Page 16

thirteen

. . .

[India]

Once Isaiah leaves the table, the waitress arrives, asking if we’d like another round. Before I can respond, Declan, points between our two glasses.

“Another bourbon and a Malbec, please.”

I glance at him, taking in the strength of his voice and the confident set of his jaw. He’s perfect as a coach because his game face is unreadable, and right now I’d like nothing more than to be able to read his thoughts.

Have I misunderstood something? Then again, it’s been more than a decade since I’ve seen Declan. Surely, he doesn’t feel the same way he once did about me.

Then I consider last night, when the tension was so thick between us in his dark kitchen. Water alone wasn’t what I needed to quench my thirst.

“India?” The sudden call of my name pulls my attention from Declan toward the pitching coach for the Vegas Victors.

Shit .

“Hey.” I stagger over the greeting. “Bryson.” Bryson Hayes, forty, fit, and a total flirt both on and off the field.

If ever I were going to have an issue reporting for the Vegas Victors, once upon a time, Bryson would be trouble.

He’s good for the ego, with warm compliments about my reporting and even warmer comments about my appearance.

Never insulting, never crosses the line, but always insinuating he’d be open to anything I’d offer him. Even though I was married.

Because Bryson cannot help himself, he comes right into my space and wraps me in a startling hug. I don’t have time to reciprocate before he’s pulling away and running his gaze up and down my dress.

“Stylish as ever.” He compliments me on my dress. “Beautiful as always.” He meets my eyes, holding firm a second before acknowledging Declan by holding out a hand and introducing himself.

“Declan Wylde,” Declan replies, shaking hands with Bryson.

Bryson nods but quickly dismisses Declan by leaning his side against our high-top table and placing all his attention on me.

“So, beautiful. I was shocked to hear you no longer worked with the Victors. Even more surprised to hear you gave Moneybags the boot.”

I chuckle at the reference to Malakai, but don’t really feel the need to get into my divorce with Bryson. To my surprise, Declan’s palm lands on the small of my back . . . and stays there. I turn my head toward him a second, brows pinching, wondering what he’s doing but he doesn’t remove his hand.

Turning back toward Bryson, I ask, “What are you doing here?” I realize the Victors are in town, but I mean what is he doing here, in the Rooftop Replay? Opposing team members aren’t typically allowed in here.

“Came to dance with my best girl,” Bryson instantly answers, causing my face to heat for some reason, especially with Declan’s hand still on my back.

At the same time Bryson announces his plan, the waitress returns with our second round, but Declan says, “Sorry, man, we were just about to dance.”

The lie is so obvious because of our drinks’ arrival. Not to mention, Declan and I shouldn’t draw further attention to ourselves by dancing. In fact, it’s late, and we really should be leaving instead of another round of drinks.

Declan’s comment draws Bryson’s attention, like he forgot Declan was standing arm to arm with me. He offers a weak smile at Declan before turning back to me.

“Maybe next time you’re in Vegas then?”

Yeah, not likely on both counts. Returning to Vegas or dancing with Bryson.

“Great to see you again,” I counter, dismissing his comment and wishing to close out this encounter. I don’t want to be rude, but I also don’t want to hug him again, so I give him a placating arm rub, hoping he gets the hint.

Bryson stands to his full height, leans in and kisses my cheek. “He never deserved you,” he whispers to me, and I stagger back, grateful for Declan’s hand at my back.

Does he mean Malakai? Or Declan?

My head swings in Declan’s direction as Bryson walks away. “Thanks for trying to save me there.”

“Save you?” Declan arches a brow.

“The whole dance thing.”

“Oh.” Declan’s eyes widen. “I wasn’t lying. Dance with me.” He holds out his open palm and I stare down at it then glance around the crowded room.

It’s not that I don’t want to dance with him, I just don’t want the recognition of us dancing together, and I feel like I’m caught in a web, stuck because of my initial behavior toward him when first working for The Den .

With my hesitation Declan nods, downs his second bourbon and nods at my wine. “You want to finish that?”

I really don’t. I need to stay clear-headed and should probably get home soon. When I don’t answer, Declan takes my hand and suddenly I’m being led from the bar. Led from the Regency.

“Where are we going?” I laugh as Declan winds his fingers with mine and I clutch at his arm with my other hand to keep me steady. His stride is longer than mine.

“Broadway.”

The main avenue running through the middle of Nashville is the calling card for the area.

Lined with bars and night life, leading straight to the river, this strip is all neon lights and country music, which pours into the street through open-windowed bars.

This late at night, the avenue is blocked off from any vehicle traffic and monitored from end to end by police as people spill into the avenue.

We only make it past a few bars before Declan stops in front of one. The band has their back to the road, but the music is pumping outward through the retractable windows.

After Declan spins me around, he pulls me to his chest.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, despite the loudness of the crowd. My throat is tight. My heart thumping. With my hands against his chest, he tugs me tighter and sways us side-to-side.

“I’m dancing with my best girl.” He presses a kiss to my forehead then lowers his cheek to mine and we dance in the middle of the street, surrounded by thousands of people who could see us, but don’t pay any attention to us.

The words from the song filter out to me about wanting someone in the worst way.

And I wonder if being with Declan again might be the best thing for me.