Crashed by Elise Faber

Chapter Fourteen

Brandon

Holy hell,what had he unleashed?

It took every bit of self-control he possessed to not follow after her, to not chase her down, toss her over his shoulder, and find out if that little display of flirting meant what he hoped to fuck it did.

Was she going to give him a chance to win her back?

She slipped behind a bartending station, and he moved to it, not caring that Scarlett had ordered him to make the rounds.

He didn’t give a fuck about the charity, not when Fanny was there. His gaze dipped when she bent to scoop up some ice, giving him a full view down her dress, one he enjoyed, but one that also made him want to tear off his jacket and wrap it around her so no one else could see her breasts encased in black silk.

Then she straightened and plunked a glass in front of him.

Brandon blinked. “A Manhattan?” he asked after lifting the drink to his lips and taking a sip.

“Is it still your favorite?”

His mouth curved. “Yeah, baby, it is.” He reached over the bar top and snagged her hand. “Does you talking to me mean that . . .”

“That I’m going to give us another chance?” she asked.

He nodded.

“No.”

His heart sank.

“But it means I’m considering it.” She slipped her hand away, turned to smile at a woman who came up for a drink. “Especially, if you keep dressing like that.”

Hope bloomed in his chest.

She turned and helped the woman, whipping up drinks like she belonged behind the bar.

“How’d you get so good at slinging drinks?” he asked.

Fan measured off a shot of vodka and began mixing it with cranberry juice, pouring both into a martini glass and accepting the cash from the woman. She stuffed it into a jar and then turned back to him. “When the tour ended, I bartended before my skating business took off.” A shrug. “It was fun, and I like talking to people. Plus, I learned how to mix a lot of drinks.” She winked. “I’m really fun at parties.”

“I know you are.”

Just as he knew that this was the Fanny he remembered. Beautiful and bright and happy. But more settled, comfortable in her own skin, and able to strike a mean conversation.

All that press, and he supposed, also the bartending made it so she didn’t skip a beat as more people made their way to the bar, and she started pulling glasses and pouring liquor nearly as fast and furious as her words came. She charmed and chatted and pretty soon, there was a line of customers at her station.

She glanced at him—a sly look out of the corner of her eye—and said, “You going to stand there staring all night? Or you going to get back here and help?”

More hope.

He drained his glass, slipped behind the bar, and pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, loving that she didn’t push him away, loving the scent of her, loving . . . her.

“Tell me what to do.”

“You take care of wine and beer,” she said, nodding at the bottles behind them. “I’ll do the rest.”

He nodded. “I can do that.”

She smirked. “We’ll see.”

And then things really got going. Fan glanced up at the man in front of them and took his order—two red wines, one beer—and then the woman behind him—two cosmos, one beer, one white wine—and Brandon promptly felt himself begin to scramble.

That scrambling didn’t stop.

The next hour was more of the same. He was sweating, his arms exhausted, his brain fried from having to take money and make change by the time the line tapered off and people had gone from their first to second to third round of drinks. There was still a trickle of attendees coming up to the bar, but they had thinned out, giving him a moment to breathe and also to go back to staring.

She was gorgeous.

And funny and smart and really fucking good at mixing drinks.

“Is there anything you can’t do?”

She lifted a rack of glasses—one he took from her and set on the table behind them. “Thanks,” she murmured. “And yes, there are loads of things I can’t do, things I suck at.”

He slipped his arm around her waist. “Lies.”

For a moment, she leaned back against him. “Okay, you’re right. I’m brilliant at everything I take up, and I definitely, definitely don’t have a closet that’s overloaded with old clothes and needs to be organized, or always forget to take my car in for an oil change, or really, really suck at cross-stitch.”

Brandon ran his fingers through the soft waves tumbling down her shoulder. “Cross-stitch?”

“I wanted a hobby.” A shrug. “Turns out, I’m only good at making knots.”

He bent, kissed her cheek. “Want me to make you a drink?”

A wide smile, warm eyes on him, her body melting back against his. She smelled like roses and vanilla. She smelled like home. She felt like home, there in his arms. “Okay,” she said, and he realized his mistake because his offer had her slipping out of his hold. But then she was looking at him expectantly and with challenge in her eyes.

“Well,” he murmured, “I know you like wine.”

“Pft. Going the easy way out?” she teased.

“But,” he said, talking over her. “I have a feeling that you’re a straightforward drink kind of girl.” He glanced at her, but her face was unreadable. “Not tequila,” he murmured, remembering the hangovers they’d both gotten the first time they’d experimented with alcohol. Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes warmed. He picked up a bottle of rum, used the shot glass measuring thingy to pour her a drink. One part of rum, and the rest of the glass with Coke and ice.

He handed it to her, watched as she sipped.

“Well?” he asked when she set it down.

Her lips curved. “It’s a decent rum and Coke.”

“Decent?” He wrapped his arms around her. “Just decent?”

A shrug that brought her breasts against him. A shrug that someone might interpret as casual, except for the hard nipples against his chest, the heat in her eyes. “Just decent,” she repeated, her lips curving up, and it wasn’t the time or place for it, but her mouth was tipped up, and her smile was sexy and—

He had to kiss her.

So, he did.

And then felt that hope inside him cover him from head to toe when she didn’t hesitate to kiss him back.

Scar had interrupted the kiss,pulling Brandon away so he couldn’t distract her best bartender.

“And the raffle is getting ready to start,” she said. “You’ll need to pull your ticket so I can make the announcement.”

He nodded, started toward the table holding the huge glass bowls, most of which were now overflowing with raffle tickets.

Scarlett caught his arm.

“Also, if you hurt my friend again, I will chop off your balls, freeze them in those giant ice cube holders, and then shatter them with a hammer.”

Brandon’s brows lifted. “You’re violent.”

“I know it’s not your fault. But”—she patted his cheek—“balls, hammer, shattered into pieces.” A smile. “Don’t forget it.”

He shuddered. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

She led him to the tables, pointed out his bowl, and then had him reach in and pull out a ticket without looking at it.

“Thank you,” she sing-songed, snagging it from his fingers, before flitting off to the microphone and quieting the crowd as he made his way back toward Fanny. Scar hadn’t threatened his balls if he distracted Fanny, so he was going to make the most of their evening.

He slid behind the bar, wrapped an arm around her waist, and started to bend over to resume their kiss when he heard his name over the speakers.

“. . . For dinner with a successful sports agent, Brandon Cunningham, VP at Prestige Media Group—”

Fan swatted him. “You’re a raffle prize?” she asked.

“It’s a long story. I’m helping out a friend.”

“. . . Insights from one of the best in the business, and he’ll even pay the tab.” The crowd laughed. “Our first prize winner of the evening is . . . Stephanie Douglas!”

The crowd applauded.

Brandon went stiff, though not as stiff as Fan. He glanced down at her, took in the shock on her face, the clenched jaw, he said, “I’m guessing you didn’t enter for my raffle prize.”

Her eyes narrowed. “No.”

“Who—”

He didn’t have to finish the question. “Ah. Scarlett at work.”

Fanny nodded brusquely.

His lips tipped up. “Good thing I’d already planned to take you to dinner. Two birds, one stone.”

Her eyes flashed. “We’re not going on a date.”

His brows lifted. “We’re not?”

She pushed out of his hold. “No, we’re not. I can’t. We can’t—”

“We are so going on a date,” he said, snagging her again. “Whether it’s from Scarlett’s intervention or of our own volition.”

A huff. “I’m going to—”

“Kiss me. And then go on a date with me.”

“That’s not happening,” she growled, swatting at his chest. “I can’t believe Scar did that. She needs to pick another ticket. It’s not fair. I didn’t enter for the prize, and someone else is going to miss out, and—”

He slanted his lips over hers, kissed her until they were both breathless.

“Go on a date with me,” he said. Or maybe begged.

Either way, it seemed to do the trick.

She softened. “Okay to the date, but no to the stealing a prize from someone who paid good money to be here and—”

“You’re accepting it.”

Brandon managed to tear his gaze from Fanny and glanced over at Scarlett.

“That’s not fair—”

Scar reached out and snagged Fanny from Brandon’s arms. She dropped her hands onto Fanny’s shoulders and shook her lightly. “Life has dealt you more than your fair share of unfair. You’re accepting this. You’re going on a date with Brandon, and you’re going to have a good time.”

“But someone else might want—”

Scarlett just crossed her arms and waited.

Fanny sighed. “You’re not going to change your mind, are you?”

“No.” Scar glared. “I don’t care if you throw a fit. You’re still going to do this. Not for me, for yourself. No more waffling and worrying, just go for it. Go for what you want.”

“You’re a terrible friend,” Fan muttered.

“I love you, too,” Scarlett said, completely undeterred by the muttering, “but you’re still doing this.”

Fanny’s eyes drifted up to his, as though expecting to find an answer in them, but Brandon wasn’t going to touch that with a ten-foot pole. This was between her and her friend. He’d already gotten his date. He couldn’t give a shit about it being the raffle prize, or having to have another dinner with another prizewinner.

Sighing, reading his reluctance to dive in, she turned back to Scar. “What are you doing?”

Scarlett leaned in and spoke in her ear, saying something that Brandon couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, it seemed to have the desired effect because Fanny’s expression settled and softened. She pulled back, nodded, and then hugged Scar.

A moment later, Scarlett had drifted away, probably to cause more chaos somewhere else. Or well, not chaos, but to do whatever it took to get that money.

He sidled up to Fanny, slid an arm around her waist.

She didn’t pull away and that, more than anything else, was the biggest victory of the night. There was a chance at a future with her.

“So,” he murmured, running his fingers down her throat, “where should we go for our date tomorrow?”

“To—tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” he repeated, nuzzling her throat.

He had this in, the door was nudged a little wider, and he wasn’t going to give her the chance to slam it closed.