What If (Willowbrook Book 2) by Ashlyn Mathews Page B

Willowbrook.
    While Red talked football, she searched the ballroom for a quick exit. Just in case . Instead of an exit, her eyes took in her surroundings. The marbled dance floor was the color of her favorite ice cream flavor—mocha. On each round table, dressed with crisp, white tablecloths, were bouquets of red roses. The extravagance was more than she was used to in her frugal and ordinary life. A whistled edged out from between her teeth.
    Next to her, Red chuckled. “Yeah, Drew’s place is unbelievable.”
    Unbelievable was an understatement. Walking along the periphery of the dance floor, she bee-lined for the banquet table in the back with Red in tow. He had other plans. He tugged her toward the dancing crowd. She shook her head.
    The bright lights, the noise, her nerves, not really eating or drinking anything since her flight touched down, oh, three hours ago. Suddenly, it was too much.
    “Not feeling good, darling?”
    Swaying, she closed her eyes. From behind, strong hands gripped her waist and steadied her against a solid, muscular body.
    “You need a quiet place to lie down.” The voice was low and gruff, and too familiar for her taste.
    Her eyes shot open. Red wasn’t in the crowd. “Where’s Red?”
    “He saw me and took a hike,” Drew whispered in her ear.
    She detested the arrogant tone in his voice. Just because he led his team to the Super Bowl didn’t mean he ruled her world. “Point me to the back exit, and I’ll leave. Quietly.”
    “No go, babe.” He tightened his hold on her waist. “You crashed my party. The infraction comes with much needed punishment.”
    Dammit, she was in trouble with a capital T.
     
     
     

Chapter Two
    “How’d you guess it was me?”
    “Do you have to ask, Emma?”
    She groaned. No . Once the pseudonym was out there, Drew would know it was she and not Eve beneath the mask. Both Drew and Eve had known she loved Marguerite St. Just, the heroine from The Scarlet Pimpernel.
    “Come on, Em.” He slung an arm behind her lower back and anchored her to him. “I’ll help you to one of the bedrooms.”
    No way would she stay in a room where he might’ve brought other women to for sex, and she told him so. Ignoring her, he hoisted her over his shoulder.
    “Put me down.” She resisted the urge to pound on his muscular back. “You can’t possibly carry me.”
    She didn’t doubt he could physically carry her. Or that they were making a scene as the men whooped their encouragement while the women shot her envious glances. What worried her was their close contact. Being so near to him again . . . her chest ached as though an invisible hand squeezed, let go, and squeezed until she wanted to cry.
    It had been too long, and she wanted badly to set her hands on either side of Drew’s face and lose herself in the intensity of his blue eyes. Two months ago when they had been a couple, she would’ve. Now, she hung onto her pride, and again insisted he put her down.
    He didn’t answer or do as she asked. The silence between them killed her. Did he miss her like she missed him? When it rained in San Francisco, did he remember the time they’d made love during a storm, out in the fields behind his place?
    As they moved farther from the party, the noise of the ballroom faded to a low hum. On the back deck, he set her down, pulled out his cell phone, and began to text.
    “One of the servers will bring food for you.” He put his cell away and pointed to one of the outdoor overstuffed chairs. “Take a seat.”
    She straightened her shoulders. “I’m not one of your players.”
    “Please,” he insisted, raking his fingers through his short cut.
    She slumped into the chair and crossed her arms over her chest. He sat next to her, reached over, and after untangling her arms, clasped her hands in his. He started to rub out the cold.
    Unnerved by his touch and his concern, she slipped her hands from his hold with the excuse of, “It’s in the 50s. I’m warm