Game For Love: Gridiron Heartbreaker (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Gridiron Bad Boys Book 2) (2 page)

CHAPTER THREE

Alyssa—such a pretty name—handed Blaine an apron. She'd lifted one brow up like she dared him to scoff and leave. He'd touched her soft skin, heard her sharp intake of breath—there was no getting rid of him after that. He was too intrigued by her. She was putting him to work instead of falling for his over-the-top advances.

For the first time in a long time, Blaine felt like the twenty-something who wanted the world to be his oyster, and not quite certain what that could mean. Imagining the possibilities, having everything he wanted out of his reach pumped way more adrenaline than snapping his fingers to get whatever he wanted.

And he wanted Alyssa.

She'd taken her coiled curls and exacted revenge on the wayward strands by putting them into a bun. Some had escaped at her nape and temples. Though her lips were pinched at the moment, he'd seen how full they were when she parted them. His stomach was in his throat and he had to remain calm on the outside.

“Alyssa, you're quiet.”

“Am I? I thought I said wash your hands.”

He wanted to kiss her and maybe that said way too much about him. He was digging the woman giving him zero play. “And then what do you want me to do for you first?” he asked.

Her almond-toned skin flushed. He couldn't help but smile.
Naughty thoughts, Alyssa?

Her voice was crisp and didn't waver as she said, “The only thing I need you to do is transfer these plates onto trays and hand them off to servers. They'll do the rest.”

He glanced to where she gestured. There were at least fifty plates, and that would likely be more than enough for the crowd waiting to sit down and let the San Francisco fog be their view.

Sure, he wanted to eat and flirt, but he understood the pressure of a chef's kitchen. Not to mention, the faster he cleared the plates, the faster they could get back to flirting. Or, he'd flirt and she'd try not to look intrigued.

He started at the end she gestured to, and got into the groove. Didn't take him long and the rote memory of doing this for his mother kicked in.

The only thing he stopped for was the nod of approval she gave him after a minute. Then she forgot his existence, because much like the turf, the stakes were high and there was only one chance to get it right. No fumbles or interceptions were allowed.

And like a captain of a ship in a vicious storm, she gave out an order of instructions to the rest of the staff as they filtered in. The only people who paid him any mind were the servers, wide-eyes and whispers as he handed out platters into their waiting hands. It was a symphony of chaos that he hadn't even realized he'd missed until all but one plate remained on the long counter.

She handed him the food with one hand while undoing the first four buttons of her jacket with the other. Sweat had collected on her brow and the flush deepened, making her prettier and her brown eyes more vibrant.

When she glanced at him, there was a newfound respect in her gaze as she sized him up. “Have you done this before?” Absently she handed him silverware.

The feel-good moment dropped away. “I have.”

Blaine moved over to the sink and leaned back. It wasn't until that moment he'd thought about how much of the party he was missing. He doubted anyone would notice his absence and if they did, they definitely wouldn't assume he'd gone to hide with the chef. But he was finally having fun.

And the important thing, Alyssa wanted to know more about him. “My mother...” He faltered, shifted. “...
is
a pastry chef. I spent many mornings getting ready for the rush.”

Her brows rose. “I see, and that's pretty impressive. Pastry chefs are more cutthroat than anyone else in this industry. Well, outside of food vendors.” Her tongue dragged over her top lip as she continued to take him in. “And you kept up with me.”

He could almost hear her silent thoughts. “Sweetheart, I'm more than a pretty face.”

With military precision, she stopped her mouth from blossoming into a smile. “Come here. I want to show you something.”

“Let me guess.” He pushed out a dramatic sigh. “You want to show me the nut chopper in your chef kit.”

She bit into her bottom lip that time to curb the smile but finally she managed to say, “You're smart and pretty.”

“So, so pretty.” He took a generous bite of the steak and groaned. The depth of the flavors playing over his tongue made him narrow his eyes on her. That didn't take into account he was eating the damn thing without a knife—he was a heathen and Blaine didn't care.

He finished chewing and had to ask, “Where did you learn how to cook?”

“There's this wonderful place called culinary school.” Her eyes sparkled and he loved it.

When he'd first walked in she looked so serious and tense. He wouldn't have guessed she had a sharp humor. He tried the mash potatoes and had to swallow down the groan. And was he getting hard? From food? But the potatoes had the perfect ratio of butter and salt. He could admit to being a food snob and she was impressing him. Turning him the fuck on with each bite, because passion could be shown out of bed and be just as tempting to be around.

He asked, “Why work for Charlotte?” Alyssa seemed to have the kind of skills to run her own place with silent backers.

She squinted at him, a clear question in the small action, then sighed, getting to whatever answer. “She brought me on about a month ago, because her catering business is where I wanted to—No. Where I needed to be.”

He waited and when she didn't elaborate he chuckled. “Well, I'm a friend of the groom,” he said, giving her the information she was refusing to ask, likely on principle. “We used to play together before he traded to the Outlaws in San Fran.”

“I know who you are
Ace
. I don't watch football per se, but you've been on enough magazines for me to know exactly who you are.”

And she was unimpressed.

“I wouldn't take much stock in that if I were you.”

“Then what's the truth, Ace?”

What she'd read and seen on TV about him. “Find out for yourself.”

“Pass.”

He was liking her more and more, especially after he tried the asparagus. Getting them right and delicious was a lost art, and he'd eaten in plenty of upscale places. She was an artist and she wasn't giggling.

He wanted to take her home...but he couldn't. God, he wished he could only have a small taste of her and let her unique bouquet settle on his tongue until he felt drunk. His gaze strayed to the party. Liquor had seemed to loosen the tension and he wasn't interested in going back. Still. She was more interesting.

The intensity of his emotions should have been a warning sign to stay away from her. One night with her wouldn't be a regular tryst, and he could run or pretend he wasn't interested...or grow a set and get to the heart of the matter.

Blaine took another second to consider, and to eat another mouthful of potatoes. If he were the marrying type, they'd be on a plane to Vegas that night.

But he wasn't. “What are you doing after this event?”

The plate she'd been toying with for the last five seconds, clattered back down to the counter. She cleared her throat, not meeting his eyes. “Home to sleep by myself.”

“Drinks?” he asked anyway.

Finally, she speared him with her gaze and put a hand on her hip. The uniform of the white coat and black slacks should have left her sexless, but she was all feminine curves. “Such an alluring offer.” Her tone was so dry. “Leave an NFL player's house with another NFL player? Pass right by the horde of press outside who are praying to get a picture of someone drunk or half-naked. Let me think...” She walked past him and started to plate the desserts, adding raspberries and chocolate shavings.

Interested, he watched in silence as he ate. Her technique and eye for detail wasn't bad there either. Taste was  as important as appearance.

“Now,” she said, trying for breezy but there was enough of a bite to the word, “if I were to walk on the field and talk to you while you worked...”

“Security would escort you out of the stadium. Perks of playing football.”

She actually laughed, the sound unfettered and it softened her expression. “You don't ever turn off the charm, do you?”

“I know when to. It's just...” He sighed and glanced at the living room.

Lately his moods tended to fall under restless or somber and tonight hadn't been any different. As far as parties went, it was pretty sedate, and fuck, to be honest, classier than most he'd gone to over the years.

Blaine rolled that thought around in his head and had to admit he was often the life of the raunchy party. Game day hangovers were never a walk in the park but the night's fun always made up for them. The promise of laughter and great sex from a woman he could barely remember the next morning had somehow lost its appeal. A buzz of restless energy nagged at him.

He was ninety-nine percent sure all he needed was a change of scenery for a little bit. Sit back when normally he'd be in the thick of it. Listen instead of talk or vice versa. He was also sure his mother accounted for most of his mood. She'd be fine. His funky disposition would pass. It had to. Someone was depending on him to be the bright spot in their day.

“It's just what?” she asked, her brows up.

She hadn't rebuttoned the jacket and with the subtle shift, he got a flash of smooth brown skin. The sudden tightness in his gut proved all he had to do was wait the emotion out. He was still the life of the party, the great time. He didn't have to stop and think about his life choices, even when friends decided to get married—the last friend he would have ever expected to settle down. His mother...she was fine or would be.

Once again, like it was a mask he pulled out when needed, Blaine smiled. Did she know she sighed, so softly, whenever he did? But he wasn't going to tell her. He enjoyed the sound too damn much. It dug into his bones and he felt...alive.
What would her moans do to him?

“Blaine?” she urged again, her husky voice doing wonderful things to his name.

“I...” He glanced at his plate. Dumping all his emotional shit on her wasn't attractive. “I wanted food and beer, and didn't want to hear about wedding stuff for five minutes.”

“Wedding stuff.” Her tone came out flat. “You have a way with words.”

She moved over to him, close enough he could pick up her scent. She smelled like vanilla and raspberries. He almost reached up to touch her again, but that was crossing a line even for him.

So he said, already knowing her biting response, “I have
a way
with a lot of things.”

She coughed to hide the snort. “Do these lines usually work for you?”

He edged closer. A different scent, one he couldn't pinpoint, washed over him. Shampoo? Conditioner? Didn't matter as he breathed her in then shifted until the moist heat of her breath brushed along his cheek.

What happened to not crossing a line?

She pressed a hand to his chest, but didn't push him away. He trailed his mouth to the pulse in her neck. Her heart was rioting.

He lowered his voice. “Do you want me to work for it?”

It
didn't need to be explained, not when her sigh bordered on a moan. He closed his hand on her arm, shifted so his cock would rest along her stomach. Her breath hitched, and then she curled into him with a moaned.

Heat and need beat like a drum inside him. He brought his mouth up to her earlobe. He skated his teeth up to the shell of her ear. “If not, I'll walk now. I'll leave you to your desserts.”

“And—,” She cleared the huskiness out of her throat. “—when you say work for it?”

“Anything you can imagine. Everything.” He couldn't help himself so he traced the tip of his tongue over her ear. Her moan sounded strangled.

“Alyssa, I'll help you come up with ideas if you want that too. And my imagination has no limits.”

Her swallow was audible, but she stepped back, her teeth buried in her bottom lip. He could see so clearly she wanted what he offered, and he hadn't held any punches much to his own chagrin. Where was his usual finesse? His own pride to walk away after a woman shot him down the first time?

“Alyssa?” he asked, his voice sounding rough to his own ears.

Her eyes roved down and then she looked away at the obvious proof of his arousal. His cock had sat up with attention and had no signs of going down.

She licked her lips then finally uttered, “Even though you make flirting feel like a contact sport, I'm running behind.”

He notched his head—surprised at the relief coursing through him. Things had turned intense and he'd lost his head. This was a good thing. If flirting with her gripped him this hard...

But what to say now? He glanced at the half eaten plate of dinner. “It was very nice meeting you, Alyssa, and a real pleasure to eat your food.”

Her brows shot up. “Y-you're welcome.” A flush colored her cheeks. “I hope you enjoy the rest of the party.” She glanced at the plates in front of her and passed him one.

He didn't hesitate to take the dessert, but lingered for a moment more before heading back to the party. The only available space was between two of the bridesmaids, so he settled in. Took a second or two to steady his breathing. Thinking of Alyssa, he took in the woman to his right. Pretty, in the girl next door kind of way.