Chapter Twelve

Rhett

When Brenna asked if I wanted to leave the Russian Tea Room, pleasure and innate relief coursed through my body. My choice of date night venue had been a disaster from one end to the other. I’d made absolutely no progress with Brenna, and then that bitch Janet had stuck her nose into my business to try to implode everything. She’d never liked me. Hell, her dislike of me probably started Brenna’s dislike of me. She’d been brainwashed by the successful and powerful older woman.

Brenna walked out of the restaurant in front of me, her legs wobbling in those tall heels. I grinned at the sight of her ample ass, swaying from side to side. It was so round, so luscious that I was tempted to reach right out and squeeze it.

“Rhett?” Brenna turned around. “Are you okay? You’re being so quiet.”

“I’m great,” I said, trying to keep my eyes trained on her face instead of the glorious globes of her behind. “So, where are we going?”

Brenna blushed as she placed a finger up to her lush lips. “It’s a secret.”

“Well, you’ll have to tell me a general direction,” I said, raising my eyebrow and grinning at her. “I’m driving, after all.”

Brenna shoulder checked me. “Okay. We’re going to the Strand – the hotel, not the bookstore.”

My face broke out in a wide grin before I could temper it. “Ah, sweetheart, if you wanted to get me alone in a hotel room, all you had to do was ask.”

Brenna’s cheeks flamed so red that it turned her blue dress lavender. “No,” she said, biting her lower lip. “There’s a bar on the rooftop – it’s a cocktail bar, it’s really nice. You know, kind of quiet and trendy but not snooty.”

“It’s so cool that you remember it.”

Her eyes brightened. “Yeah, it is. It’s so strange what I remember and what I don’t.”

I nodded and made a feeble attempt to push my luck. It couldn’t hurt to get her mind acquainted with the idea of me on top of her. “You sure you don’t remember the hotel part?”

Brenna crossed her arms over her chest, an eyebrow lifted to her hairline. I smirked as I helped her inside my Porsche. It was hard not to do a jaunty little dance and click my heels in the air as I walked around to the driver side. She totally wants me. As soon as I get a few drinks in her, she’s gonna beg me for it.

The end loomed before me. As soon as I fucked Brenna Sinclair out of my system, I knew things would go back to normal. My pitching would be incredible once again, and I’d finally be able to return to business as usual without any more time dwelling on thoughts of Brenna. I felt like slamming my head against the leather-wrapped steering wheel. I was a professional athlete – a grown-ass man – and I’d been caught mooning over this sexy journalist like a love-struck teenager.

Deep down, I knew why I’d become obsessed with this particular girl. It was because Brenna had hated me so viciously that having her fawn all over me felt like sweet revenge. It had to be. Any other explanation flew in the face of logic and common sense.

I knew that she’d go back to hating me as soon as she let me in her panties – it wasn’t like I planned on getting involved. Rhett Bradshaw didn’t have time for a relationship. I didn’t date girls. I fucked them, and then I moved on to my next conquest. Besides, I almost never slept with the same girl twice. The few times I’d succumbed, I ended up riddled with regret over their unmet expectations.

“Rhett?” Brenna whispered, bringing my attention back to her in a heartbeat. “Do you think I’ll ever get better?”

“Sure,” I said, crossing my fingers on the wheel. “I mean, you have to. The doctors all say you will, right? They’re the experts.”

“They do,” Brenna agreed. Her face had turned dark and stormy, and I wondered what I could do to make the sun rise again. “I just…” She sighed. “I hate feeling like I’m such a burden to everyone. First, Riley bailed me out of everything, and now you.” She looked at me, her green eyes wide and sincere. “Rhett, I’m sorry about what happened at the restaurant. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize Janet. I feel like such an idiot.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. Brenna’s open, earnest behavior had crawled under my skin, making me feel like an asshat. I almost wished she could go back to laughing at me like she had when I’d fucked up the wine list.

“Well, I do,” Brenna continued. “I get the feeling that Riley is so annoyed with me all the time. She always acts irritated whenever I ask her about something.”

“She’s jealous,” I said, turning down a side street and parking next to the curb.

“Jealous?” Brenna sniffed. “Why would Riley be jealous of me?”

I chuckled. “Well, Brenna, have you seen Riley lately? I mean, she’s an okay girl, don’t get me wrong. But she looks like every other hipster wannabe in New York. She’s not you. You’re something special.”

Brenna frowned. “I don’t think that’s it,” she said, pulling her lower lip between her teeth. “I mean, I don’t think she was like that before.”

“But you don’t know that for sure, do you?” I asked.

Brenna flushed. “No. I don’t.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.” I punched the button for the elevator and leaning against the wall to wait for the ding. “Your memory will come back, probably the minute you stop stressing about it.”

“It feels so weird,” Brenna said. “I have these dreams with people that I feel like I know, but when I wake up, I don’t remember them. I’m so frustrated – and I’m worried about my job.”

“Hey,” I said, taking her by the shoulders and creating intense eye contact. As if doing so would help her to believe me. Brenna blushed. I leaned down and kissed her, pressing my lips against hers. She tasted like wine and strawberries, and her velvet soft lips against mine felt like heaven. I slipped my tongue into Brenna’s mouth, and she moaned, pressing her body against mine.

When I pulled away, I grinned. “See? All better. This is a night of fun. No more stressing, got that?”

Brenna nodded. I thought she’d start up again with her laments about her memory loss, but thankfully, she kept her luscious lips shut. The elevator doors dinged open, and we stepped inside.

The rooftop bar proved just as Brenna had described. The sun was setting over the Manhattan skyline, and I sighed with pleasure. I had the hottest girl in the room on my arm. I glanced around, drinking in the amazing view of the city I loved.

“This is beautiful,” Brenna breathed. “Wow, I wish I had my camera or something.”

“Yeah, it’s okay. Hey, take a picture with me. Come here.”

Brenna smiled and fitted herself against my arm. I pulled out my phone and tilted the front camera down. We appeared on the screen, and I grinned, wrapping my arm around her before snapping the shot. Our first selfie.

“Ugh,” Brenna groaned.

“What?” Please don’t be another distraction, please don’t be another distraction.

“There’s a television here. God, I can’t believe that even a rooftop bar would feel the need for one of those things.” She sighed. “For some reason, I feel like I hate television in bars. Whatever happened to just talking?”

I glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, a TV hung above the bar, blaring ESPN. Sports Center. A nervous thrill shot through me. Maybe they’ll just stick to talking about hockey. At least, a man can pray.

“Speaking of hipsters,” I said, pretending to groan. “You really sound like one, you know? What’s so bad about watching TV when you’re at a bar?”

Brenna turned to me and narrowed her eyes. “It’s just lazy. I like going out and talking over a glass of wine, or a cocktail. I don’t need television blasted in my ears when I’m trying to get to know someone.” She grinned. “I think.”

“Damn,” I teased. “I sure hope the TV here doesn’t impede you getting to know me. That would be a tragedy.”

Brenna wrinkled her nose. “Let’s get a drink. Come on.”

I shook my nervous energy out at the elbows as I followed her toward the bar. Even the hypnotic lure of her heart-shaped ass wasn’t enough to tear my gaze away from the television. The snippet on hockey had ended, and sure enough, they went straight into footage of baseball.

I hoped this Manhattan bar preferred Mets fans, but I knew in my heart, I was fucked.

“So,” Brenna said when I handed her a Moscow Mule. “This more your style?”

I looked around but didn’t see anyone taking photos or video of me. Yet. Safe for the moment.

“Sure.” While it wasn’t the kind of place I would have gone with Ernie, it had a cool vibe.

“Sorry,” Brenna said. She looked down into her drink, and her lips turned into that pout again. Shit. “I was excited that I remembered the location and thought this was somewhere you’d like.”

I shrugged, quick to reassure her. “It’s not bad,” I told her, touching her shoulder, then we both laughed as an angry growl came from her stomach. “It was a most excellent choice. Let’s get some food before your stomach erupts.”

Brenna didn’t smile and frustration welled inside of my chest. What the hell was I doing wrong? Had I lost my touch with girls as well as with baseball? Normally, the negging approach worked wonders with chicks. But Brenna wasn’t responding like most girls.

Maybe that ball damaged more than her memory. Maybe she just needs a little fine-tuning to come back to normal.

I leaned closer and gave her a charming smile. “So, you wanna go someplace more private after this?”

Brenna licked her lips. “Like where?”

“Well, we’ve got a whole hotel below us,” I teased. “I’m sure they might have one or two rooms available. You know – at least for a star pitcher and his date.”

Brenna frowned. Just as she was about to say something, I froze. Behind me, I heard the sound of her voice, giving an interview. Oh, shit. I whirled around. Sure enough, Brenna from the previous season graced the screen in all her capable glory. Sun kissed her cheeks, and all her lustrous hair had been piled into a messy bun on top of her head, but her green eyes sparkled with intensity. She gently punched the palm of one open hand with her other fist.

I remembered that interview well. It happened right after the Yankees finished their post-season. Ernie and I had gone out partying to paint the town red. We’d wound up with three girls apiece in the back of a Hummer limousine, and the pictures had been in the tabloids before the sun came up. Brenna had called it “filthy” and “disgusting,” and she’d actually called for a boycott of the Yankees until they “learned how to respect women.”

In short, it had been a complete fucking publicity shitstorm. My mom had even called my grandma, and they’d double-teamed me, painting me black with their brush of shame. I hadn’t been able to show my face in bars for at least a week, and Ernie still gave me hell about it. One of his favorite things to do was call me a filthy and disgusting man whore – I had a feeling the name might stick.

If Brenna overheard that interview, I knew everything would be ruined. I quickly glanced down, groaning when I realized she still had half of her cocktail left.

“Hey,” I said in a rush to cover my own ass. “How about a shot? You want a shot? I’ll go get us shots!”

“Uh.” Brenna frowned and looked down at her glass. “I don’t know, that’s not me. I don’t ever do shots. At least I don’t think so.”

“It’ll be fun!” I yelled, my fist pumping the air over her head. She looked at me as if I’d lost it. “Why don’t you wait over there?”

Brenna frowned, but she did as I said and stepped out of earshot of the TV. In two long strides, I reached the mahogany bar and leaned on the counter.

“Hey, barkeep!” I called, whistling and clapping my hands. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be rude to the bartender but desperate times called for inappropriate behavior. I flicked a Benjamin down on the shiny, wooden surface to make it worth his while. “Two shots of Don Julio and make it snappy. And get that shit off the TV.”

“Oh, whoa, you’re Rhett Bradshaw!”

I turned toward the excited voice. A younger guy stared at me and pointed, obviously dazzled.

“Yup,” I said, not bothering to deny it. “That’s my name.”

“Can I get an autograph?”

No, but you can help save my ass. With a grin, I leaned toward him. “Sure, but I’ll give you five hundred bucks if you punch me in the face.”

“What?” The guy almost dropped his drink. “Why the fuck would I do that? Every Yankee fan in the city would want my ass on a plate. I wouldn’t do that shit for a million dollars. It would be like hitting my idol.”

“Make it a thousand,” I said, not sure how to convince him but knowing in my gut that the only way to turn Brenna away from the roadkill on the screen due to the slow-moving bartender would be to cause a scene in this fucking bar. As her eyes wandered toward the television, I became desperate. “I’m not gonna hurt you, man. Just please – help a brother out.”

The guy stared at me, so flabbergasted his lips quivered. “You can’t be for real,” he said. “I’m gonna get sued!”

“You definitely won’t,” I promised. “Shit, bring out your iPhone and record me saying it if you want to be sure. Just please – help me out. It’s about a girl, and you know how a man can get when it comes to his girl.”

“Well, alright,” the guy said, sizing me up. “But I thought you had a lot of girls. What’s the deal with this one? Why would you be willing to take a fist to the jaw for some broad?”

Because this broad is important to me. Whoa. Where the fuck had that come from? Left field, that’s where. Like a line drive to the baseline corner.

“Brenna Sinclair.”

Understanding lit the dude’s eyes, indicating his cooperation. He took a deep breath and rolled up his sleeve. A quick glance at Brenna told me that she’d started talking to another woman standing close to her, and she wasn’t watching me fetch the tequila.

The guy swung his arm back in the air, then forward, connecting his fist with my lip. It wasn’t a hard punch, but I grabbed him and tackled him to the ground, making sure not to hurt him in the process.

“Hey, what the fuck!”

“I don’t know,” someone else cried loudly. “That brave mother fucker just sucker punched Rhett Bradshaw. I bow down, dipshit!”

Soon, the bar around me descended into chaos. I grinned as I ducked under another swinging fist and darted away from the melee.

Finally. Rhett Bradshaw lucks out. It wasn’t the first time and it sure as hell won’t be the last.