“Yes, sir.”

Now it was his turn to sigh. “Look, Rory. You’re good. Damn good. You and I both know it. But this has to stop. There’s a line between being a playboy with a temper and getting your ass thrown in jail. It looks bad on me, the team—hell, the whole franchise. You cannot be the face of the Sharks if you’re wearing orange, you get me?”

“Yes, sir,” I repeated, waiting for the other shoe to drop. My no-trade clause ended at the end of the season, and for the first time in my career, apprehension ran up my spine that I wouldn’t be in Seattle next year.

“I have to bench you this weekend.”

“Coach—”

“No, you sit there and listen. Take this weekend and figure out what the hell it is you’re doing, and how much you really want to be a Shark. This can’t happen again.”

“I understand.”

“If it does…then we’ll have to take the hit to the roster and bench you for the season. And then…”

“Yeah, I get the picture.”

“Clean up your image. Hire a better publicist, or hell, just listen to the one you have. But for fuck’s sake, stop acting like a hormonal teenager with something to prove.”

“Got it, Coach.”

We hung up, and I made my way into Gage’s house, going through the garage door. We made the same salary, but we couldn’t live any more differently. Where I had a two bedroom penthouse loft downtown, Gage was up here on the hill with a huge house, complete with painted pictures on the refrigerator and an array of toys in the living room. He had something I didn’t, and didn’t know if I’d ever be lucky enough to have—a family.

“Hey, need some water?” Bailey asked from the kitchen as I walked by.

“That would be great, thank you,” I said as she handed it over. The diamond on her left hand looked good on her—so did the small swell of her belly where another McPherson was growing. “Where’s Lettie?” I asked, looking for their precocious four-year-old.

“With Gage’s mom,” she said with a smile.

“Wow, you look gorgeous,” I told her, taking in the arrangement of brown hair on the top of her head and sweeping black dress.

“Thank you. Now you’d better get dressed before I’m forced to kick your ass.” She nodded toward the guest bedroom, and I saluted her with the water bottle, draining it on the way to the shower.

I washed the bar and jail grime off, thankful that I kept a small toiletry kit here for nights I was too drunk to drive after our weekly poker game. Ten minutes later, I had clean hair, scrubbed skin, and brushed teeth.

Wrapping a clean, white towel around my waist, I walked into the guest bedroom and stopped dead in my tracks.

“Oh!” Paige said, her mouth a delicious O shape. Her eyes ran hungrily down my bare chest, and I resisted the urge to flex.

Guess she did notice me after all.

Her red hair looked soft enough to touch, and the hue of her red lipstick against her pale skin made me wonder what those lips would look like wrapped around my cock.

Do not think like that about Bailey’s best friend.

What the hell was I supposed to think about when she was standing there in a bathrobe? One simple tug of the belt and she’d be naked—all milky white skin and pert breasts.

Shit, if I didn’t get ahold of my thoughts, they’d make themselves known soon. The towel wasn’t going to hide much.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice sweet and clear. “I meant to be out of here by now.” She tugged on her lower lip with her teeth and I cursed my semi-hard on that was going to be a full one soon.

“No problem. I enjoy finding partially-clothed beautiful women.” I smiled, and she blinked quickly for a moment.

Then something marvelous happened—she stood straighter, her chin rose, and she morphed from shy, delicate Paige, to Vice President of CranBaby Organics Paige, calm and collected. Damn, I couldn’t decide which was sexier.

“I’ll just grab a dress and change in the bathroom.”

I followed her gaze to two dresses hanging on the closet door. One was black and elegant with a simple scoop neck and lace overlay with cap sleeves. It was refined and screamed perfect for the Paige I couldn’t touch.

The other was red, strapless, and would hug every one of her delectable curves. It was the dress for the Paige that might ogle my bare chest.

“The red,” I suggested, my voice gravelly.

Her green eyes widened subtly as they found mine. “You sure?”

There was a palpable zing between us, the mark of hot as hell chemistry that I’d never experienced on a level like this before.

Bailey’s best friend.

Bailey’s best friend.

Bailey’s best…oh, fuck it.

“I’m sure. Wear the red.” I forced a smile and hoped it was charming instead of horny as fuck. “And save me a dance.”

“Okay,” she said softly, taking the dress and damn-near running from the room. Since I stood in the doorway from the attached bathroom, I couldn’t help but wonder exactly where she was going to change…or why she’d left so fast that I’d wanted to check for fires.

“Down boy,” I told my dick.

I found my tux and started to dress, trying—and failing—to keep my mind off Paige and how she was going to look in that dress later.

She wasn’t the girl for me. She was smart, put together, driven, and straight as an arrow. Hell, I doubt she’d ever even parked illegally. She was the kind of girl you built a house for, not the kind you hailed a cab for after a marathon of sex. Hell, I couldn’t even get my hands on her, not with her connection to Gage.

She was off limits in every way.

Well, every way but my fantasies...and I had a feeling her ass in that red dress was going to make more than one appearance there tonight.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

 

Paige

 

 

#7: Sleep With / Fuck Rory Jackson.

The number on the dirty-girl bucket list Jeannine had made Bailey and myself make over cocktails one night burned in my mind as red as the dress I wore. The dress Mr. Jackson himself had chosen for me. I’d known the modest black gown was the option I should’ve selected but when he’d pointed to the red something inside me sparked, and I couldn’t say no to him. It may have had something to do with the white cotton towel barely hanging onto his perfect hips—complete with lickable v lines and a rock hard abs I wanted to trace with my fingertips.