Page 80 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

No, the problem was walking toward us right now, and she looked good enough to make me regret every decision that led me to this point in time.

I’d seen Scarlett in workout clothes.

I’d seen her in my bathrobe and my shirt (the latter remained one of the hottest sights of my life).

I’d even seen her dolled up for a night out at Neon.

But I’d never seen her likethis.

Her simple black dress stopped just above her knee and hugged her in all the right places, highlighting her delicate curves and long, slender legs. Silver heels added three inches to her height, and her hair cascaded past her shoulders in soft waves. It looked so touchable, I almost reached for her before I stopped myself.

I didn’t know what she did with her makeup, but it defined her features in a way that made them pop without being overwhelming.

Huge dark eyes. Soft red lips.Perfection.

Nevertheless, I couldn’t pinpoint what, exactly, was different about her appearance tonight. She was always beautiful, and her outfit, though elegant, wasn’t extraordinary in its uniqueness.

But as she neared, I realized it wasn’t her clothes or hair or makeup. It washer. It was the way she moved, her hips swaying with a combination of confidence and sultriness that she kept hidden when we were in the studio. It was the soft gleam lighting up her eyes. It was the glow in her face and the smile on her lips.

Up until this point, I’d been dealing with Professional Scarlett. Even when we’d flirted and kissed, she’d clung to pieces of that mask with determined fingers.

The Scarlett that was walking toward me? She wasn’t wearing a mask. This was the Scarlett I’d see if we were dating—if I picked her up at her flat, flowers in hand; if we walked down the street, our fingers intertwined; if we woke up in the morning, her head on my chest.

This was what Scarlett would look like if she were mine.

The chatter from the restaurant fell away. I swallowed past the sudden dryness in my throat and wished I had a strong whiskey on hand.

I needed it. Desperately.

Scarlett stopped in front of us. Her eyes held mine for a fraction of a beat too long before sliding to Ivy. “Hi.”

“Hi.” A trace of roughness ran beneath my voice. “You look…”Breathtaking.“Nice.”

“Thank you.” Her mouth curved, but I could see the mask sliding back into place, hiding the momentary softness in her eyes. “So do you. Both. I mean, both of you look good.”

I almost smiled at her adorable verbal stumble when a possessive hand touched her arm.

White shirt. Blue tie.

Clive.

My mood plummeted like a dead fly into a vat of acid.

I’d been so focused on Scarlett I’d overlooked his presence by her side. He’d followed the restaurant’s dress code to a T, but his shirt stretched a little too tight across his chest and his watch gleamed a little too bright beneath the lights.

I’d bet another hundred thousand quid that he deliberately wore a shirt that was half a size too small so his muscles looked bigger.

One point for ego, zero for style.

And he wasstillholding onto Scarlett’s arm. That fucker.

Clive flashed a tiny smirk in my direction.

Anger simmered in my veins. He’d sought her out on purpose at the cinema. I didn’t know how, but he had. He was furious about losing the race, and he was using her to get to me.

I couldn’t say anything without looking bitter and paranoid, so I kept my mouth shut. For now.

Play smarter, not harder.