Page 31 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“You’ve got a heavy hand there, Mr. Wylder.” My head is so scrambled I’m not even sure how I manage to sound so witty.

And breathless.

It’s in that moment that I realize we’ve stopped moving completely. Our feet. Our bodies. We’re standing alone in the middle of the dance floor in a crowded bar, staring at each other.

“Excuse me?” At a woman’s voice to our left, we shock apart like two kids getting caught for the second time today. “May I cut in?”

I look over at the attractive—and much older—bottled redhead beside us, whose smile is as evocative as the clothes she’s wearing, and then back to Easton, a man no stranger to women hitting on him, I’m sure. His smile is fixed and eyes wide as he tries to figure out what to do.

“Of course. He’s all yours,” I say as I step back, despite every part of my body wanting to move closer. He sputters a protest, but his manners get the best of him when the woman, who must be at least thirty years his senior, has absolutely no qualms about stepping into where my shoes just were.

I twist my lips to fight my smile as he sends me a visual SOS when the woman begins to lead him around the dance floor. He’s all smiles to her while shooting playful I’m-gonna-kill-you daggers across the room at me.

And as I sip my fresh drink, sent compliments of Easton’s dance partner, for the first time in forever, I realize what jealousy over a man feels like.

“She so wanted you.” My laugh is louder than normal, a bit giggly, and I don’t care because I’m a little tipsy and a lot relaxed, and I can’t remember what it feels like to be relaxed.

“Some wingman you are. Throwing me to the wolves so you can go drink all the alcohol, which could have helped to put me out of my misery.”

“She was sweet, though,” I explain.

“Of course you thought that. You were getting buzzed on the drinks she sent your way, while I was busy moving her hands off my ass. And I won’t even get into her thoughts about the team’s chances this year, or how much she kept asking if it’s true that son is like father.”

“If it’s true that son is like father?” I look at him, wide-eyed, and cover my mouth with my hand.

“Yeah. Exactly.”

“Are you telling me she’s slept with your dad?”

“I have no clue, and I don’t want to know,” he says dryly, mock shivering.

I stifle a laugh. “And to think you were so generous with your time for her.”

“What was I supposed to do? Cause a scene? I tried to escape, tried to explain I was on a date with you, but she wouldn’t let me go.”

“She just wanted to see if the apple fell far from the tree,” I snicker, earning me a stern glare.

“Funny.”

“Well, it was nice of you to stick it out.” His glare is back, and I try to smother my laughter. He just walks ahead of me and shakes his head. “Look, I’m sorry. You were being very kind to her. She is probably lonely, and you just made her night.”

“And that’s why I wasn’t rude. She just wanted to feel important.”

And so you let her have that moment.

It’s one surprise after another with him, and the revelation only makes me want to get to know him further. “You better watch out, or I might change my opinion of you.”

“You have opinions of me? What might those be?” he asks, voice playful but eyes serious as he takes my hand to stop me. We’re standing on a sidewalk in the middle of downtown Austin, his truck left in the bar’s parking lot and mine a few blocks ahead in the stadium’s parking lot. We decided to walk off the alcohol, but we’re not walking now.

We’re standing with my back to the brick wall of the building and this surprise of a man standing in front of me.

“I’ve been around ball players my whole life, Easton.”

“And?” He says the word as if I’ve insulted him.

“They’re players. They come and go on a whim. They typically need the high of the attention they get on the field to thrive. And if they can’t find it, then they’ll seek it out somewhere else . . . and that’s never good for a relationship.”

“So you’ve had a relationship with a ballplayer, then?” His eyes narrow.