Chapter 9

JIMMY’S TAP IN BRIDGEPORT was the kind of place a classy woman like Addison Williams wouldn’t be seen dead in, so it was probably good she had turned down Ford’s offer. It did, however, have all the elements of a great South Side dive bar: draft Pabst, decent Italian beef next door, and TVs switched to the White Sox game. Even in hockey and football season, Jimmy preferred to play reruns of the Sox winning the series in ’05. (Cubbies? What Cubbies.)

No one dared to fuck with the remote.

At least that was the SOP in years gone by. Walking in, Jax had told Ford that Jimmy made an exception for the Rajuns going all the way because he was that proud of a local boy making good.

Another change since the last time Ford had was here was the addition of a patio. And as Ford was 99.9% certain that Jimmy didn’t offer much in the way of party catering, he assumed Marcy must have put the whole hood on sandwich-making duty. He was equally sure that this much potato salad would never again be gathered in one spot. Must have cost a few Bennies. He’d slip her some cash later.

“Pretty fancy patio, Jimmy,” Ford said when the grizzled old-timer put his head outside. The guy was squinting like he worried his skin might burn from exposure to the elements. Ford couldn’t recall ever seeing him in natural sunlight.

“Da kids seem to like it. Next dey’ll be wantin’ service at da fuckin’ tables.”

Now that was the Jimmy Ford knew and loved.

“Ya did good, Callaghan,” Jimmy continued out of the side of his mouth, a mighty fine impression of Burgess Meredith in Rocky, “even if it was with da wrong team. Rebels shoulda picked you up when dey had a chance.”

Three years ago, they’d tried to acquire him. Now, they couldn’t afford him, not with the way he’d played during the series. He was a winner, a god among men, and any woman would be happy to have him.

Any woman but Addison.

Coming in tonight, he’d promised himself he wouldn’t think of her, but the woman had a foothold in his brain, which was so not good for his mental well-being. She wasn’t interested and why the hell would she be? Apart from the obvious complication with her ex, a jock was probably the last guy she’d want warming her bed. Guys like that accountant at Harper’s dinner party were more her speed, even if he had been a condescending asshole with his “my wife won’t need to work” bullshit.

He redirected his focus back to the party. Everyone and his aunt had detached from their sofas to celebrate with him, and it was a blast to see guys he’d gone to school with, girls he’d felt up behind the gym, and even his tenth grade math teacher, Mr. O’Brien, who now assured him he’d always known Ford “would go far.” The same teacher who would flick a ruler at his ear because Ford liked to nap on his desk in the early afternoon. When you’re up at 4:30 a.m. daily for hockey practice, sleep is more important than algebra.

The setting July sun cast a burnished glow over the Cup, now taking pride of place in the corner of the patio. Standing sentry, Edwin gave the evil eye to anyone who tried to lift it, but Ford was happy to let everyone touch it. The neighborhood was as responsible for taking him all the way as his parents, his brothers, and every coach who’d told him to haul ass down the other end of the rink and be quick about it. Let them enjoy this moment.

Jax took a seat beside Ford. They hadn’t discussed the fight last night, but then, along with the non-hugging thing, there was also the non-talking thing. At least, not about anything important.

Ford opened with, “Thanks for putting this together.”

“Thank Marcy,” Jax gruffed out. Seeming to realize that this made him sound like more of an asshole than usual, he added, “Everyone’s proud of you, Fordie.”

Surprised as all hell, Ford turned to him, but his brother’s focus was elsewhere. Jax’s mouth had dropped open and he was staring at some spot over Ford’s shoulder.

“Fuck me if that isn’t Harper Chase.”

Ford’s head whipped around to take in the Chicago Rebels VP and would-be owner striding through the crowd toward their table. Panic scrambled his blood. Had something happened to Addy? Why the hell else would Harper be here?

He stood, which is when he realized that Harper was not alone. Two steps behind her, Addy appeared like a dying man’s mirage in a sleeveless green blouse that matched her eyes and that did nothing to hide her assets. She didn’t just walk; she owned every step, and as she drew closer, she caught his eye and . . . holy shit, winked.

“Ford!” Harper said like she was greeting an old friend. She leaned up on her tiptoes because even in heels she barely came up to his pecs, and aimed a kiss that landed somewhere near the underside of his chin. “Sorry I’m late. When you said it was hard to find, you weren’t kidding.”

Okay.

“No worries, glad you could make it,” he said, playing along. That’s right, no flies on him. He turned to his brother who was watching with avid interest. “Harper, this is my brother, Jackson Callaghan.”

“Pleasure, Mr. Callaghan.” Harper shook Jax’s hand as he stood. “And this is Addison. I hope you don’t mind I brought a gal pal. Safety in numbers as I venture into the wilds of the South Side.”

Ford nodded at Addy, knowing he should shake her hand but also knowing that if he touched her, he’d likely cleave her to his body and never let go. This had to be her idea and, for some reason, Harper was playing fairy godmother. Why?

Bypassing him, Addy reached over and offered her hand to Jax, who took it then raised an unsubtle eyebrow of “do you know who the hell that is?” at Ford.

No one spoke for a good ten seconds.

Jax frowned, then swung his head back in Harper’s direction. “Come to see what a Cup celebration looks like, Ms. Chase? Might be the closest you get.”

Ford shot him a glare, but Harper had probably heard a lot worse, given how badly the Rebels had performed this past season. Last in pretty much every league metric. If they were a British soccer team they would have been relegated ten times over.

Harper’s gaze strayed to the Cup, unmistakable envy in it. “No one gave the Rage much of a shot this year and now look at them. It’s amazing what can be overcome if you want it enough.” She dropped those last words on Ford, the implication as clear as Addy’s glittering eyes.

If he wanted this woman, he was going to have to fight.

Torn between questioning why Harper Chase was on his side in this and pondering his next move, he almost missed Harper’s breathy gush of, “So what are the chances of getting a martini?”

Jax looked amused. “Martinis would be about as likely as the Rebels winning the Cup next year, but I’m happy to escort you to our finest keg, Ms. Chase.” He stood and led the way.

“Now be good while I’m gone, children.” She cocked an eyebrow—yeah, real smart-ass, this one—and followed Jax into the crowd, leaving Ford alone with Addy. Or as alone as you could get in the middle of a South Side bar patio during a Cup celebration in your honor.

Ford allowed himself the luxury of taking inventory of this heart-stoppingly beautiful woman. She wore jeans that hugged every delicious curve like they were afraid to let go. Through the blouse, he could make out the swell of her breasts, the ones he’d had in his mouth less than twenty-four hours ago. Hours spent in a hell of craving, if he was being honest.

“You’re staring,” she murmured.

“You’re stunning.”

A fiery blush hit her cheeks. Who’d have expected a woman lauded right, left, and center for her looks would be embarrassed by a compliment? He liked that he could make her bloom like that.

“Would you like to sit?” he asked politely, praying she’d say yes, because sitting was the only thing that would stop him from embarrassing himself. His jeans were not loose enough for this. Mercifully, she took his seat while he moved over to the one vacated by Jax.

“You probably have questions,” she said.

“Only one.”

Her teeth snagged on her lower lip. So not helping his boner.

He leaned in, inhaling what he could of her scent. Memorizing it for later. “Tell me, Bright Eyes. Are you a Cubs or a White Sox fan?”

She laughed, then covered her mouth with a guilty look at the crowd now latching on to her presence. “I’m a Yankees fan.”

He closed his eyes. “Knew there was a reason this could never work.” When he opened them again, he met a knowing gaze and a smile that slayed him.

Her smile faded. “I don’t want to make trouble for you. I just couldn’t leave our conversation the way it ended.”

So this was goodbye. He had no idea which was worse: not seeing her again as he’d expected when he hung up the phone two hours ago or having her beside him in a state of frustrating untouchability.

Judging by the level of interest raised by her arrival, Ford had no doubt plenty of snaps were already clogging up Instagram and Twitter. The cover story should hold up: Michael Babineaux’s ex-wife was here with Harper Chase, an acquaintance of Ford’s. Two degrees of perfectly innocent separation.

Though they both knew it was nothing of the kind.

That’s when something struck him like a slap shot to the head: Ford didn’t care. Or rather, he cared about something else more. Someone else. Addy. She was a contradiction in so many ways. Externally she was beautiful—stunning—strong, self-sufficient, and driven to succeed. But he’d heard her voice on the balcony and at Harper’s home. The vulnerability in it, masking a heart and soul that needed someone to back her. Cherish her. He wanted to be that someone.

He wanted to see her again and to hell with what people thought.

But it mattered to her, and that was the barrier he had to hurdle. “You could have called. Texted. You didn’t have to come in person.”

She hitched an eyebrow. “I was raised to do things properly. Not to take the coward’s way out.”

“And this afternoon, you were feeling cowardly? Or maybe just afraid?”

She smiled at the distinction he’d made. “All my life I’ve been told I didn’t have it in me to succeed. I was too big, too curvy, too fat. I wasn’t smart enough to do anything other than modeling, or I was too smart to get far in this business. I could be three times as rich if I lost thirty pounds, five times if I lost fifty.” She waved a hand, her annoyance at the haters clear. “What I’m trying to say is that I’ve worked my famous ass off to get where I am. I know you’ve worked hard, too.” She glanced around, her assessing gaze landing on Jax who was chewing Harper’s ear off. Probably telling her how to fix the Rebels’ defense.

“I have,” he said cautiously, because he could hear the but in there, one he didn’t want to deal with.

“We’re attracted to each other. Off-the-charts attracted,” she said, her voice low and husky and intoxicating. “I’m adult enough to admit that. But I’m also adult enough to know that this can’t go anywhere, Ford. In fact, it’s already gone too far. We’ve had our fun and anything more wouldn’t be fun. It would be weighed down with worry and regret and drama. It would be hard, and I’m finished with hard when it comes to men.”

He rolled his lips in and tried to react like an adult to the “hard” comment.

“Oh, shut it,” she said good-naturedly, then more seriously, “neither am I looking for a relationship and if I was—”

“It wouldn’t be with a bruiser like me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Less of the self-pity, Callaghan. It wouldn’t be with a man whose career would be destroyed by an association with me. This is impossible.”

Impossible was just an opinion. Damn, every word out of her mouth only made him want her more, which was so fucking perverse considering the BS coming out of that gorgeous mouth.

A couple people eyed them with interest. It was already starting, and he checked in with his brain to see if that was okay. The noodle shot back with: No complaints here. Addy just needed a chance to get used to the idea.

“Don’t shut us down just yet. Think on it for a little while. If you still feel the same way in a day or two, then I’ll respect your wishes. But don’t dismiss the possibilities without giving your brain a chance to engage.”

“So if I’m thinking of you while you’re not around, there’s something more to this than just lust?”

“A couple of days out of my orbit and you’ll be begging me to hit that gorgeous ass and then make you a sandwich.” He broke out his widest, panty-dropping grin. “And Addy, let me tell you, my post-coital sandwiches are legendary.”

“This was a mistake.”

Addison sipped her beer and eyed Harper as if this was all her fault. Harper, knowing Addison well, took it in the spirit intended.

“You wanted to see him again and—oh, right. That’s it.” She swirled her beer around a plastic cup, evident distaste in the motion. Harper was not a beer girl, which was sort of strange for a woman who lived and breathed hockey. “So you could assure yourself there’s nothing worth pursuing when even I could have told you that Killer Callaghan’s ass is most definitely worth pursuing. The guy’s as hot as puck.”

Hockey humor. Hilarious.

“He sounded so disappointed when I said I wouldn’t stop by.” Which is when she had proposed that Harper show up at the party to wish him well, being a fellow hockey professional, and hey boys, look who I brought. A lingerie supermodel. You’re welcome!

“I so hate letting people down,” Addison added unnecessarily.

“Which is why you stayed married two years and eight months longer than you should have. Oh, God, I can’t take this anymore.” She tapped the shoulder of an older gentleman who was picking up Solo cups and trashing them in a plastic bag attached to his wrist. “Young man, would you be so kind as to make me a dirty martini with three olives?”

The “young man” who didn’t look a day under eighty twisted his mouth in a sneer.

“Anything for a lady.” Amazingly, not said with sarcasm. That was just the natural set of his mouth.

“Jimmy, you are a lifesaver,” Harper said with a cheeky grin.

They knew each other?

He smiled, revealing a toothy gap. “Been a while, Harper. How’s that old fart you call a father?”

Harper smiled sweetly, though Addison saw tungsten in that grin. She and her dad had a tricky relationship, to say the least. “Not quite as ornery as you. So tell me, Jimmy, how’re the kids?”

Two minutes later, they’d learned all about Jimmy’s four kids, ten grandchildren, and one ingrate of a son-in-law. When he moved off to make Harper’s martini, she turned back to Addison.

“Where were we? Oh, yes. You fucked this boy on a Persian carpet yesterday, and today you’re wondering if the chemistry between you can be dismissed out of hand. You might be all caught in his sex-ray, but—”

“But?”

“That boy is a little bit crazy for you, and I think you’re a little bit gaga for him. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad, but it definitely is a fact. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you the entire time you’ve been here.”

This was true. They’d spent only a few moments together before he was whisked away for photos. Definitely a good thing, because she’d been this close to feeling him up beneath the table.

His utter self-confidence that she wouldn’t be able to stay away from him floored her. Of course he was right—she was here, wasn’t she?—but she didn’t have to enjoy that he was right, nor that he was so cocky with it.

Though that wasn’t quite it. Ford’s assurance didn’t stem from arrogant conceit like her husband had excelled in, but from a comfort with who he was. Unlike Michael, Ford was respectful. Of her. Of them.

More accustomed to guys who focused on her figure, for both positive and negative reasons, Addy didn’t have a lot of experience with men seeing beyond the image to the woman beneath. The woman with goals and dreams and needs—both emotional and physical.

And right now, those physical needs were getting her into all sorts of trouble as her damn nipples headed out on a search mission. Ford stood near the Cup, his Viking warrior beauty reflected in it while he explained something to three young boys—his nephews, she guessed from the resemblance. Clearly, he was crazy about them and they adored him in spades. He threw back his head, laughing at something the shortest one said, and the vision of his tan throat got a ten from the nipple judges.

We have gone zero days without a panties-dampening episode.

His gaze clashed with hers, and she let it linger for a few dangerously long seconds. Was that it? The thrill of playing footsie with taboo? She wasn’t the daredevil sort, but something about Ford brought out this crazy, wild version of her.

On a balcony, in a bathroom . . . on a Persian rug, for crying out loud.

“Here you go, Harper.” Jimmy had returned with what looked like a perfectly made martini for Harper, complete with three olives.

“A martini in Jimmy’s Tap?” Harper mused as she accepted the glass. “And they said it couldn’t be done. Maybe a Rebels run at the Cup is more likely than people think.” The mention of the Rebels’ martini-in-a-dive chances of success inspired the Tap’s owner to launch into a spirited deconstruction of the team’s failure of a season. The price paid for a decent cocktail, Addison supposed.

Her phone buzzed in her purse. She took it out.

Ford: Meet me inside the bar.

Hell, no. A common-sense infusion was needed. Now.

Taking advantage of Harper’s distraction, Addison texted back: That sounds like a bad idea.

Ford: Just for a minute.

Breathing deeply, she looked up—then wished she hadn’t. Ford had locked eyes with her, his face tight with hunger, his intent clear. That lava gaze found a corresponding callback in her body, an undeniable beat that thrummed stronger with each passing second.

She wanted him. She had never wanted anyone or anything this much.

Harper and Jimmy were chatting and everyone else was busy. They wouldn’t be missed, surely. Just a moment. Just a moment to touch.

Addison: One minute.

One last time, she told herself. Then she would hop on the train for sanity.