A heavy green arm settled over Leslie’s shoulder and she glanced at the enormous hand holding a beer. Paulson was one large man. “What’s so funny over here?” he said around a slight belch.
Apparently the Jolly Green Giant was inebriated.
“Reminiscing about Mark’s brilliant youth.” Her brother narrowed his gray eyes and she smiled innocently.
“We telling stories?” the gruff player inquired and leaned into Leslie. The weight of him almost took her down.
Before she could launch into any more, Mark diverted the veteran’s attention and together they went over to the college students in costume so that Drake could have a turn stirring the bubbling cauldron. The guy was happy like a three-year-old with a sucker.
Lorelei cleared her throat loudly. “So, you going to confess?”
“About what?” Of course she knew what, but denial had a way of making liars and avoiders of everyone.
The mom-to-be took a sip of her cranberry juice and ice and said casually, “Oh, nothing much. Just about how you’re totally crazy for Peter.”
Her mouth dropped open and she was about to speak when Lorelei cut her off. “Don’t even pretend, hon.”
Leslie’s stomach flopped. Awesome. “Who else knows?”
“If you’re referring to Mark, he doesn’t know anything.”
Thank God. She really wasn’t up for dealing with an angry overprotective brother at the moment. Stealing a glance around the busy nightclub, she let out a breath. “Good. There’s nothing for him to know anyway.”
Her companion snorted. “You’re such a bad liar.”
No she wasn’t. She was great. In fact, she lied convincingly to herself all the time. “Look, there’s not much to tell. Peter and I just have a stupid bet going.”
Lorelei put a hand on her arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “It looks like a whole lot more than that, honey. I’ve never seen Kowalskin so amped up.”
A part of her thrilled at that, the part that was stupid in love with him. And that was all of her. “It’s nothing. Really. No need to tell anybody.” And by anybody she meant Mark.
“How can I not say anything, Leslie?” The brunette looked torn. “You’re his sister. The only family he’s close with. And Peter’s his best friend. If you two are sniffing around each other then he’s going to want to know.”
“Uh-uh. You can’t say anything. Sister-in-law confidentiality.”
Big sigh. “Leslie.”
A hard brick wall rose up inside her, closing her off. She wasn’t ready to admit to anything. “It’s just a bet, Lorelei. Just a stupid bet.”
The brunette eyed her skeptically. “You swear?”
Leslie looked her dead in the eye. “Yes. It doesn’t mean anything.”
See? She was too a good liar.
PETER LET OUT a low laugh when he stepped close behind Leslie sometime later and placed his palm against her hip. Then he slid his hand over her ass and watched her shiver. He was still riding high from the Rush’s win and feeling good. Really good. Not that he’d ever wanted his career to end, but since it had to, going out this way had been just about everything he could ask for. Yeah, things were great. Everything was working out exactly as it should. And, by the way, the princess in front of him was shaking in those ridiculously sexy shoes, he knew that there was something else that was going to work itself out very soon too.
He wanted Leslie. Christ, he wanted that woman like he wanted oxygen. It was fundamental and basic, at the core of who he was. There would be no performance anxiety tonight. No choking. Peter was determined to win the bet and make this a perfect night. One for the record books.
To win the World Series and Leslie in one swoop was pretty much every dream he’d had for the last four years rolled up into one. And he was feeling lucky. He was feeling a lot like it was past time to have it out with Leslie. The sexual tension they’d built between them was more dangerous than a landmine.
He was ready for the explosion.
Peter leaned forward and whispered into Leslie’s ear, “Tonight.”
He felt her back snap straight as a helpless little whimper escaped her lips, betraying her. “I don’t know what you mean.”
The hell she didn’t. Her breathing had gone shallow. Peter could feel her core get hotter and pushed his middle finger into her gently, teasing her through the fabric. It killed him, what she was wearing.
Princess.
Knowing that she had picked it just to torment him made it so fucking sexy. Almost as hot as the way her breasts were displayed, all pushed up together with the best cleavage he’d ever seen. It had nearly dropped him to his knees when he’d first laid eyes on it.
Glancing down the table to see if Mark was watching, Peter nipped the back of her neck and said roughly, “Don’t play coy.”
He was going to say more when Mark glanced over at them, frowning slightly. So instead of keeping his hand on her like he wanted to, he stepped back and said, “It’s still on.”
She tossed him a look meant to be dismissive, but the hint of uncertainty he saw in her eye ruined the effect and had his gut squeezing. So she knew it too. Tonight was their night.
“Hey, Kowalskin! Come join the celebration!” shouted Drake. “You’re missing all the fun.” The jolly green ballplayer waved down the table to the stacks of empty shot glasses.
“I’ll be there in a second,” he replied, his attention on Leslie as she sashayed away with her nose in the air, looking every bit the regal, royal princess she was pretending to be.
She was headed straight toward Paulson. Once she reached him, she poured a shot glass full of whiskey and raised it up, shouting to be heard over the music. “To the Rush!” And then she downed the drink, not waiting for anyone to join the toast.
“Hey!” protested the veteran. “Sharing is caring, sweet thing.”
Leslie smiled tightly, and Peter couldn’t help admiring the way her hair looked all bundled up like that with little strands dangling against her neck. It was different than what she normally did. It was softer. He liked it.
“Sorry about that, y’all,” she said with an apologetic smile. “Crazy night.”
Right then the lights flickered and went out, making somebody scream, and she added dryly above the noise, “Case in point.”
He was just starting to become uncomfortable in the dark when the lights came back on. The first thing he saw when his eyes readjusted to the brightness was a giant ugly green man with an afro like a head of broccoli. The second was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen wearing a purple dress potent enough to drop a man at twenty paces. He might not have gone down, but that didn’t mean the impact of her hadn’t hit him like a wrecking ball.
She was a fantasy.
His fantasy. Peter’s very own princess.
“What’s on your mind there, Walskie?” How had Paulson snuck up on him? The guy moved like a lumberjack.
“Visions in purple,” he replied, not even trying to pretend.
The veteran scratched his chest and muttered gruffly, “Damn stuff itches something fierce.” His green shirt was open in a deep V like a seventies porn star—he was making the Green Giant into a perv, apparently—and he’d used one of those green spray cans of hair paint on his chest, turning his thick patch the color of summer leaves.
“I have to give you props. When you go at something, you really commit,” he said, gesturing to the getup.
“It’s all about the love.” Drake held out a shot glass full of fine malt whiskey. “Hey, your vision is about to hit the floor with the Lone Ranger. Unless you want to see her ride off into the sunset on Silver, you better intercede, man.”
Peter’s gaze whipped to where Drake had indicated, and sure enough his princess was taking to the dance floor with some poser in a cheap costume. His jaw clenched and his gut turned sour.