he swallows hard, and then nods. “No, you’re right.”
Standing there in silence, Hayes slowly pulls back, taking his hands off me. My chest caves in at the absence of his touch, and there is no denying that I’ll play that kiss over in my memory for years to come.
“You should go out first, make sure the coast is clear. I’ll wait a few minutes.” I shift aside so I’m leaning against the brick wall of the supply closet, and Hayes can turn the doorknob.
I watch as he adjusts himself, a palm to the bulge in his pants. Masochistically, I can’t turn my eyes away, knowing that I could have that if I want it. I do want it, which is the problem.
One large hand grips the knob, about to turn, when he shifts his eyes to the side, catching mine. “I wish …”
He doesn’t complete the thought, but he doesn’t need to. I wish, too.
And then he exits, footsteps echoing down the corridor until I can’t hear them anymore. It’s a good thing I’m the one to stay back, because I need more than a few minutes to collect myself.
Hayes Swindell is not a man who kisses you and just leaves a polite reaction. I feel like I’ve been branded, stamped with his mouth on mine.
There will be traces of him on my skin for a long time after this.
20
Hayes
Walker Callahan’s house isn’t a Malibu beach house, or a mansion in the Hollywood Hills, but the guy has a sweet setup.
He lives on the edge of Packton, where a lot of the wealthy decided to set down roots. There are neighborhoods out here with massive homes, sprawling acres, and I’ve even seen some people with straight-up barns and stables. It isn’t my scene; I prefer sunny weather and an ocean breeze, but I can see how this is appealing. There is something down home and very Camelot a la the Kennedy’s about the neighborhoods out here.
When my teammate, and now friend, invited me to come for a guy’s night, I figured why the hell not. It’s not like I’m doing anything else, and he said there would be free food and beer, so count me in.
His home is a six-bedroom, seven-bath monstrosity that he gave me a tour of as the other guys milled about, stuffing their faces with the pig roast/barbecue buffet that Walker catered the get together with. His kitchen is a massive white marbled spot that he doesn’t use an inch of, or so he informed me. The counters in there are lined with delicious smelling meats, heaps of corn bread, macaroni and cheese, and every possible top shelf liquor bottle you could think of.
“Most of the guys are down in the media room, so load up a plate and a glass and come join us.” Walker points to a door in the front hallway after giving me the lengthy tour that I didn’t ask for.
I follow instructions, my stomach rumbling from my lack of a good meal recently. I’m no cook, and I didn’t bother to employ a chef out here as I sometimes did in California. I’ve been getting by on either food from the Pistons’ private dining room for all of my meals, or baking chicken breasts if I was sick of my lineup of go-to take-out places here. Piling a plate high with food, I add in a healthy helping of whiskey and head for the door Walker pointed me to.
When I make it down to the media room, I realize it’s not a media room at all. It’s the typical athlete cave, a massive level of the house dedicated to Walker’s achievements or other expensive baseball memorabilia he’s collected. It’s not a room, it’s an entire floor of his house, with multiple flat screens, movie theater seating and a projector in one portion of it, game tables, arcade machines, and a fully stocked wet bar. It’s a bachelor’s wet dream.
“Dude, finally. We were just watching the game. You into basketball?” Clark pats the black leather recliner next to his, and I sink down, propping my plate on my lap.
As I dig into a piece of brisket, which is heavenly, I shrug. “I’m not really into other sports, though I appreciate them.”
“This guy is all about baseball, one of the purists.” Jimenez waves me off, rolling his eyes.
“I’m a one woman man.” I wink, letting the whiskey burn as it slides down my throat.
“Not me. I like ’em all. Sports and women.” Clark