That One Night: A Pucking Around Prequel Novella (Jacksonville Rays)

“Have you ever been to a yacht race, beautiful?”

The Chad McBoatface hogging all the air next to me hasn’t stopped talking for ten minutes. This walking Patagonia model must not be able to read, because I’ve got ‘FUCK OFF’ all but stamped across my forehead.

God, I just want to be alone to wallow in self-pity. Is that too much to ask?

I swirl what’s left of the ice in my Old Fashioned, watching the cherry spin at the bottom of the glass. I’m sitting alone in this swanky hotel bar…well, I wish I was alone. It’s all dark-paneled walls with a sophisticated nautical theme. Perfect for Chad. I snort into my glass. He doesn’t notice. Am I being too hard on him?

Oh god, definitely not.

Chad’s the kind of guy that talks at you, not to you. Sure, he’s got the smile and the blonde curls you could run your fingers through, but he also keeps checking over his shoulder, winking at the rest of his group. They’re sitting over in the corner, a great view of the Seattle skyline framed behind them. It’s nearly three o’clock, and their late brunch is almost finished. They keep flashing us jeering smiles.

Wasn’t he one stool over like two minutes ago? Damn it, I’m gonna have to take this pity party back to my room.

I drop my gaze to my phone and click on my inbox, tapping the top email. I must have a degradation kink, because I’ve reread the first three lines of this email fifty times in the last hour. It’s the reason I left my own brunch early.

It’s a form email, because of course. I wasted a year of my life applying to something and getting my hopes up, only to get a form email where the bot can’t even spell my fucking name right.

Dear Dr. Rachum Price,

Thank you for your interest in the Barkley Fellowship, the nation’s premiere partner in advanced sports medicine. We were overwhelmed by the number of truly exceptional candidates this year. The selection committee has given careful consideration to your application. Unfortunately—

I don’t keep reading. I click the side of my phone and the screen turns black.

That’s why I’m stuck here with Chad and not at my brother’s wedding brunch. Call me selfish, but I couldn’t bear to lose it in front of Harrison and his new husband and the whole extended family. So I slipped away, ordered a taxi, and came back here to wallow.

It’s not like I’m missing the actual wedding. That was yesterday. The brunch today is just for those people who didn’t have early flights out. I played my part all weekend long, smiling through all the events. I gave my proud sister speech at the rehearsal dinner, and danced like a loon at the reception last night.

I’m happy for him, really. He and Somchai are the definition of persevering love. But I’m sad for me too. Harrison will understand; it’s a twin thing.

My flight home leaves first thing tomorrow morning. Knowing Som, he’ll martial a small army of Thai aunties to bring me food for the next week to try and cheer me up. He’s not even from Cincinnati, but he has connections everywhere. He and Harrison are both big-name chefs, slowly building out their empire. I can’t complain when it means my fridge is always bursting with amazing free food.

Losing out on this fellowship sucks, but life moves on. For now, I need to go home. I’ll let myself wallow for a day or two. My roommate will cry with me. She’s basically an empath. Tess cries when actors on TV cry. She cries when cartoon animals cry. Meanwhile, I’m an emotionally unavailable, closed-off clam (her words, not mine).

So, I guess I’ll give crying a try. But then I need a plan. I need to start phase two. I need—

Fucking hell.

I need Chad to scoot the fuck back right the fuck now!

He’s leaning in my space, batting those blonde lashes at me. Is this his smolder? Am I meant to be swooning? How can one man fail to read every single sign a woman is giving him? I’m falling off my stool as he leans in even closer, giving my hair an exaggerated sniff.

I freeze.

“Mmm, you smell good,” he murmurs. “Is that Chanel No. 9?”

Yeah, this is my absolute limit. It’s time to yeet Chad back to his table. I take a deep breath, shoving Dragon Rachel back inside her cage. There’s no reason to make a scene. I’ll just turn him down with my big girl words.

But then the fucker dares to reach out and brush his fingers down my spine. This jumpsuit is backless, so he’s grazing my bare skin.

I smack my drink onto the bar, and swivel on my stool, breaking our contact. “Get your hands off me,” I hiss. “It’s time to go.”

Chad dares to look all wide-eyed at me as he stands. “Whoa—hey, easy. What’s with the attitude? We’re just having a nice chat.”

My nostrils flare. “Nice chat?” I say, utterly incredulous.

He huffs a laugh. “Listen—”

“Amy!” a deep voice calls. “Amy, what the hell?”

Chad glances over my shoulder, eyes narrowed towards the voice.

“I’ve been waiting for you for like twenty minutes. I thought we were meeting downstairs.”

I spin on my stool to see a man striding towards the bar.

Holy shit, do they put something in the water here?

This guy is gorgeous too. His chocolate brown hair sweeps down over his brow as he hooks me with those hazel eyes. He’s got the perfect amount of stubble covering that chiseled jaw. Not to mention the way his chest and arms fill out his too-tight t-shirt.

He’s a pro athlete, I’d bet money on it. I’ve spent too long in the industry not to know a player when I see one. I’m guessing football. Defense. It’s not just the body, it’s the confidence, the look of luxury, the sucks-all-the-air-out-of-the-room effortless swagger.

Oh, and he’s swaggering now, right up to Chad. He’s got easily five inches on him and fifty pounds of muscle. “Is this guy bothering you, Amy? Are you bothering my sister, asshole?”

I suck in a breath. Sister? Am I that drunk? This isn’t Harrison, I—ohhh, we’re acting. He’s offering me an out. I slip into character. “It’s fine. He was just—”

“I wasn’t doing anything.” Chad confidently squares off against his new competition.

New guy folds his arms across his broad chest. “Well, from over there it looked like you were touching my sister, and she didn’t seem to like it. You want a broken hand?”

“No—”

“Cause no one touches my sister unless she asks for it first,” he growls.

I reflexively reach out, putting a hand on his arm. “I can take care of myself,” I warn. “And he was just leaving.” I stare daggers at Chad. “Weren’t you?”

Chad flashes me another smile. “Yeah…yeah, I gotta get going. But hey, let me give you my number—”

“Nah, she’s good.” My new friend glances at me. It’s quick, but the look is there, the genuine concern, the unspoken question. Are you okay?

I give him a curt nod.

“Hey man, I can give her my number,” huffs Chad. He’s letting his fear of embarrassment outweigh his survival instincts. I’m not surprised, seeing as his jerky friends are sitting across the bar laughing at us. “I’m in town for the rest of the week, and there’s the regatta I was telling you about—”

“Look, I don’t mean to be a major cock block, but I didn’t fly across the country to watch my sister flirt with some Cabela’s model.” He drops his gaze to me, his entire mood shifting from surly to puppy dog. “Come on, Amy,” he whines, his voice softer now. “Please don’t do this. Not again. No more random bar hookups while we’re on vacation. You promised we’d go see the Space Needle. And I want to watch them throw fish at the wharf.”

I’m fighting my laughter now. This guy is too much. “Okay, yeah,” I reply. “We can do the Space Needle. And how about I get you a dragon fruit tea from the original Starbucks?”

“Awesome.” He wedges himself between me and Chad, forcing him to take another step back.

“Well, I’ll just…go,” Chad mutters.

But my new seat mate is totally ignoring him. He’s scanning the menu QR code with his phone. “Hey, did you see they have mozzarella sticks?” he says, his tone falsely bright and cheery. “I’m ordering some. You wanna share? Oh, shit—you’re allergic to dairy. Well, I’m still ordering them.”

I’m smiling now. I can’t help it. This guy has effectively neutralized my Chad problem without me having to be a bitch and make a scene. And now the bartender is taking his order—craft beer, mozzarella sticks, and a basket of fries with blue cheese dressing instead of ketchup.

Chad snatches his Macallan neat off the bar and returns to his table. They welcome him with hoots and jeers.

“Assholes,” new guy mutters, accepting the beer the bartender slides his way.

I settle back on my stool, unable to deny the sudden shift in energy. Why do I feel nervous? This guy’s presence is undeniable. It’s like he’s a magnet, and I’m being pulled closer against my will.

Great, now I’m the creep.

I sigh, draining the last of my Old Fashioned, and flag the bartender down. I order a hot tea instead. No more booze for Rachel.

“I’m sorry if I overstepped,” he says. “I swear I wasn’t trying to be a dick, you just looked like you needed the save.”

“It’s fine,” I reply, accepting my hot tea. I squeeze a wedge of lemon into the cup adding, “It was entertaining.”

He smirks at me, those hazel eyes flashing with amusement, but they quickly fade back to sad. I want to know what this beautiful man has to be sad about. A moment ago, he was like a puppy wagging his tail, now he’s a puppy sitting alone in a puddle.

“And don’t worry,” he adds, glancing over his shoulder towards the rowdy brunch table. “I’ll sit here just to keep up appearances, but I promise I won’t bug you. I know you wanna be left alone.”

I pause, the cup of tea raised halfway to my lips. “What makes you think I want to be left alone?”

He snorts, taking a sip of his beer. “You mean aside from the big ‘FUCK YOU’ you’ve got tattooed on your forehead?” He gestures at my face with his hand.

I purse my lips. “Oh, so you can see it. Good. For a minute there, I thought it must have washed off in the shower.”

“Nope. You were giving that guy all the signs to fuck right off. Not to mention you were practically falling off your stool to get away. Then I saw him touch you,” he mutters, his mood shifting from sad to mad. “I saw you flinch.”

I stiffen, feeling the ghost of that unwanted touch between my shoulders.

“I hate guys like that,” he says, taking another sip of his beer.

“Like what?”

“Guys that think they can take whatever they want from a woman. I was serious,” he adds, turning slightly to face me, those hazel eyes holding me captive. “My sister, Amy…she hasn’t always had the best luck with guys,” he explains. “I see a woman who is clearly uncomfortable, and I sorta see red. She’d call me a protective alpha hole. Maybe you will too. But you know, whatever. Chicks always say nothing will get better until the good guys stand up and set the bad ones straight. If it keeps my Amy safe, I’ll be the jerk. And maybe guys like Douche McYachtclub over there will mind their manners next time.”

I gasp, setting my tea down with a rattle. “Ohmygod, shut up.”

He raises a dark brow in confusion. “What? That guy was being a total douche.”

I grin, brushing my hand along his arm, as I lean in with a laugh. “I’ve been calling him Chad McBoatface in my head this whole time.”

He glances back over his shoulder and snorts with laughter too. “Yeah…yeah, that guy is a total Chad.”

I settle back on my stool. We both gaze up at the TVs. There’s a baseball game on next to the soccer game. The bartender brings over two steaming baskets of fried food.

The mozzarella sticks smell amazing. And I’m not actually lactose intolerant. If my knight in shining grey cotton offers to share, I’m not saying no. Besides, a fried stick of cheese might help soak up some of the bourbon currently sitting in my empty stomach.

“Want some of this?” he asks, sliding me a sharing plate.

I smile, reaching for a mozzarella stick. “Sure, thanks.”

He picks at the food, checking his phone.

As soon as a commercial starts on both the TV screens, I clear my throat. “So…what brings you to Seattle?”