Page 14 of Biggest Player (Not Yours #2)

Dex

I have her where I want her.

The best part is, she’s already dripping wet.

Not for me, but still.

Wet is wet.

I put my mouth on the side of her neck, inhaling that perfume I like so much, its musky scent mingling with her damp skin, and when I put my lips there, she tilts her neck.

Margot is shorter than I am—who isn’t?

I have to bend a bit at the knees to accommodate her, or better yet, why don’t I lift her onto the counter to make things easier?

Damn good idea, Dex.

I do what I’ve been wanting to do since she sassed me in the restaurant—I kiss her on her pouty mouth, savoring the surprise and the hands that are now sliding up my spine.

Margot tastes delicious.

She doesn’t hold back either. No hesitation, no shy bone.

I move so I’m standing between her legs, pressing against her and the cabinet front, dick straining to say hello to her. He’s eager to play—as usual.

Ignoring the mess that is being made, we kiss—and damned if I don’t begin exploring the wet T-shirt clinging so seductively to Margot’s body, her boobs now in my palms.

Yes, both of them.

It’s electric, a kiss that makes me forget the chaos around us and the giant mess I made because I was trying to look cool.

Margot doesn’t seem to give a shit, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away, her fingers tangling in my mussed-up hair, her soft lips warm. It’s a contrast to the cold water dripping from my hair. Hers. The sink.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

It feels like we’re in our own bubble, untouchable and invincible, lost in each other, and I swear, I could eat her up.

I could spread her legs, kneel in front of her, and—

The sudden sound of a door opening jolts us back to reality.

We break apart, breathless, and turn to see Wyatt standing in the doorway of the kitchen, frozen in place, eyes wide and her mouth slightly open in shock.

“Mom? What the ...?” Her eyes are everywhere, taking in the scene.

The floor. Her mom and me.

The floor.

The ceiling.

“What on earth is going on here?” Wyatt’s voice is a mix of surprise and amusement, though there’s an undeniable edge of her disapproval there too. “Mother!”

Yikes. Not the preteen disapproval ...

Margot gives me a little shove so she can hop down off the counter, her face turning a deep shade of red. She pulls at her T-shirt so it’s not clinging to her stomach, or her boobs.

Damn shame.

“Wyatt!” Her voice is high pitched in the way that screams GUILTY. “Hey, sweetie! What, um—are you doing home?”

She’s still pulling at her top so it doesn’t stick to her frame.

Wyatt has her eyes locked on my face, the unflinching little shit.

“I forgot my face stuff and my blanket, so Grandma and I decided it would be easier if I slept here tonight.” Her face is stone-cold sober. A veritable mask of judgment. “What were the two of you doing?”

“Kid, I think it’s obvious what we were doing,” I’m tempted to say, though it’s not the right time, and I don’t want to risk getting nudged in the gut.

“I had a little ... problem with the faucet, and um, Dex came over to fix it. You remember Dex, don’t you? From dinner?”

Wyatt’s gaze shifts between us, taking in our soaked clothes and the puddles spread across the kitchen floor. “Yeah, I can see you had a problem with the faucet.” Her hands are on her hips now. “Looks like you had more than just an accident with the faucet.”

Her eyebrow arches in that knowing, sarcastic way only a preteen can manage.

Honestly, she’s scaring me.

I clear my throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “I thought I’d be helping her out.”

“Yeah, I sure bet you wanted to help.” Wyatt smirks, crossing her skinny arms and leaning against the doorframe. “This is definitely not awkward at all.”

Margot attempts to smooth her wet hair, failing to look anything other than flustered. “Wyatt, sweetie, it really was just a plumbing disaster. We, uh—I was just helping him clean up.”

“Sure, Mom. Whatever you say.” Wyatt rolls her eyes. “Next time, maybe you guys could try not to flood the kitchen while sucking each other’s faces off.”

Sucking each other’s faces off. That’s a new one.

I file it away for later, stifling a laugh, impressed by Wyatt’s boldness—but also acutely aware of how embarrassing this must be for Margot.

Me? Not so much.

“Your mom was thanking me for flooding the kitchen.”

Margot smacks me in the ribs. “Would you shut up?”

“Ha. Better you than me!” Wyatt’s knowing smirk brings me right back to when we met in the restaurant; she was totally in her element and the one giving me direction, not the other way around. Balls of steel, this one.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” Margot tries to lighten the situation with a lie, still yanking at her shirt.

“Seriously, Mom, this kitchen is a mess. I should have stayed with Grandma. Ugh. ”

Margot nods. “We’re going to start cleaning up.”

Her daughter’s brows rise. “Need help?”

Another nod. “Sure. If you can bring me all the towels from the bathroom, that would be amazing.”

The kid disappears, but not before shooting me a glance over her shoulder with narrowed eyes.

Shit.

She doesn’t trust me.

She must know I’m not a huge fan of kids.

“She won’t be gone long. I have a feeling she’s going to lurk around the corner somewhere and eavesdrop.”

“Ya think?” Although there aren’t many places to hide in this tiny place, there’s no doubt that Wyatt will feel the need to spy. Probably nothing more exciting than catching your mom making out with the dude who paid you to lie for him.

The kid seems like she’s always up for the next adventure, and while she looked protective just now, she didn’t look pissed.

“I guess I owe you.” I manage to sound abashed.

“Owe me what?”

“Well. First off, I owe you an actual plumber. I’ll call my buddy and have someone here tomorrow—promise. Secondly, I owe you an actual night out.” I feel like the worst, biggest fucking idiot, and an asshole.

Margot gives her head a little shake. “You don’t owe me a plumber—and you don’t owe me a night out.” She laughs, her boobs jiggling in the sexiest way.

She pushes the hair out of her face. It looked so damn pretty when I first arrived, and now she looks like a cute drowned rat.

“Sure I do.”

“You’re going to send someone to fix this and feed me?”

I shrug. “I mean, maybe we don’t go to eat first. Maybe we do an activity, like golf.”

“Whoa.” She walks to a small closet in the kitchen and removes a mop. “Slow your roll.”

She hands it to me, and as we start sopping up the water, Wyatt returns with the towels, taking charge of her mother and me with surprising efficiency, directing us on what to do next as if she were a tiny drill sergeant.

Eventually the awkwardness of the moment starts to fade, replaced by a sense of camaraderie.

The three of us working together.

A team.

Above Wyatt’s head, Margot and I share a few amused glances, silently acknowledging the absurdity of the entire situation.

“So wait.” I stop mopping, leaning against the mop handle. “You don’t want to golf with me?”

How am I supposed to show her how good I am at everything if she doesn’t want to hang out with me? Golf, pickleball, rugby—you name it, I can play it. And playing with her would surely be pretty damn fun.

“You know, for a guy who doesn’t want to date me, it sure does seem like you’re trying to date me.”

“I thought we were friends,” I point out. “Friends hang out.”

“Do friends make out too?”

Some of them do!

I roll my eyes and go back to mopping. “That kiss lasted less than two minutes.”

“And I would have ended it regardless of Wyatt busting us.”

“Hey!” Wyatt says. “I’m literally standing right here.”

That makes us laugh, and I throw my head back, more entertained by her than I’m willing to admit out loud.

“Wyatt, your mom is so full of shit.” I look at Margot. “You would have kissed me all night if she hadn’t walked in, admit it.”

She shrugs, resuming her task as I move the mophead around the floor. “Guess you’ll never know.”

Guess not.

“So what do you say? Let me make it up to you, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

She snorts. “You keep telling me that. And yet, here you are, in my house, not leaving me alone.”

“Hey. You can say no.”

“True. But I’m a single mom with a limited budget—it’s not a crime to try and weasel free plumbing out of you. Or free food.”

I’m home and I’m dry.

And I’m strolling through the bedroom with a towel wrapped around my waist when my agent calls, his name lighting up the screen of my cell later than usual.

Huh.

Weird.

I hit accept, put the phone on speaker, and toss it to the bed so I can continue getting dressed.

“Hey.”

“How you been?”

“Fine.” I pull on a T-shirt. “What’s up?”

Cut to the chase, dude.

I wish he’d get to the point; this small talk makes me fidgety. If he has bad news, I need him to fucking say it.

Trent laughs.

He’s new to me—I signed with him less than a year ago, and although he’s a ballbuster who does not put up with shit, he’s also up in my business. Always wants to know how I’m doing, where I’m at in life, if I’m in touch with my feelings.

That kind of bullshit.

“Is something wrong?” I can’t take the suspense.

“No, man.” I hear rustling in the background and wonder why he’s still working this late at night. “Just had some free time and thought I would check in.”

I pause in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection.

Damn, I’m handsome.

Damn, I’m hungry.

I pull on some shorts, grab my phone, and head toward the kitchen in search of pizza—or a sandwich.

“So what’s been going on with your love life? Landon said you were on a dating app?” He doesn’t waste a single second digging for the dirt, does he? Can’t figure out why he’d even care.

“Yeah. But it’s not as easy as I thought it was going to be.”

“Really? How so?”

“First of all, I had originally gone on the apps as myself, Dex the football player, and that only served in attracting gold diggers.” I yank open the fridge to inspect the snacks Carrie hopefully prepared.

“Then Landon told me I was being a fucking twat and I shouldn’t be on the app as myself.

So I created a fake profile with fake-ish information and—lo and behold—attracted a woman who hates my guts. ”

“How can a woman you haven’t met hate your guts?”

“’Cause. We had words when I was being myself.”

There is a long pause on his end of the line. So long I have to ask, “Dude. Are you there?”

“I’m here. I’m just trying to figure out what the hell you’re talking about.”

I give my head a shake, tucking my phone under my chin so I can remove a few containers from the shelves. “Doesn’t matter. The point is, she hated me and now we’re friends.”

“Who is this person?”

I don’t have time to keep explaining this shit to him. I mean, I technically do, but why would I want to? He should learn to pay more attention.

“Some mom I met on the app.”

“A mom?” It sounds like his eyes just bugged out of his skull. “You’re dating a single mom?”

Does he have to say it like that, in that tone? Rude.

“No, I’m not dating a single mom,” I scoff. “Honestly, though, her daughter is pretty fucking cool.”

“You met the daughter?” I can hear his brows go up into his receding hairline and his blood pressure rise.

Dude needs to chill. “Can we not get into it? I’m hungry.”

“So you are dating her or not dating her?”

“Not.”

Trent is quiet a few seconds as he considers all this new information.

“Why?”

“Why am I not dating her?” I crack open a container and stare inside. Sniff it for good measure. “I just told you—she has a daughter.”

“Ah,” Trent breathes. “Gotcha.”

I don’t say more. It’s not like I need to explain what my boundaries are and why, when it comes to my personal life, because before this week, I had none .

“She’s a teacher—it’s not like she has time to babysit me.”

My agent lets out a low whistle on the other end of the phone, and it’s really fucking polarizing. “A first-grade teacher and a single mom? Man, that’s, like, the holy grail.”

Holy grail? I slap some mayo on a piece of bread with a butter knife and take the chicken from the storage container and plop it on top of the bread, too, half listening.

“What the hell are you even talking about? How do you know she teaches first grade?” I don’t remember giving him specifics.

I stuff the cold sandwich into my mouth and chew while he explains, but he ignores my questions and drones on as if I hadn’t asked them.

“Think about it. The public would eat that shit up. You, dating a first-grade teacher and a single mom?”

I stop chewing long enough to say, “What are you getting at?”

“Nothing. I’m just saying it would be great for your image.”

“My image doesn’t need helping.”

“Doesn’t it?” he mutters, quite rudely I might add.

I’m America’s Sweetheart, I can do no wrong! Why would my image need shining up?

“Everyone’s image could use a little PR,” Trent explains. “You’ve been known as a playboy for a really long time. It wouldn’t kill your reputation to be seen with a woman who isn’t a model for a change. Your fans would love it.”

I would never do that to Margot.

And besides, she’d junk punch me if she thought for one second I was only interested in her because it would be good for my public persona.

“ Think about it. That’s all I’m saying ... ”