Sweet Temptation: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players, Book 3)

Just relax and have a drink or two. You’ll feel better.”
“Just the one,” I said, taking another sip. “I’m driving.”
“Why didn’t you just leave your car at home?”
“Because I’m not staying long. Did you not hear that whole story? This whole day is a dumpster fire.”
“It is not a dumpster fire,” she said firmly.
“Elle, my hair literally caught on fire.” I pawed at the back of it again. “I’m making an appearance, and then I’m disappearing.”
“Well… you definitely made an appearance.”
I rolled my eyes. “You just couldn’t hold that one in, huh?”
“You know I couldn’t.” She got to her feet. “Come on. We’ll get you some of those crab cakes. I have to pee, though. I’ll meet you back out there?”
“You eat crab cakes. I’ll just concentrate on not catching on fire.”
She gave me a supportive smile. “That’s the spirit.”
I glanced at the girls in the washroom, who were now at the sinks, chatting. “I’ll send Flynn in here guns a-blazing if you’re not out in five minutes,” I muttered.
“Thanks.”
I headed out of the ladies’ room, shaking out my hair—and hoping Elle hadn’t totally underplayed it because there was a gross burnt hole in the back, and she didn’t want to have to break it to me. I strode back up the hall toward the lounge, mustering some DJ Summer-style sass for the next person I ran into—and ran into Flynn.
Like, right into Flynn.
I smashed into his hard body as he came around the corner… and cold liquid splooshed down my side.
“Is that a martini,” I muttered, “or are you just happy to see me?”
He cringed, his sharp features etched with discomfort as I took a step back.
The last time I was this close to Elle’s bodyguard—at one of my shows, two weeks ago—he’d poured a martini right down my side. That time, it was kinda funny. And flattering. I’d assumed he was so distracted by my overwhelming sexiness that he’d spilled the drink in a delicious metaphor for something else he wanted to spill on me.
I was wrong.
“It’s, uh… two martinis,” he said. “For you and Elle.”
Well, that was thoughtful. I looked down at my wet dress and the now-empty cocktail glasses in his hands.
“Shit, Summer. I’m sorry.”
“It was my fault. And thank you for the drink, but I’m driving.”
“Sure. Can I get you anything else?” He met my eyes—guiltily—and I bit back the urge to roll my eyes.
Really. Did he have to make it so damn awkward?
So I tried to kiss him, and he wasn’t having it.
So what?
The night of that show where he dumped a martini on me, I’d seriously thought I was (finally) ending the night with his boots under my bed.
Not so much.
Instead, he’d accompanied Elle to the afterparty at my place—and then, as usual, refused to partake of the party. It wasn’t like he was forbidden from doing so; I’d run this by Elle, and she had assured me that if I wanted to bang him, even while on duty, he was all mine.
Later that night, when I walked them out to my driveway to say good night, I may have leaned in to kiss him good night. I also may have been a little drunk. And overly optimistic, as it turned out.
And he may have ducked and dodged.
Yup. It was pretty bad. Not as bad as this day was going, but it definitely wasn’t a highlight of my year.
We were both grownups here, though. You didn’t see me skulking around in the shadows looking embarrassed. My hair just caught on fire in a room full of VIPs, for fuck’s sake, and I was still rolling on.
Besides, that was two weeks ago. Ancient history.
Sure, Flynn was fit and handsome, in a sharp, kinda frigid way… with dark, exuberantly-buzzed hair and blue-gray eyes. And while he had this rigid, overly serious thing going on, he’d been known to turn a few female heads. Mine included.
But there were many other men in the hot-guy sea.
“Thanks, but I’m fine,” I told him. I mustered what I hoped was a convincing smile.
Really wasn’t his fault I was having a bad day.
Then Elle caught up to us, and Flynn shifted back into stiff-security-guy mode—not that he’d ever really shifted out of it.
“What happened now?” Elle said, eying my wet dress.
“Flynn happened.”
“What?” She glanced at him; he stood two feet away like a statue, pretending not to listen.
“He dumped a couple of drinks on me.” I hooked my arm through hers and we made our way back out into the crowded restaurant. “It’s par for the course. Did I mention the non-fabulous day I’m having?”
“I’m sure he feels terrible about it,” she offered, as Flynn escorted us back to our table. He kept the crowd at bay with his broad shoulders and this masterful side-eye thing he did, and when we got there, he hovered conspicuously. I was pretty sure he was waiting for my hair to catch on fire again, so he could tackle me in a heroic but guilt-induced stop-drop-and-roll.
There were crab cakes on our table. Lots of crab cakes. And a round of fresh drinks.
I didn’t partake.
While Elle chatted with a few people, I put in some small talk with Brody and Jessa. And I let my manager introduce me around to some VIPs I hadn’t yet met, most of whom had probably witnessed the hair-on-fire incident and politely pretended not to notice my wet dress.
Then I circled back to Elle and glued myself to her side.
“So… how long are we pretending to have fun here before we bail?” I asked her. “Flynn is gonna have a hard time holding the crowd back all night. You know everyone wants to talk to you.”
“Now I’m getting seriously worried, because that is so not a question you normally ask. Usually I’m the one looking for the exit before midnight.”
“Yeah, but my dress is soaked in Tanqueray, and like I said, I’m having a party tonight.”
“Are you? I thought you might be joking.”
“Oh, sweetie. I never joke about parties.” I