“I know,” I murmured.
He slid the key into the lock and opened the door.
“I think you’re pretty awesome.”
“You’re not so bad for a bitchy big sister. Now let’s go see your new place.”
Chapter TWO
SHANNON
I wrapped the towel tighter around my body and stared at the mess I’d made in Beaux’s guest room.
It was a record disaster in record time, even for me. After he’d given me a tour of the building and the upstairs apartment, I’d finally submitted to his plan, his idea…his faith in me.
Yet none of it was ready and I’d left almost everything I owned back in Des Moines—where Patrick was probably currently fucking his co-worker all over my favorite couch and throw pillows.
“Ugh.” I groaned and dragged a hand through my hair. The memories of him came hard and fast, unbidden, and difficult to erase once they were there.
The legs wrapped around his waist. The heels digging into his still-clothed ass as he took her—
“Shannon?” Beaux’s voice rang through the doorway as he opened the door. “You okay? I knocked…shit! Cover up!”
His hand went to his eyes as I swirled around, clinging to my towel.
“What the hell?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t wearing clothes?”
I gaped at him, all six foot five inches clothed in jeans and a plain V-neck shirt, and looked down at my towel. It covered everything.
“You should have knocked.”
“I did. You didn’t answer.”
“I’m covered, you idiot.”
He peeked through his fingers before cringing. “Just like when I was ten.”
Idiot. I was thirteen and just out of a shower. He’d gotten a full view of my naked preteen body. He claimed it scarred him for life.
Laughing, I tightened the towel around my body and rolled my eyes. “You’re so stupid, Beaux. Seriously. I’m more covered now than I will be in the dress I was planning on wearing later.”
He’d talked me into hanging out with his teammates. I couldn’t lie and say I wasn’t trying to seek attention. I’d had enough of being alone in the last few weeks, crashing on my best friend Melissa’s couch while I cataloged every single one of Patrick’s faults I could recall.
She’d been my best friend since college, where we’d met during our Introduction to Design class. She’d let me stay at her place after I left Patrick until I could figure out what else I wanted to do. I’d been gone from Des Moines for barely over a full day, and I already missed her like crazy.
“You’re wearing…what?”
I laughed at his aghast tone.
“Just this.” I held up a slinky, silver, sequined mini-dress with fringes at the bottom that only hung down mid-thigh. It’d been a Halloween costume, not something I’d wear to a bar. I had no idea how it had ended up in my suitcase.
His eyes bulged like I knew they would and a muscle popped in his neck. “You’re not.”
“I am.” I loosened my towel a smudge, taunting him. “And if you don’t leave now, you might see more than you bargained for.”
He spun on his heels, the sound of the door slamming behind him barely drowning out my laughter.
“Don’t wear the fucking dress!”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” I shouted back, laughing harder.
My brother. The protector and athletic mutant.
The NFL quarterback superstar.
The moron.
When we were together, we still acted like teenagers.
I dropped the towel and reached for a silky black dress instead. It dipped down past the center of my cleavage. One thin strap provided support across the back and hit almost as low as the fringed dress.
It was sexy in that sinful-wanting way.
I wanted the attention. It didn’t matter if it was for a night, a few hours, or a drink and just a look.
Walking in on Patrick fucking his co-worker at a party thrown for us by his firm had shaken my foundation. Damaged my ego.
But I’d promised not just myself, but also Melissa, that I’d throw my middle finger in the air as I left Des Moines and do whatever I needed to do to let go.
Even if it was only a few hours of pretending.
Fake it ‘til you make it, though, right?
That was Melissa’s advice. I was grabbing onto it with both hands and holding on as tightly as I could.
Once I was dressed, my hair teased and held back from my face with a few sparkly pins, my makeup heavy and smoky-eyed, and my lips a devil’s red, I slipped on heels and headed downstairs, shutting my door on the mess I’d left in the room.
I’d clean it and repack over the weekend. Beaux told me I could stay at his place as long as I needed to, but the apartment came partly furnished with enough to get me started…a lumpy couch, a bed that needed to be tossed twenty years ago, and dining room table. But it didn’t matter. I was twenty-eight years old and finally moving into my very own place, responsible for the success of a business I’d always dreamed would become more than just an online store.
Now that I’d had time for the idea to sink in, my mind was filling with ideas on marketing and jewelry designs, space planning and things I wanted to do to get my name out there—Arts Festival included.
“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?” Beaux asked as I reached the living room. He had a beer hanging loosely between his fingertips and he dropped it to his side as I entered the room.
“This old thing?” I spun in a circle and laughed when he cursed.
“Fucking shit. You are. You’re going to kill me, probably trying to get me murdered so you can cash in on my life insurance.”
“You’re an ass.” I swatted him with my handbag and went to the kitchen, helping myself to a beer. “When do we leave?”
“In a hurry to see someone?”
The image of a sweaty and surly Oliver Powell flashed behind the lids of my eyes.
“No.”
“Liar.”
I shrugged and took a swig of my drink. Cool beer. So much better than the crap Patrick insisted I drank—from the chilled sparkling wine to fruity mixed drinks.
God, what a pain in the proper ass he was.
I blinked, vanishing the reminder from my mind, and jumped when Beaux was directly in front of me.
“You hear from that asshole lately?”
“A few times,” I admitted. My ability to lie to anyone, but mostly Beaux, was nonexistent. “He’s been apologizing.”
Which was why I needed this new start. I could barely go anywhere in Des Moines without running into memories of Patrick, the way he’d worked so hard to seduce me, to claim me in the first place.
We’d been everywhere together. Five long years flushed down the toilet. And he had apologized, but it was always in the tone of voice. The one I was only beginning to understand. The one that taunted and teased…whispered I wasn’t as good as him—that I’d never done anything good on my own.
My shoulders slumped and Beaux growled—that sound he made when I knew he had his fists clenched and wanted to pummel the guy.
“It’s fine, Beaux.” I turned from him so he couldn’t read the truth in my eyes. I wasn’t fine. The breakup wasn’t fine. Nothing about my humiliation and canceled wedding plans—canceled future—was fine.
“Do me a favor?” he asked, and for a moment I was grateful he was dropping the subject.
“What? Anything.”
“Stay away from Powell tonight.”
And then he had to ruin my fun.
Not that I had planned on it, not that I could get his attention or keep it for more than a few hours. But wasn’t that what I was looking for? Oblivion?
I rolled my lips and nodded.
Beaux read my silence and threw his head back on a sigh. “He’s my teammate, Shan. And a prick. I’m serious, this guy is bad news.”
“I won’t do anything you wouldn’t do.” That was a promise. Fortunately for me, Beaux’s list of wouldn’t dos was pretty short.
He caught my meaning and scowled. “That doesn’t help.”
I grinned. “It helps me.” Setting down my drink, I curled my fingers around his forearm. “Come on. Take me out and get me drunk so I can forget all about Patrick.”
“With fucking pleasure.”
***
While the music from the main floor beneath the VIP area was muted, the lights still flickered and the vibrations of the bass could still be felt at my feet.
Being with a dozen or more football players had its perks, definitely.
For the last hour, Beaux had taken me around to most of his teammates and some of their girlfriends, introducing me. While I had three years’ experience meeting professional ball players, and more years’ experience talking to ball players with egos bigger than brains and talent, it never grew old.
I had fallen in love with football right along with Beaux—from the plays and the stress to the art and finesse of the game. So many of the men I’d met, I’d watched on television or cheered for when Beaux or I were in college.
It never became less awe-inspiring. I was never less enamored shaking hands with men Beaux and I had grown up admiring or worshipping.
The club we were in whispered of wealth, from the chandeliers to the sparkling crystal glasses. Perhaps it was just the pretentiousness of the VIP area, secluded away with our own private bar and bottle service, admittance only allowed with names on a list and a bouncer at the bottom of the stairway preventing just anyone from sneaking in.