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FORTY-TWO

Brantley

“So, how do you know Kinsley?”

It’s an innocent question, and one I have no idea how to answer. Oh you know, she works for me and now she works under me. Talk about sounding like a huge bag of dicks.

Why the hell did I let Maverick talk me into this while he stayed behind and played video games with Colin? I don’t go to bars. I don’t do small talk. And I sure as fuck don’t like hanging out with football players who can’t keep their eyes to themselves. Seriously, if he doesn’t stop looking at my girl, I’m going to remove his eyeballs from his skull.

I’d like to see him play football after that.

Not that I can really blame the fucker.

Kinsley looks great in her little black dress, her bright red hair falling around her shoulders in waves, and strappy heels I want to feel digging into my back later. She’s the epitome of sexy.

But I’m not the only motherfucker to notice how smoking hot she looks. And no, I’m not talking about Wyatt who’s sitting across from us chatting with the Nashville Aces’ quarterback. I’m talking about this football douche sitting next to me, watching my damn assistant over my shoulder instead of waiting for me to answer his question.

I should be glad he’s not paying me a lick of attention, but I’m not.

This is why I should be at the apartment, not out here in public where I’m tempted to rip this man’s arms from his body and beat him with them.

In the span of an hour I’ve gone from a three-piece suit to jeans and thoughts of dismemberment.

“She’s mine.” Which isn’t a lie. She is currently my legal secretary, but she’s also my…what? Fuck-buddy isn’t right. Friends with benefits sounds terrible. Girlfriend sounds juvenile, and while I have no idea where she stands after our office liaison today, I want her to be that person for me. Yeah, it sounds silly, but here we are. The big and scary Brantley Ellis wants this woman to be his.

His gaze pulls away from her and narrow on me. “She’s your what? Daughter? Younger sister?” And then he laughs. This football playing fuck laughs at me. “Don’t you think she’s a little too young for you, gramps?”

I work my jaw back and forth, my fingers clenching and unclenching beneath the table. I really want to punch this asshole right in his smart mouth, but it’s a Saturday, and if I go to jail there’s a chance I’ll be there until Monday. If I didn’t have court scheduled for the first thing that morning, it might be worth it.

I’m about to tell him to go fuck himself when the waitress comes over and asks us if we’d like anything to drink.

“What would you like…?” Baby? Sweetie? Honey buns? Sugar pie? What am I supposed to call her that doesn’t make me sound like a super creeper? I doubt she’d want the old dude calling her dove in front of all her friends.

Maybe I am too old for this shit. Maybe I should leave her with Wyatt—who is technically younger than me by two minutes—and head home. Alone. Except when Kinsley turns around, her gaze meeting mine, I know I’m not going anywhere without her.

“Can I just have a Diet Coke?” Kinsley smiles at the waitress, tucking a stray lock of fiery hair behind her ear.

I lean her way, brushing the back of her hand with my fingers. “You don’t have to drive. Are you sure you don’t want something else?”

Her friend, June, peers around her and waves me off. “Oh, Kinsley doesn’t drink alcohol. But don’t worry; she’s a sure thing.”

Kinsley sinks down in the chair and covers her reddening face while the dick next to me snickers. “That’s what I was betting on.”

Spending two nights in jail wouldn’t be that bad, would it?

“What about you, sir?” The waitress looks at me expectantly, and the footballer continues to laugh, saying sir repeatedly in a tone that doesn’t suggest respect.

I give him a dirty look, one he doesn’t notice because he’s still looking at Kinsley. “I’ll have a Coke.”

“Me too.” Wyatt turns around and winks. “If our girl isn’t drinking, then neither are we.”

Instead of laughing, this guy makes a choking sound. Too bad it’s manufactured. “Our girl? Damn. She riding the geezer train straight into funky town? Don’t worry, babe, if you’re looking for a younger ride?—”

“Silas, get the fuck up.” Another football player, this one much larger, broader, clamps a hand down on the other guy’s shoulder and squeezes. Silas—a sleazy name for a sleazy dude—grimaces but gets up without another word. “Sorry about him. I’m Theo.”

Theo Bronson, the one who invited Kinsley out in the first place. Him, I know.

“Brantley.”

I stare at him; he stares at me. Very slowly he extends his hand toward mine, and I shake it. Do I squeeze the life out of his fingers? Yes. Yes I do. Does he squeeze back so hard I think my entire arm might fall from the socket? Yes. Yes, he does.

But then he laughs, smacking my shoulder before he takes a generous sip of his beer. “Don’t worry; I’m not after your girl.”

Well, I read that situation wrong.

“Oh, am I your girl?” Kinsley shifts in her chair, leaning back against me, and I wrap my arms around her shoulders, pulling her back against my chest, right where she belongs.

Being with her feels right, feels like home.

I press a kiss to the top of her head, glancing at Wyatt with a smirk. “Ours, dove. You belong to us.”

She huffs a laugh, but reaches up to lace her fingers with mine. “Feeling a little cocky tonight?”

Wyatt shifts toward us with a grin. “Just wait ’til we get out of here, and we’ll show you exactly how cocky we’re feeling.”

My sentiments exactly.

“I don’t think I need to stay any longer.” Kinsley stretches, shifting around in her seat. “I have plenty of Diet Coke at home.”

Wyatt crosses his arms, sinking down in his chair, this smile stretching across his face. “I’m pretty comfortable; I think we should stay a while.”

“Seriously?” She twists around and raises her brows as her eyes meet mine. “Are you sure you don’t want to take me home?” And then she lowers her voice, giving me a mischievous look, and I know she’s about to make me an offer I can’t refuse. “Not even if I drop to my knees and beg for you, sir?”

“Yeah.” I sit up, adjusting my now rock-hard dick, and look over at Wyatt. “We’re leaving. Immediately.”