Page 19 of Never Dance with the Devils (Never Say Never #6)

“Of what? That they can give me tickets to the games they’re playing?

” I know I sound bitchy, but they’re getting to me, and I can’t let that happen.

Like Samantha said, I’m Kayla Fucking Harrington, and while she meant it to be an encouragement that I can do and have the life I want, it also means I have an image to uphold, one that doesn’t involve jocks who chase around after a little black disc for a job and chase my pussy for fun. Because that’s what this is.

I’ve admitted to myself that I jumped to the wrong conclusion when they appeared in my office.

It wasn’t blackmail or anything of the sort.

They wanted me, like they said. But realistically, they’re men who are accustomed to getting what they want, probably with very little effort, given what I saw online and what Angeline is saying.

And I’ve become a challenge by saying no, so they’re pursuing me harder.

It doesn’t mean they want me. It more likely means they don’t like to lose.

It’s a game, only to them, I’m the puck.

However, I’m the prize. The Cup, if you will, which I’ve only recently learned is the big trophy in hockey.

Angeline tilts her head, eyeing me harshly.

“Can I give you a little advice, as a woman who’s been married for ten years?

” She doesn’t wait for me to agree but keeps talking.

“Everyone receives love differently. Jerry wants time with me, just us, which is hard to manage when you’ve got two kids, but we make it work.

Thankfully, his mom lives close by and loves taking the kids for the night so we can go out to dinner, or to a hockey game, or just stay home alone.

” She arches a brow, making sure I understand what she means as though it’s not clear as day, and my lips lift into a tiny smile.

“Me? I need to know I’m the first thing that man thinks about every morning, that I’m on his mind all day, and that I’m the reason he comes home every night.

If he doesn’t tell me how pretty I am every morning even before I’ve run a brush through my hair and put his hand on my ass as we go to sleep every night, I will pout like a child.

I want hugs and kisses, sweet words, and thinking-of-you texts all day.

That’s how we flirt, connect, and love each other—by doing what the other one needs.

So my question is, what do you need? Because they’re trying to figure it out, that’s for damn sure.

” She holds up the note, not the envelope.

My face straight and unreadable, and my mouth pressed closed lest I say something unconsidered, I blink. Finally, I lick my lips and say slowly, “What if I don’t know?”

I do not admit weakness. I do not have weaknesses.

But I truly don’t know how I receive love, at least romantically.

I’ve been too busy to put time aside for something as trivial as dating.

In my family, I’m the caretaker of everyone else, keeping them on track and too often, preventing them from fucking their lives up.

Though, that’s been less frequent since all my brothers found wives and girlfriends.

The loneliness I felt at Samantha’s comes back to me. Is that it? I want to not be alone? That sounds so ridiculously simplistic, but it’s not. I’m not an easy person. I’m too often cold and cutthroat, my tongue is sharp and quick, and I rarely show vulnerability to anyone.

So, what do I want ?

A memory of the three of us in that hotel room flashes across my mind.

Not of the hot sex, but of us eating Chinese food.

Riggs was feeding me noodles, surprisingly good with the chopsticks despite his too-big fingers.

At the same time, Maddox was telling a story about the dog he had as a child—Scooter the dachshund—and we were laughing as he called him a roly-poly of a weenie.

He’d ended up kissing me, completely unconcerned with my mouthful of food, even slurping up a noodle that landed wetly on my chin.

It’d been comfortable and relaxed. It’d been fun, and I’d felt like a different version of myself.

Is that what I want—to be someone else?

No, I like me, so what else could it be?

I let myself sink deeper into the memory, trying to find a label for what’d been going on in my head.

In that moment, I’d felt… accepted. Riggs and Maddox had shown themselves careful and caring, strong and gentle, and ironically, as cocky as I am.

We were all ourselves, even if we were hiding some of the finer details of who we are.

We were natural. That’s what I want.

I spent my whole childhood trying to live up to the standards created by my older brothers and never quite reaching those lofty ideals.

Later, when I did find my way to the top, it still wasn’t enough…

no, it wasn’t right . There were all these unexpected benchmarks I was supposed to meet in addition to what they all did.

I had to be smart, but not too smart, pretty but not conceited about it, approachable but not too friendly.

It took me a long time to unlearn some of those lessons and figure out how to be me and not care what anyone else thought.

With them, I was… me. And not only was that okay, bu t they also loved it. They celebrated it. They wanted it, and they still want me, even now, after I’ve been rejecting them at every turn.

I’ve been silent too long and Angeline clears her throat.

“You’ll figure it out when the time is right.

If I may be so bold to suggest…” She frowns, her voice back to its professional cadence.

“You need someone who understands that you have a multi-billion-dollar company to run and isn’t jealous of the time and work that requires.

Maybe because they have a career that’s all-consuming and financially rewarding too?

” She glances at the box meaningfully. “Someone who wants to see you thrive but won’t let you step on them to get ahead.

Someone who will help you without your asking for help, because you will never ask.

Someone who sees what’s important to you and takes care of it. ”

She places the envelope front and center on my desk, putting her fingertip on it. “Like the gala. It’s your pet project, the baby of your heart, and everyone knows it. Apparently, that includes Riggs and Maddox.”

She closes the door behind her as she leaves, and I stare, not at the envelope, but at the note.

This gift isn’t like the flowers or lingerie, nor is it some easy send of their excess merch.

It was thoughtful and considered in a deeper way, and like Angeline said, it’s as though they see me and what’s important to me.

Ironically, that’s the thing that makes me feel the most vulnerable, and that’s a scary sensation, especially for someone like me who prefers to be in control of every piece on the chess board.

Though that comes with its own pros and cons.

Like Maddox’s dachshund, I had a pet as a child too.

A betta fish that refused to actually stay in the big aquatic home I diligently kept perfect for her with fresh water and a clean filter.

Belle was constantly jumping out to flop around on the floor, gasping for air.

She was beautiful in the water, all grace and floating fins, but she fought being caged at every turn, wanting freedom at any cost—even if it was painful, even if it’d ultimately kill her.

Which it did. I found her on my floor after school one day, her gills no longer gasping, but free all the same.

Am I jumping out of the safe aquarium that I’ve created around me to flop around on the floor, stupidly destroying myself in the process? Possibly.

But I’ve spent the last few days staring at the Post-It note with Maddox’s phone number scribbled on it, tracing the bold, rushed strokes and remembering how I felt in that hotel room—worshiped and wild.

How it felt to see them again—exciting and terrifying.

How my body instantly reacted—going hot and liquid before panic had won out, sending ice through my veins.

And how I’ve looked forward to these gestures from them—feeling hopeful and girlishly giddy.

I’ve played out Samantha’s words in my head dozens of times, arguing for the proposition and the opposition and not winning either debate.

If I want to date, I should. That doesn’t mean it has to be Riggs or Maddox.

It definitely doesn’t need to be both of them.

The potential scandal alone is off-putting.

But I want it to be them. I’ve never felt like I did with them—seen and heard as just myself, not my last name or my reputation. So, praying this won’t turn out like Belle’s ill-fated jump for freedom, I type out a message.

Dinner. No promises. Somewhere private.

I stare at it, wondering if I should soften it into something sweeter, maybe more romantic or at least friendlier. In the end, I hit send because that’s not who I am and I’m not changing for anyone. Or anyones.

Oh my God, am I really considering this? Am I actually doing this?

In under a minute, I get a reply.

Tomorrow at 7pm?

It’s followed by an address about an hour from my place in the city. Perfect, in that it’s somewhat anonymous, or as anonymous as I can be.

Looking forward to it.

It’s the safest answer I can come up with, true at its root but not revealing any of my panic.

Us too.

I reread the short exchange over and over, trying to decipher any hidden meaning in the few words but mostly just getting excited at the prospect of seeing them again.

I also open my banking app and send a donation equal to the cost of the tickets plus some to the Harrington Foundation because these Devils tickets will not be offered at the gala.

I’m keeping them for myself, though I’ll let Angeline and Jerry use them anytime they’d like.

Suddenly, I feel like I need a crash course in hockey.