so I had a reason to grip it and still my shaking fingers. Men made me nervous, in general. I’d only ever been with Ben. I never got hit on and the heat from this guy’s body was drowning me. It didn’t help that I was able to see from my peripheral vision, the large size of his arm and how it was covered in ink as it rested on the table.

  Reagan held out her hand. “I’m Reagan and my very rude friend over there is Stevie.”

  His chuckle warmed my belly.

  “My name’s Mark, it’s nice to meet you.”

  My eyes hadn’t strayed from their forward position. They were good little girls and stayed right on Ray’s, but I could feel him, feel him assessing me. Goose bumps trailed along my neck and shoulders.

  “Stevie… that’s a different name.”

  “Her mom named her after the singer of Fleetwood Mac.”

  Silence.

  “As in Stevie Nicks… you know… Go Your Own Way…. Landslide… Rhiannon.” Reagan was incredulous.

  “Not ringing a bell.”

  “Awe… that’s cute. How old are you, sweetheart?” she asked, and I had to stifle my giggle.

  His laugh was palpable in the space between us and for some reason, its open candor finally broke my resolve.

  I wished I hadn’t looked.

  Maybe if I’d ignored him. Played the uptight bitch I’d gotten so good at portraying, I wouldn’t have ever felt it.

  The shift.

  The weight that held my heart broke free and fell into my gut, raising every last one of the butterflies from the dead.

  “Twenty-five.”

  “You should know who Fleetwood Mac is, I don’t give a fuck if you’re twelve.” Reagan’s smile was teasing and his was—beautiful.

  He was tall and formed from lean muscle. The faded gray, short-sleeve shirt he had on hugged his broad shoulders and chest, exposing strong arms covered in full sleeves of ink and powerful muscles. His brown hair was on the lighter side of chocolate and needed to be cut. It curled over his ears and flopped across his forehead. His structured jaw was smattered with stubble like he’d decided a few days ago he wanted to grow a beard. I liked the way his upper lip was bigger than the bottom and I’d bet a million dollars they’d feel just as soft as they looked. They stretched into a broad smile, revealing straight white teeth. The front top two teeth were slightly parted with an endearing gap. He was charm and power and as he laughed, I wished I would’ve shaken his hand when he offered, at least then I could’ve said I touched him.

  Cinnamon-colored eyes held me captive. “Hi,” he said again, this time just for me and without my permission, without any warning, I smiled just for him. “Looks like you need another glass of wine.” Before I could protest, he raised his hand to the server passing by. “Can I get a glass of…”

  He let the request dangle in the air waiting for me.

  “Cabernet.”

  “Cab for the lady, and…” He nodded his head to Reagan.

  “Whiskey, Jack, if you don’t mind?” she asked and gave me a private grin.

  “And for you?” I didn’t miss how the blonde bombshell of a server batted her lashes for Mister Wonderful as she asked.

  “Grab me your favorite IPA.”

  He didn’t spare her a second glance after she nodded with a flirty smile, giving me his full attention. “You should come sit with me.”

  He pointed over his shoulder to the group of noisy men I’d noticed earlier in the back room.

  “Um, I think—”

  “Sure.” Reagan answered for me and shot me a glare that said, “Comply or die.”

  I was already on glass number four, and I’d come home for the weekend to relax with my friends, hadn’t I? The whole purpose for this trip down memory lane, to my hometown, was to figure out what I wanted. To decide if Ben was really it for me. It wasn’t a coincidence I’d chosen the weekend Ben had a conference he couldn’t miss to come back home for a visit.

  Somewhere down the line, the girl I used to be was kicking up a fuss, wondering when I’d finally let her out of timeout. My husband and I had spent the last three months in counseling, and I swear to God, he had no idea who he married. Or maybe he’d changed and I didn’t? I couldn’t help that I wanted more than sex once a week, or romantic dates, and maybe a few adventures. Sometime during the last thirteen years, the late nights at the office, the lackluster life we’d slid into, became a noose around my neck. We had no children and that was fine with me. But we never reaped the benefits of being on our own, either. Hell, we didn’t even have a dog. We didn’t travel; we didn’t do anything.

  There were no midnight skinny dips in our heated saltwater pool. No fucking on the back porch, there was no fucking, period. Ben even hated the word. It was always that way. Ben was form and function, and like he liked his food—white bread and bland—was how he liked his sex. Ben had succeeded in his dream. He owned his own accounting firm. He was all-American handsome, but he was as cold as the gray stone surrounding our seemingly perfect fireplace. In high school, he’d been youthful and fun, but we got married too fast, and I think we both resigned ourselves to stick with it because it was easier than the alternative. And besides, divorce meant failure, and Ben West did not fail.

  I stood and found my balance by gripping the table. The wine hit me harder than I would’ve expected, and Reagan giggled as she watched Mark watch me.

  “You alright?” he asked and reached out to steady me.

  My stupid smile trembled at his touch.

  The heat of his palm on my exposed arm melted my sensibilities. I had no words for this guy, and I felt like a twitterpated asshole.

  I was married.

  I purposely ran my left hand through my hair, not missing how his eyes zeroed in on the rock sitting on my ring finger. I couldn’t be sure, and maybe it was vain to think it, but it almost looked like disappointment flashed in his light brown eyes. Regardless, the pressure of his grip on my arm remained, and I didn’t like how nice it felt.

  I regretted listening to Reagan about wearing this stupid sleeveless dress. Sure, it was all soft and jersey cotton. And maybe the dark green color did make my eyes pop. But my boobs were practically falling out of the top, and she knew I hated my so
-called curves.

  Calling a girl curvy was a nice way of saying she was chubby, or as I liked to say, fluffy. I was too soft and in all the wrong places. My thighs touched, my stomach was smooshy, and I had an ass for days. One nice thing about this dress was that it flowed out from my only good feature, my small-ish waist, hiding all the “curves” I loathed. My mom used to say my height helped with my “full-figure,” I guess it was kind of a break that I was five-six and not five-one. I’d look like a roly-poly if I was that short.

  “You sure you’re okay?” He smiled at me like he could tell his presence made my knees weak. Or maybe he thought I was stupid. A guy like him, a guy who could make a girl dizzy just by smiling, was probably used to this kind of reaction.

  I finally managed a strangled, “I’m fine.”

  The back room roared with a chorus of ‘hell yeahs’ as we were about to head to his table.

  Mark eyed me nervously, as if I might change my mind, and he was probably right, going back to a room full of boisterous boys was not what I’d signed up for tonight.

  “Maybe I could just join you guys?” His brow dipped and his dimpled smile turned into an actual blush that had me sitting back down on my chair without an official yes or no.

  He pulled out the chair next to Reagan, but she’d lost interest about two minutes ago. Her eyes were glued to her phone.

  “I’m meeting Pete. I’m going to grab an Uber, want me to drop you at your mom’s?” Reagan asked without even looking at me.

  “Now?” I asked, and the squeak of dismay I’d let slip made me internally smack myself. I was only here until Sunday, and she could see her on-again, off-again boyfriend whenever. Me… I hadn’t seen her in three years.

  Reagan finally looked up and met my glare. She switched her gaze back and forth between Mark and me twice, before she finally said, “Stay.”

  Mark’s smile tipped up at the corners and I shook my head. “Um, no,” I whispered like he wasn’t sitting right there.

  The waitress chose that moment to bring our drinks. Reagan swallowed down her whiskey faster than I could have said ‘check, please’.

  “You came home for a reason. Remember who you are.” She gave me a wink and it was obvious she was feeling the effects of the Jack Daniels.

  “You don’t have to stay if you’d rather leave.” He placed a twenty on the table and started to stand.

  I was married, but not dead. I could sit here, have a glass of wine, and talk with a handsome stranger. I didn’t have to do anything. It was only eleven, and I wasn’t ready to go moping back to my mother’s place.

  “I’ll stay, but you’re paying for my Uber.” It was a joke, but his laugh drove away any remaining hesitation.

  That charming-as-hell smile made my heart skip. “Deal.”

  Reagan gathered her bag, and me, into a hug. Before she left, she whispered into my ear, “Be careful and don’t let him buy you any more drinks. Keep your glass in sight at all times and call me if you need anything.”

  I squeezed her as I spoke softly, “I’m thirty-two, babe. I can handle myself.”

  She stepped away and let her eyes scour my body. “I know you can, but I don’t know if he can, especially with you in that dress.”

  His eyes were eating up every inch of me when she backed away. There was a small part of me that didn’t want him to ever stop. I was a junkie. A girl placed in a sterile jar, and even though this fabulous dress hid my flaws, I’d take the compliment of having his eyes on me.

  She turned and raised her phone in one swift movement. The sound of her camera click made me laugh. “I now have your picture in my phone. If my girl doesn’t show up in one piece, I have your mug as evidence.”

  “You’re thorough.” His grin was devious.

  Reagan smirked, “Last name, please.”

  My laugh was light as his smile darkened with anxiety. She was pretty intense when she wanted to be.

  I thought I imagined it, but as he spoke, his body leaned in almost protectively, private, like he didn’t want anyone to hear. “Carmelo.”

  “Well, then, Mark Carmelo, keep my girl safe or it’s your ass.” She kissed me on the cheek. “See you tomorrow after I get off work, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Still One Year Earlier

  Eyes like fire met mine only for one fleeting moment before they dropped to the fresh glass of red wine sitting in front of her. Stevie. Her silence only increased the color of her round cheeks. This chick was soft everywhere. The kind of soft you wanted to sink into and never stop touching.

  “It’s a little intimidating…” She raised her eyes. The color, pupils rimmed with a blue burst that bled into a rich brown, threw me off my game, and I had to swallow the `holy shit’ that tried to trip from my over-eager mouth. “And not to mention, kind of rude to stare.”

  Her smile pulled her kissable lips into quiet dimples. It was a good thing the guys hadn’t noticed my departure yet, because if they got one look at me, doe-eyed and struck dumb by this woman, I’d never hear the end of it.

  “It’s hard not to.”

  “Be polite?”

  I chuckled. “To stare. You’re pretty amazing to look at.”

  I took a swig from my bottle of beer. All confidence, high from the win of our game, high from the fact this beautiful creature had no idea who the fuck I was. I was used to girls throwing themselves at me. Women who wanted me only for the gossip of it, or the dollars in my wallet. She had no clue, and if I hadn’t already fallen for her curvy-as-fuck figure, or those damn eyes, that alone would have been a turn on.

  Her eyes lost their flirtatious challenge and glazed with skepticism. “I’m serious,” I pressed and won a smile. Making her smile felt better than it should have.

  Her gaze heated my features as she took me in from across the table. “I’m sure,” she said with a bite I felt all the way down to my groin. She raised her wine glass to take another sip, and the vulnerability I’d hoped to capitalize on faded into poise. That sexy confidence radiated. “You probably do this every weekend. Am I right?” She nodded her glass toward the back of the bar where my teammates were partying. “You’re young, a player, I bet… definitely a player. You give some poor girl your attention with your brooding eyes, and sexy tattoos—” She paused when she realized her slip.

  My smile turned from interested to triumphant. “You think I’m sexy?”

  “You know you’re beautiful,” she said with a flash of irritation and a sweet sigh. Fuck, she was cute. When I shrugged, she ran her long fingers through her hair and regrouped. “I’m married.”

  “I noticed.” I took another pull from the beer bottle but kept my eyes on her.

  I’d caught her off guard, flattered her, but she was unavailable. A better man would have bowed out when he saw the ring, if anyone knew the damage an affair could do to a person it was me, but I’d rattled her and it made me curious. The ring was a symbol I should heed, but her body language was a glaring contradiction. Digging deeper couldn’t hurt.

  Tiny white and blue shreds of paper littered the countertop as she took her nerves out on her cocktail napkin. I was about to ask her where her husband was, ask her what her friend meant when she’d said Stevie was home for a reason, but my idiot friends started to chant again. The televisions in the back had been replaying our winning goal, my winning goal, all damn night. She cringed at the noise.

  “You do realize you’re in a sports bar?” I asked, and she turned her head to look around the room. It was slow and deliberate, as if she hadn’t even cared to notice where her friend had brought her. “Tampa Bay won. Opening night. It’s a big celebration.”

  “Opening night?” Her brows dipped. “I thought baseball—”

  “Hockey,” I barked the word around a laugh.

  “In Tampa?”

  I choked on my beer. “For twenty-four years.”

  “Huh.”

  My brows lifted to the ceiling. “I think I love you.”

  �
�Why, because I didn’t know Tampa had a hockey team?”

  “It’s precisely why. I’m used to…” I stopped myself.

  It was a rare and beautiful thing. Her ignorance of the game. I didn’t want her to care that she was sitting with the star center for Tampa Bay. The silicone girls, with their painted-on smiles—the bunnies—had been circling me all damn night. It would be nice to actually have a girl like me, just for being me. I’d only found relief from all the fake bullshit when I excused myself from the party to grab a beer up front. Best decision of the night, because fuck, she was perfect. Married, maybe. Seven years older than me, whatever. She was perfect, nonetheless.

  “You’re used to what?”

  “This place is usually crawling with college chicks, and that shit gets old.”

  Bold laughter tipped her head back, exposing a wide expanse of flawless skin. She was cream and silk. My eyes wandered down her smooth neck, the path of her pulse and dipped to her full tits.

  Married.

  “There’s nothing holding you back. You can do as you please.” Her eyes searched mine and the color faded from her lips as she whispered, “You’re lucky.”

  Lucky? The rock on her finger caught the light as she lifted her glass to her mouth once more. The mood changed from easy to heavy. Steer away from it, Melo. My conscience agreed with the devil on my shoulder. Her earlier assurance wilted away, and the good boy my mother raised was telling me this girl was sinking, that she needed me to stay in the deep water with her in this moment. The slant of her shoulders gave me a clue that not all was well for the home team. That slight frown creasing the delicate skin around her eyes, she was defeated. I’d seen that look on my opponents’ faces, hell, on my own teammates, so many times. The ache of knowing there was nothing you could do to turn the loss into a win. I had to know why this stunning woman was sitting with me, without her husband, on a Friday night.

  “What’s holding you back, Stevie?”

  The air sizzled and thickened, and each breath she took was marked by the hard rise and fall of her chest. Those wicked eyes shimmered and the blue burst was eclipsed by the black of her pupils. I could’ve kept it light, flirted a little more, sent her on her way, closed this place down with my boys, but my ass wasn’t moving from this chair. And the pressure building was almost unbearable as I watched her war with herself.