The Wild Card: A Small Town Fake Dating Sports Romance (The Wild Westbrooks Book 3)(3)

“I can certainly hold my own with the competition,” I say, growing bold as my frustration mounts.

I have a successful career, a beautiful home, multiple degrees, and I’ve done it all on my own. Plus, I’ve got a bangin’ body if I do say so myself. With my curves, toned limbs and hourglass figure, I can definitely hold my own.

“We’ve been on one date! And you expect exclusivity?” He rolls those eyes that I thought were so mesmerizing just a few minutes ago. “I’m keeping my options open, and I’d like you to be my Saturday afternoon option, Nadia. Last call.”

He’s dead serious.

And so am I.

I rise to my feet, grabbing my purse along with me. I drape my coat over my forearm. “Thank you so much for the meal, Laurent. I respect your desire to keep your options open. But at this stage of my life, I’m not willing to be just one of the balls being juggled by a clown like you.”

And then I’m walking away from the table without a backward glance. I try to keep my gait steady—in case that asshole is staring after me—but I feel pretty damn wobbly on my feet. I think I’m swaying a little bit. Definitely cologne-poisoning.

Or maybe it’s the fact that, Mission: Find Someone To Spend My Life With has failed. Again.

Am I ever going to find my special person?

As I’m weaving through tables and heading for the restaurant exit, I pull out my cell phone and text my therapist.

ME: So, he is definitely NOT ‘The One’…

I tap out a speedy paragraph, giving her a rundown of what happened. She already knew I had a date today, so we can skip basics and get straight to the meat of it.

REGINA: Okay, tell me how you reacted

ME: I thanked him for lunch and bailed. I’m walking out now.

ME: Was that rash?

ME: Did I over-react?

ME: Are my standards too high?

Suddenly, I’m questioning everything.

REGINA: Well, you didn’t pour a boiling pot of tea down his pants, so I’d say you did just fine, Nadia

ME: Yes, his slutty balls are unscathed

REGINA: See? You were incredibly thoughtful

REGINA: He’ll still be able to make three of his four Saturday hookups

I sputter out a tiny, rueful laugh. Talk about finding the silver lining.

ME: Yes, I am thoughtful

I pay a pretty penny to have my therapist on call, and I’ve found that seeking immediate feedback works much better than waiting until our weekly sessions.

REGINA: You did fine, Nadia. You can’t be expected to take responsibility for someone else’s character defects.

REGINA: Give yourself some grace.

She’s right. She’s right. Laurent’s shitty values and warped morals aren’t my burden to carry. Once again, I need to just move on.

I release a heavy exhale and delete his phone number from my contacts. “Good riddance, Laurent,” I mutter under my breath right before I slam headfirst into a wall.

A warm, muscly, shower-gel-smelling wall with big hands that curl around my hips to steady me on my feet.

I stumble and look up to find…Harry Westbrook.

Harry Westbrook squinting down at me from under his baseball cap with a curious, boyish half-smile.





2





HARRY





“Bro, seriously—what the hell are you wearing?” I’m vaguely aware of Knox questioning Maxwell as the guys follow me through the Snow Moon Brewery’s front door.

“Honestly, dude, I’m not sure how I feel about being seen in public with your mismatched ass,” Jace informs our quarterback, skepticism in his voice.

“What? I look damn good in this,” Maxwell argues, defensive as ever. “I’m ‘Instagrammable’ as fuck right now.”

We’ve all been giving our team captain shit for the multicolored Hawaiian shirt he showed up wearing at practice today. The shirt is bad enough on its own. But the poor guy went and paired it with some tangerine-colored slacks. Yes, to him that seemed like a good choice.

Jude chuckles knowingly. “This is what happens whenever his wife goes on vacation. He ends up dressing like a toddler who doesn’t understand color-coordination.” Jude would know. His wife and Maxwell’s are sisters, which makes the two of them brothers-in-law.

From somewhere over my back, Jace makes a clear-cut declaration. “It’s decided—Faith is not allowed to leave town during the football season. Ever again.”

The guys continue talking shit. Typical for them. But right now I’m largely ignoring them. Because—bam!—all my startled attention is focused on the sexy woman with golden brown skin and thick coiled hair currently having a head-on collision with my chest.

I know exactly who she is.

Nadia.

Nadia Chester.

My Nadia.

In your wildest fucking dreams, jackass.

The gorgeous woman emits a soft “Omph!” when we bump into each other. Instinctively, I grab her by the hips to steady her, but only end up slamming her closer to me. Her fingers grip the front of the Paragons hoodie I’m wearing.

With our bodies crushed together like that, her eyes dart up to mine. And a switch automatically flips inside me—the primitive mine-mine-mine switch—as soon as she’s in my arms.

I breathe her in, and everything starts to move in slow motion.