Page 93 of Tempting the Player
Who wouldn’t be driven to distraction and take a tumble?
Hell, if Madison went to the local grocery on the corner, he’d be there, too, feeling up the peaches with his wonderfully long fingers—fingers that no doubt knew how to strum a guitar just as well as they knew how to work a woman into the height of sexual frenzy and then some.
Because she did know—oh, did she ever know how good he was.
Of course, half of DC probably knew how good he was with those hands of his by now.
“You have that look on your face.” Bridget raised a brow at her. “I know that look.”
Madison shook her head in denial. She really needed to stop thinking about his fingers, but there was no escaping her childhood crush—the embodiment of every fantasy she’d ever had. An infatuation she never grew out of and the reason why no other guy lasted longer than a few months, though she’d take that little ditty to the grave.
Chase was the Antichrist to her.
A really, unbelievably hot Antichrist…
Suddenly it was way too warm, and she tugged on the edge of her blouse and scowled at the invitation. It was only four days in the romantic, upscale vineyards. Hundreds of people would be there, and even though she had to deal with Chase during the rehearsal and wedding, she could easily find creative ways to avoid him.
But the nervous flutter in the pit of her stomach, the excitement that hummed in her veins, was telling a whole different story, because seriously, how was she going to steer clear of the only man she’d ever loved…and wanted to maim?
“Toss me that employee directory,” Madison said, wondering if Derek might be available after all.
…
The drive to Hillsboro, Virginia, on Wednesday morning wasn’t a pain, since everyone else was streaming into the city for his or her daily commute, but Madison was driving as though she was auditioning for NASCAR.
According to the three missed calls from her mother—who thought Madison had been kidnapped in the big, bad city and was now being held for an ungodly sum of money—the four text messages from her brother wondering if she knew how to navigate the beltway—because apparently little sisters couldn’t drive—and the voice mail from her father warning there was a problem with the reservations, she was late for brunch.
Who in the hell still ate brunch?
Thrumming her fingers against the steering wheel, she squinted as the late May sun glared off the exit sign. Yep—as she zoomed on by—she’d missed the exit.
Damn it.
Tossing a glare at her cell phone, because she so knew it was going to ring in a hot second, she darted into the other lane and took the next exit so she could backtrack to where she needed to be.
She wouldn’t be running late and be so…so discombobulated if she had spent last night packing like a normal, emotionally stable woman in her mid-twenties—a successful, emotionally stable woman—instead of bemoaning the fact she had to walk arm-in-arm down the aisle with Chase, because, for real, that was just plain cruel. The fact that Derek had another date that weekend and couldn’t accompany her was like adding insult to injury.
Her cell phone went off the moment the wheels on her Charger hit the correct exit ramp and she growled at it, wishing the damn thing into the tenth circle of hell. Were there ten circles? Who knew, but she figured by the time everyone got drinks in them and started talking about how Madison used to run around shirtless as a child, there’d be twenty circles to hell, and she’d have visited every one of them.
Tall black walnut trees crowded either side of the rural route she flew down, shading the road and giving it an almost ethereal feel. Up ahead, the deep blue of the mountains loomed over the valley. There was no doubt, as long as the weather held up, the outdoor wedding was going to be beautiful.
A sudden pop jerked her chin up and the steering wheel to the left, right, and then left again. Heart racing, she gripped the wheel as she weaved and crossed the centerline like a poster child for DUIs.
“Damn it,” she muttered, eyes going wide as she regained control of the Charger. A tire had blown—a mother-freaking tire had blown. “Why not?”
Debating whether or not to attempt the next ten miles on her rim, she strung together an atrocity of curse words that would’ve made her brother blush. She whipped the wheel to the right and coasted to a stop on the shoulder of the road. Throwing the car into park, she debated getting out and kicking the damn car. Instead, she did the mature thing: placed her head on the steering wheel and cussed some more.
This was so not starting out well.
Lifting her head, her gaze slid to her cell phone. She snatched it off the seat, thumbed through her contacts, and quickly hit the call button. After only two rings, someone grabbed the line.
“Maddie? Where in the hell are you, girl?” Her father’s concerned voice exploded. “Your mother’s about to call the state police, and I’m not sure how much—”
“Dad, I’m fine. I blew a tire about ten miles out.”
Over the sounds of laughter and clanking silverware, her father huffed. “You did what?”
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that it was past eleven and she hadn’t had breakfast yet. “I blew a tire.”
