Hearts in Overtime: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (28 page)

“It was a good show,” Paul agreed. “Did you enjoy it, Beth?”

“Definitely. And now we’ve got that out of the way, should we head outside and find the back entrance?” She grinned.

“Yeah, let’s do it.” I said.

I hadn’t made up my mind to seduce Ian Hixon or anything of the sort, but I was so blown away by Soar’s awesome performance, I wanted to at least tell them how much I enjoyed the show.

My friends, however, assumed otherwise.

“Nice,” said Paul, making a goofy face and holding up a hand to high-five Beth.

She giggled like a teenager.

I let them have their fun, and didn’t bother telling them I still wasn’t sure whether I’d go ahead with Operation Seduction.

In yet another déjà vu moment, there were about a dozen other fans hanging out at the back entrance of the club, just like there had been at the last Soar show. We spent about twenty minutes standing around chatting, and then the door opened and out came the band.

“Go,” said Beth, poking me in the ribs.

I did as she instructed, and walked up to the small crowd that had formed around the guys. My heart pounding against my ribcage, I took in an eyeful of grownup Ian and I liked what I saw. Boy, did I like what I saw.

I couldn’t get over how the beautiful, lean limbed young man had transformed into this handsome, muscular man before me. He was so wonderfully masculine and I was feeling my attraction to him in the quickening of my breaths…and in the dampening of my panties.

After he answered some questions from a middle aged hipster guy about whether or not Soar would be recording anymore songs (sadly, no—no plans in the works yet, anyway) Ian turned to me with a smile.

“Hi, Ian,” I said. “I just have to tell you how much I loved the show. You guys were amazing.”

“Thank you. I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”

Sigh. I felt completely transfixed. How could one guy be so gorgeous and so talented and so freakin’ nice? I just wanted to be around him and let his awesomeness flow over onto me.

But now was not the time for reflection. I needed to engage him. Here goes nothing…

“I saw you guys almost twenty years ago in Chicago,” I said. “One of the most exciting nights in my life. We chatted a bit then, too.” I paused for a nervous laugh. I couldn’t believe I was about to do this, but I figured it was best to establish a connection even if it did reveal me as a former teenage freak.

“Um…My name is Selena Mitchell. I’m the girl who sent you all those crazy letters back when you guys were first starting out,” I admitted.

He narrowed his eyes for a moment, obviously racking his brain. And then it was clear that he remembered when his eyes widened.

“Selena Mitchell, yes, of course. How are you? I’ve often wondered whatever became of you,” he said with that gorgeous smile.

Really???

For a moment, I was speechless. The very idea that I’d actually crossed Ian Hixon’s mind even once was absolutely mind-boggling. I’d be dissecting that delicious little nugget in my mind for days—weeks, probably. But for right now I had to say something, so I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“Well, you’ll be glad to know that I’m still alive and kicking.” I giggled.

Yeah, I said that. I know. What a dork.

Ian laughed and said, “I am very glad to hear that. Tell me, Selena, how many other musicians have you been writing letters to and sending care packages to over the past two decades?”

I gasped in mock surprise. “Are you kidding? That would be a big, fat, zero. Only you, Ian. I’m a one-rock star woman.”

My heart pounded, and every nerve in my body was tingling. I’d never flirted so blatantly with anyone, ever, but I knew I had to be direct with Ian. The clock was ticking. He could excuse himself at any second and then it would all be over.

“Well, thank you very much. I’m flattered.” He grinned, revealing that adorable gap between his two front teeth.

Psyching myself up with the mantra that you only live once, I pressed on.

“So you guys are off to Philadelphia tomorrow, huh?” I asked.

“We are indeed.”

“That’s a nice, short trip.”

“I know, isn’t it? Our tour dates schedule is considerably less intense this time around, and it’s refreshing not to have to haul arse from city to city in a whirlwind tour—thirty cities in thirty days and the like. Takes a toll on the body, it does, and we’re not twenty years old anymore.” He laughed.

“Tell me about it.” I giggled.

Okay, this was it. I needed to just go for it. Can’t hurt to ask. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Go, Selena, go!

I took a deep breath and did it.

“Ian, I will totally understand if you say no, but I’d love to buy you a cup of coffee or something. Or maybe not coffee—it is almost midnight, after all. Maybe tea?”

I started to panic a little. The only good teashops I knew of were definitely closed at this hour, and Ian was English, so I was fairly certain he would not be impressed with the standard tea you might find at one of the local diners in Lower Manhattan.

He smiled. “That would be lovely, Selena. But you know, I could really go for a pint.”

“I think that can be arranged.”

I tried to remain calm even though I was jumping up and down on the inside. I was going for a pint with Ian Hixon! I was going for a pint with Ian Hixon!!!

“Hold that thought, okay?” he said.

He gave me a delicious smile and then turned to a couple in matching skinny jeans and Doc Martens who’d been waiting patiently to compliment Ian on his performance.

While they were doing that—and asking about future recording plans—I casually gave my friends the thumbs up sign. Not so casually, they whooped and hollered and high fived each other. My cheeks burned, but luckily nobody seemed to be paying my friends any mind.

Beth whipped out her phone, and her fingers flew over the screen at a dizzying pace. Seconds later, my phone beeped with a text. I pulled it out of my bag and read:

You go, girl!!!!!!! Jump on that rock star and have wild and wonderful sex with him. Have soooooo much fun, be safe and spare no details when you tell us all about it. We want a full report tomorrow—brunch 11:00 at the usual place unless you’re still shagging your rock star. Xoxoxoxo

We shared a smile across the small, darkened parking lot until Ian’s voice caught my attention.

“Shall we?”

I looked back at him, and the Doc Marten couple had gone. In fact, all the fans had gone except for three women in cute tops and short skirts who were talking to Kevin and Simon, and my friends, who were hanging back and didn’t appear to be waiting to talk to the band.

“Sounds good,” I said.

Ian told Baz he was going for a pint with me and would be taking Richardson—whatever that meant—and then we set off.

As we passed Beth and Paul, the three of us exchanged secret smiles. Or at least we tried to make them secret. Ian knew exactly what was up. He turned to me with an arched eyebrow.

“Friends of yours?” he asked.

“Um…yeah.” I laughed.

I took it as a good sign that he didn’t mention them coming along or anything like that. It almost made it feel like a date. My confidence rose a couple of levels as we made our way back out onto the street.

I was racking my brain, trying to think of a really nice place I could take Ian that would have high quality beer and not be too crowded when he placed his hand softly on my lower back and said, “That’s my car.”

Following his gaze, I noticed the luxury Audi idling at the curb. Wow. A lot can certainly change in twenty years. I was thinking of that weather-beaten old tour bus in the back lot behind the club in Chicago. This was certainly an upgrade, even more so once I crawled into the backseat and saw all the high tech gadgets everywhere. There was a TV screen on the back of both front seats, and there must have been at least twenty switches and buttons on the side of the door.

“Richardson,” Ian said to the driver. “How’s your night been going?”

Ah, the Richardson mystery was solved.

“Very well, sir. Thank you for asking.”

“Glad to hear it. Now, tell me. Where can one find the best pint in New York City?”

“I believe that would be Greyson’s up on 68
th
Street.”

“Then that’s where we shall go.”

We took off heading north, and I turned to Ian, who was leaning back against the headrest.

“So you guys aren’t riding around in a tour bus this time?” I asked.

“Nope. Like I said, we’re not twenty anymore, so we’ve decided to splurge on two private cars and drivers to tote us around the country. But we do still have a tour bus for the equipment and the roadies. Bit of an elitist setup, I’m afraid, but to be fair, most of our roadies
are
actually twenty-two or thereabouts, so they can handle it a lot better than the lads and I.”

“It’s all good.” I smiled.

I didn’t know why Ian kept going on about how old he was. He was so hot. He was in gorgeous shape, and even though he was in his early forties, he could easily pass for thirty-five. Maybe it was a cultural thing—that famous self-deprecating British humor.

Figuring it was never too early to start laying the groundwork for my seduction, I reached down to pat Ian’s hand and said, “I would imagine you guys could handle whatever you were given to deal with. You look amazing, Ian. You’re in great shape.”

“Well, aren’t you sweet?” He smiled at me.

I have to say it took every ounce of self-control I possessed not to tear his clothes off and start going at it right then and there. I did consider it. Well, I considered unzipping Ian’s pants and sucking him off as we coasted uptown, but there didn’t seem to be a glass partition between the front and back seats, and the thought of intimacy with Richardson in such close proximity was not ideal.

In any case, we arrived at the upscale alehouse within minutes.

Thank goodness Ian had asked his driver for the recommendation, because I had no idea places like this even existed. I’d been trying to think of an Irish pub that wasn’t too grungy, but Grayson’s was a million miles away from what I had in mind.

With sky-high ceilings, beautifully carved tables and stools in blonde wood, and an all over minimalist look, the place screamed “money.” And so did the fact that there was a CW actress at the table next to ours, and a famous rapper sitting at the bar. And so did the fact that they didn’t have menus but instead had these waiters walking around with shot glasses of fancy beer for patrons to taste.

“I have for you the Doppio Malto Stone Ale from Italy, the Bierland Belgian Blond, the Ampleforth Abbey Beer from the United Kingdom—specifically, from Yorkshire—and the Eisenbahn Dunkel, which is a lager from Brazil,” said the waiter. “I’ll leave you to sample the offerings, and will be back with another tray in a few minutes. Of course if you would prefer a pint of one flavor, I would be more than happy to bring that around. Just let me know.”

Ian and I thanked him, and then we exchanged a smile.

“Cheers, Selena,” he said, picking up one of the shot glasses and holding it up.

“Cheers.” I clinked my shot glass against his and downed it in one. It was delicious. I thought it was the Italian ale I tasted, but I wouldn’t bet my life on it.

“This seems like it could be really dangerous,” I said with a giggle, motioning down at the remaining shot glasses. “Seems like it’d be hard to keep track of how much you’re actually drinking when you’re only having shots of beer.”

And I did want to keep track of my intake. I’d only had two beers at the show, and that was over the course of two hours, so I still had all my wits about me, but I wanted to keep it that way. If I managed to seduce Ian, I wanted to remember every second of it with crystal clarity.

“That’s a very good point,” Ian said. “I don’t much fancy the idea of a hangover.”

“How many shots do you figure there are in one pint?” I pondered as I reached for a shot glass filled with the Belgian blond (I think).

“Let’s just see…”

Ian pulled his phone out of his pocket and did a few things with it. A moment later, he said, “There are ten point six, six, seven shots in one US pint.”

“That’s good to know.” So I should really try to stick to about ten shots of beer.

“Indeed.” Ian smiled and downed another mini beer. “Oh, the Brazilian lager’s quite nice.”

“Is it?” I grabbed the other shot glass of the Brazilian lager and threw it down my throat.

Okay, maybe I’d allow myself twenty shots. That was only two beers, and I needed the liquid courage.

* * * *

Sixteen shots of beer later, I decided to make my move. Ian and I had been chatting about all sorts of random things from Twitter addictions to the taste of frog legs to
Star Wars
to Vladimir Putin to Formica furniture. We were getting along famously, but I worried that I’d been designated to the Friend Zone, or I soon would be. I needed to keep that from happening—or to fight my way out of the Friend Zone and back into Potential Sexual Partner status.