Play Me (27 page)

The bar was cool,
all wood-paneled and dark and filled with people. As I anticipated,
the booze was cheap and my dress had already gotten me two free
drinks and a phone number that I was using for a coaster. Sipping my
Patron on the rocks, I glanced up at the exposed brick wall and
started, accidentally making eye contact with a taxidermy stag head
mounted on the wall. It felt like he was looking right at me—just
like him, I was stuffed and hung out to dry.

I was not interested
in men tonight. I was interested in drinking until I forgot Nick’s
name, Anne Marie’s name, and my own,
not necessarily in that order.

I looked up at the
clock. I had until midnight and then it was back to my hotel. I was a
responsible drunk. I had my first meeting with Nathan at noon. Plenty
of time to sleep off the alcohol and make myself presentable for him.

I was sipping a
glass of halfway decent tequila when the entire bar seemed to grow
quiet. I looked up and followed the wide-eyed stares until I saw him.
He was tall, with a messy head of black hair and impossibly broad
shoulders. Dark eyes and a wicked smile. Better looking in person
than all the pictures I had seen, and I had seen a lot.

“Of all the
gin joints in all the towns in all the world,” I muttered to
myself as Nathan Ryder came and took the empty seat next to mine.

For a special sneak peek from USA Today Bestselling Author, Melanie Harlow, read
SOME SORT OF LOVE
,
out February 9, 2016
.

Jillian

If
there is anything more tortuous for a single woman in her thirties
than a wedding, I have yet to experience it. (But I’m not even
thirty-one yet, so there’s still time.)

Today,
the wedding was my sister Skylar’s, and the entire event looked
like a glossy magazine spread. Gorgeous early autumn weather with
plenty of sunshine bathing everyone in rays of golden light? Check.
Beautiful, romantic winery setting, complete with rolling hills
blanketed in vines in the background? Check. Flawless, radiant bride
and groom whose good looks would rival any screen idols’ and
whose soulful gazing at each other throughout the day was enough to
make anyone with half a heart weep? Check.

Except
for me. I wasn’t weeping.

I
was camped out near the patio bar, hiding behind a topiary tree and
getting drunk in the effort to remain tolerant in the face of rude
comments made related to my lack of a plus-one.

No
date tonight? Must be hard to find a man once you’re past a
certain age.

So
why aren’t you married yet, Jillian? I bet men find your salary
intimidating.

Last
Nixon sister standing, huh? That can’t feel too good.

Hard
to believe you’re still single, Jillian. You’re so
pretty!
(Then they’d study me carefully, like they were
trying to figure out what the problem was, since it couldn’t be
my face. If I was a car, they’d have asked me to pop the hood
so they could take a look.)

And
inevitably, they knew someone who was
just the guy
for me.

You
should meet my son/dentist/cousin/tax
lawyer/podiatrist/neighbor/accountant/butcher/dog walker. He’s
still single, but he’s really nice.

One
well-meaning great aunt even dragged me over to meet someone who was
seated at a nearby table. The fact that he was gay and even had a
male date seemed lost on her, and she kept insisting we dance. The
poor guy took me out on the floor just to shut her up, and we swayed
awkwardly to “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head” while
my sisters howled with laughter at the head table.

When
the song ended, I’d beelined back to the bar for more wine.
Wine was my friend. Wine understood me. Wine knew that it was
entirely possible to be one hundred percent happy for your sister and
also ten percent jealous, because Wine does not care about
mathematics. And Wine would never ask why I didn’t have a man
by age thirty. Wine and I had spent enough alone time together that
Wine knew it wasn’t that I didn’t
want
a
relationship—of course I did. But I wanted the right one. And
at age thirty, I was done wasting my time dating guys that didn’t
have their shit together. What was the point?

Glass
of champagne in hand, I wandered away from the patio bar and the
comfort of my tree, parking myself near the edge of the tent, which
had been set up behind the winery where Skylar worked. I was close
enough to the dance floor to watch the action, but near enough to the
exit in case I needed to make a hasty getaway. From here I could see
the bride and groom in each other’s arms, Skylar beaming
radiantly and Sebastian looking a little bit uncomfortable to be the
center of attention. Poor guy—crowds were not his thing,
something I completely understood, and I could just imagine how much
he disliked being on parade. Our youngest sister Natalie was sitting
at a nearby table with her adorable fiancé Miles, her bare
feet on his lap, his eyes on no one but her. She was fourteen weeks
pregnant and glowing with happiness, although she looked a little
tired.

“Jillian,
there you are! Are you hiding?” My mother’s oldest friend
appeared in front of me. Irene was a meddling biddy who meant well
but always managed to both compliment and insult me in one breath.

“No,
Aunt Irene. Just taking a break.” Lifting my glass, I downed
the rest of my champagne and immediately wanted more.

“Well,
you should be dancing! You look so pretty in that dress, and you’re
never going to meet anyone if you don’t put yourself out there.
You know what they say, always a bridesmaid…”

I
grimaced, squeezing the stem of my glass with both hands. “I’m
not much of a dancer.”

She
fanned her sweaty face. “But that band is so fun! All those
oldies take me back. And look at your parents!”

My
lips tipped up as I watched my dad turn my mother beneath his arm.
“They do look like they’re having fun.”

“They
are! It’s nice to have a lifelong partner to do things with.
It’s been fifteen years, and I still miss Harold every day.”

Feeling
a little guilty, I gave her a sympathetic look. “I’m
sorry.”

She
waved a hand between us, dismissing the apology. “How’s
the new job going? Your mother said you’re loving it.”

I
nodded. “I am.”

“Are
the hours any less grueling? Do you have any time to yourself?”

“They’re
a little better, not much. But I love getting to know the families.
Last week I—”

“What
about your own family?” she interrupted. “Don’t you
want one?”

I
stiffened. “Eventually.”

“Well,
you’re never going to meet anyone hiding over here, silly girl.
If you want to meet a man, you have to be more outgoing, like your
sisters!”

Forcing
a smile, I took a breath. “My sisters and I are just different,
Aunt Irene.”

“You
should dance,” she said firmly. “Let me find you a
partner.” Her eyes scanned the crowd as my neck muscles
tightened with anger.

“No,
really. I don’t want to dance right now. I’d actually
like some more champagne.” I’d drunk the last couple
glasses so quickly, my lips were tingling, but anything would be
preferable to dancing with another stranger.

“Nonsense.
You’re much too pretty to be standing over here so single—I
mean, so alone.”

“I’m
enjoying the view. I like observing.”

“Well,
that’s no way to meet a man, is it? You’re at that age
where you have to be proactive about these things, Jillian.”
She put a hand on her chest. “I’m making it my mission to
help you.”

Oh
God, the horror.
“Thanks, but no need.”

“You
have to let men see what a prize you are,” she went on,
oblivious to my irritation or ignoring it, “or risk being sad
and alone forever.” She grabbed my arm and began to drag me,
frowning in protest, further into the tent.

“I’m
not a prize, Aunt Irene. And I’m not sad, either.”

“Of
course you are! Every woman wants a man in her life.”

Digging
my heels in, I wrenched my arm away from her. “Actually, what I
want is another drink. Excuse me.” I spun away from her and
slammed immediately into a big, solid wall. Wait, no—it wasn’t
a wall. Walls don’t have strong hands that reach out to steady
you, huge dark eyes full of concern, and a thick, brown beard you’re
pretty sure would feel like heaven against your cheek. And your
thighs.

They
don’t know your name, either.

“Jillian?”

For
a second, I couldn’t place him. Then my jaw dropped.
Oh my
God.
“Levi?”

“You
two know each other?” Irene, still right behind me, sounded
pleased.

“Uh…yeah.”
Levi and I looked at each other, half stunned, half embarrassed. He
took his hands from my upper arms, and I immediately felt unbalanced.

“We’ve,
um…” Our eyes locked, exchanging a silent word.
Fucked.

“Met.”
Levi finished my sentence, his lips tipping up.

I
smiled too.
Met
was an understatement. What we’d done
was have fumbling, frantic sex in a dorm utility closet the way only
two desperately hormonal (and drunk) college students can do. To this
day, every time I think about that encounter (or smell Pine Sol), I
go a little weak in the knees. I’d had my fair share of
one-night hookups since I’d always been too busy for a
boyfriend, but there were only a handful of them I wished I’d
had more time with. Levi was at the top of that list.

Was
it horrible that I didn’t know his last name? How the hell was
I going to introduce him to Aunt Irene?

The
crazy thing was, I had
just
told my sisters about him a couple
months ago, after hearing about Natalie and Miles in
his
closet. Shocked that their responsible, buttoned-up older sister had
done something so scandalous, they’d blustered and shrieked and
demanded all the details. I thought it was funny that they were so
surprised—I’d done a lot kinkier stuff than that, but
unlike my sisters, I kept details about my sex life to myself.

“Isn’t
this wonderful?” Irene looked back and forth between Levi and
me, smiling approvingly. “And just look how nice and tall he
is, Jillian. My word, he must be over six feet. You should ask her to
dance,” she ordered him, apparently unconcerned with an
introduction.

Levi’s
eyes widened in alarm, and I smiled at him reassuringly. “Don’t
worry about it. I’m not much of a dancer.” But Irene was
right—he was nice and tall. He had a few solid inches on me,
and at five foot eight plus my four-inch heels, that was pretty
impressive. He wore a black suit with a white dress shirt, and the
knot in his tie was loose and a little haphazard, as if he’d
been in a rush to get dressed. His dark hair was parted on the side,
longer on top and neatly combed back. Something stirred inside me.

I
held up my empty champagne glass. “How about a drink instead?”

He
smiled, looking relieved. “I’d like that.”

“Perfect.”
Taking his elbow, I steered him toward the patio bar, tossing a
placating smile at Irene over my shoulder. “Nice chatting with
you, Aunt Irene. Enjoy the music.”

When
we were a safe distance away from her, I let go of Levi’s arm.
“Sorry about crashing into you like that,” I said. “I’m
the clumsy sister.”

“I
didn’t mind.”

“So…”
I tried to think of where to begin. “It’s been a while. I
almost didn’t recognize you.”

Grinning,
he ran a hand over his chin. “Didn’t have the beard back
in college.”

“I
like it.” I liked it a lot actually. He’d been tall,
skinny and cute at twenty-one, all arms and legs, floppy hair and
cocky smile, but he was tall, broad, and gorgeous at thirty-two.
God,
I hope he’s single. At least for the night.

“Thanks.
My son likes it too.”

My
hopes deflated like a punctured balloon. “You have a son?”

“Yes.”
We reached the bar and stood in the short line. “Scotty.”

“How
old is he?”

“He’s
eight.”

“Got
a picture?”

He
pulled out his phone and scrolled through a couple photos before
handing it to me. On the screen was an adorable young boy sitting on
a swing. He had messy dark hair, his father’s huge brown eyes
and long limbs, a smattering of freckles across his nose, and ears
that stuck out a little. His expression was thoughtful and serious,
and he wore a shirt with a drawing of a t-rex on it that said
Scottasaurus.

“He’s
beautiful,” I said, handing the phone back.

“Thank
you.”

Some
quick math told me he must have gotten married fairly soon after
college. I’d met him my sophomore year at U of M, but he’d
only been visiting friends there for the weekend, and we hadn’t
spent too much time getting to know each other. I hadn’t even
planned to go out that night—I had on a Harry Potter t-shirt,
for heaven’s sake—but my friends had dragged me to the
bar, insisting I needed to be more social. I’d noticed Levi
right away, and we’d eyed each other across the room for a good
portion of the night before he finally came over to me and said,
“Harry Potter fan, huh? So what are the chances I can Slytherin
to your chamber of secrets tonight?”

Two
drinks later, we were kissing, and two after that, we were racing
hand in hand to my dorm, where he’d yanked me into the hallway
broom closet after we discovered my roommate was already asleep in my
room.

For
a moment, I was distracted by the memory of giggling breathlessly as
I listened to him tear open the condom wrapper and put it on, the
sight of him lost to me in the dark. I could still feel the way my
heart pounded as I slid my underwear down my legs, terrified we’d
rouse my RA, whose room was right next door. I could still smell
bleach and Pine Sol, still feel his lips on mine, his hands on my
shoulders as he turned my body toward the wall and lifted my jean
skirt. He hadn’t even undressed, and I remembered fantasizing
about what his long, lithe body looked like beneath his clothing,
what the weight of it would feel like if he were stretched out above
me. Most of all I remembered the way he whispered as he thrust up
inside me again and again and again, so deep and hard it teetered on
the edge between pleasure and pain, one hand over my mouth to stifle
my cries.
You’re so fucking hot, you feel so fucking good,
oh fuck I’m gonna come.