Linebacker's Second Chance (Bad Boy Ballers) (24 page)

It’s her. It’s that woman again. She’s supposed to be hiding out in the beach house and it’s been a whole month since—

But it’s the limo, not Joanna’s Aston.
 

Who in the hell? Who’s out in the mountains north of Ruidoso the Monday after Thanksgiving? Dammit, who in the hell?

Oh
fuck
. That’s right.
 

There was that artist girl I was going to have shipped out here for the mural. The one from New York City. Candy? Callie? Something like that. I’d told her personal assistant that she was my favorite artist on the phone, but I only saw one piece she’d done, and it was damn good, so I’d fudged the truth a little bit—all for the sake of the nonprofit. I turn to see my driver and one of the porters standing at the door. The man looks like he’s about to freeze, and his gaze reflects all of the confusion that I feel.

Such a goddamned idiot, Rowan. The guest house with its plumbing all fucked to hell. What on earth are you going to do with some artist girl?

“Christ on a goddamned bike, not
now
. How did I forget about this?” I walk over to the door and hold it open.
 

“Sir,” the driver chirps. “Cadence Albright is here to stay for the evening. She said you hadn’t set her up in a hotel—”

“Oh goddammit,” I say, grabbing one of the girls’ bags from the driver’s arms. With all of the Joanna shit in that past month, I never thought about getting a hotel for the girl—and hell, I didn’t even ask my assistant to do anything for her except get the flight booked. The porter lugs a gigantic bag out of the trunk and the poor girl steps out of the limo, shivering in a gauzy purple tunic and skinny jeans. She probably thought that New Mexico
wasn’t
cold in December. She turns to the porter and grabs the suitcase from him with a look of pure exasperation, pulling it out of his hands as he looks on in complete confusion. I can see her rolling her eyes even ten feet away, and she pulls the whole rickety rolling contraption up the stairs.

Her deep brown eyes meet mine for an instant and she stands there, just looking at me, waiting at the top of the last step—for what I don’t know. After a long pause, she opens her mouth and then stops. “I’m really sorry. I don’t remember your name.” Her voice is deep and husky, sexy like she’s almost out of breath. The muscles in her arms are visible under the gauze of her shirt, and I wonder if she’s that cut from painting murals and putting up sculptures. And
damn,
her curves don’t quite match the muscles in her arms, but they make for a perfectly beautiful sight. She smiles, and for a second, it’s like the whole wide porch lights up in front of me.
 

“Rowan,” I say. There’s a warmth that expands in my chest for an instant, even as the cold wind whips down from the mountains and across the grassy flatlands of the ranch.

“Cadence. I’m Cadence.” She doesn’t extend her hand, but she smiles again, and it lights up her whole face—all the exquisite details of it—her rich, dark skin, full red lips, and the long curling lashes accenting her deep golden-brown eyes. She purses her full lips for a moment, and I find myself staring at her as she stands there. Her pixie-cut hair is slightly messy, presumably from the plane ride and the long-ass commute from the airport, but there’s a sparkle deep in her eyes, like some part of her is ready for mischief, or fun, or
art
. I can see the curves of her breasts beneath the shirt she’s wearing and the matching roundness of her hips in her jeans, paired with a completely perfect set of long legs, shown off in those damn tight jeans. It’s probably lewd for me to stare at her like I am, but I can’t help studying the supple expanse of her body.
 

A long moment passes, and I’m still looking at her, my brain drawing a complete blank on what to say next. “So, is there a place for me to stay? My PA told me that you had a guest house on the ranch,” she says. She looks around like she’s confused and drops the handle of her fraying green suitcase. It clatters down one step, and she keeps giving me that quizzical look, and I’m not quite sure what to say to her.
 

There’s nowhere for her to stay, except right here. The guest house is out of electricity and the plumbing is shit, and the hotel is twenty miles away in the wrong direction, and she’s standing there, wind whipping over her, looking beautiful and lonely. She looks distant, like her heart is somewhere else, her hands clenched into tight fists. She knits her eyebrows together like she doesn’t quite understand why someone isn’t taking her to the guest house.

A coyote howls in the distance, and I open my mouth to reassure her, but the words stick in my throat for a moment before I can. I’m struck, wondering what her shivering body might look like if she got warm by the fire and let that gauzy tunic drop away from her shoulders. Would the skin of her body be as soft as I think it might be? Would that spark of mischief bloom into lust if took those full breasts into my hands… my mouth to her—

Goddamn, I bet that lust would bloom like a goddamn desert flower in the rain. And that mouth—

Inappropriately, ridiculously, my cock stirs and threatens to rise at the thought. I shake the thought away. I need to remain professional if I’m going to have this woman in my house.
 

But I know full well the damage is done.
 

That woman is as full and rich as a fine whiskey. And when I get thirsty, I’m bound to take a drink.

CHAPTER THREE

My brain is a muddle when I step out of the limo. I’ve never been in a limo besides that one night at prom, and I’d had several shots of vodka, so the memory of the limo is pretty damn fuzzy. This one was nice, with smooth leather seats and a tinted window so I could close my eyes and speak neither to the driver nor to the confused porter who couldn’t manage to carry my suitcase properly.
 

This must be some kind of mistake
. My brain keeps repeating it, and the words get stuck on a loop inside my head. None of this is what I pictured. None if it fits with my sense of what the world should look like, or what this adventure should be.
 

None of this is right.
The house is too beautiful, too well-crafted. It’s not an aging farm house or one of those stucco ranch things I’ve seen in California. It looks like something out of
Architectural Digest
, with a polished exterior of stone and dark, smooth wood. I was told their would be horses, but this doesn’t look like the home of a rancher or anyone who’s ever dealt with livestock. It’s big, but there’s something deeply inviting about it too, something warm. Far warmer than I ever would have expected. Warmer than my brain knows what to do with.
 

And the air, it’s cold. Too cold for New Mexico.

The fields, the mountain peaks... everything is empty around us. I was hoping to convince the man that I could stay in a hotel in town, but there’s no
town
. And the stars, they’re far to bright to be real. There’s no smog blocking them out, no light pouring into the sky from skyscrapers and apartment buildings, no noise to detract from their presence and light.
 

But I come to from my haze and I take the heavy suitcase away from the porter again, dragging it up the deep gray marble steps. Cold sweat starts to form on my body, and I shiver before looking up at the stars. It looks like there’s a swath of white gauze in the sky, pulsing and twinkling and shifting all at once.
 

I wonder if this is the Milky Way.
 

The thought sticks with me for a moment and then I look at the door, and I spot
him
. Regan? Ronan? Something like that. In my haste to get out of town, I didn’t check him out, and I slept on the plane the whole way here. I didn’t even bother to see what he wanted for his mural. When it comes to my life, everything is fucked up. When it comes to art, I can always think of
something
to paint. So that part isn’t important. But the man standing in front of me is a giant red flag, one I should figure out how to avoid. He’s rugged and beautiful, in a gray flannel shirt and jeans. His jawline is firm and long, accented by a shadow of dark stubble. On another man, it might look dingy, but on him, it just looks delicious.
 

Like something I want to lick.
 

I don’t know his name, but here I am standing on his porch, the cold, dry wind whipping around me. He’s tall, six feet or more, and through the contours of his gray shirt, it looks like his muscles are made of steel. My mouth goes dry and I swallow. If I’m not mistaken, my heart is beating fast too, and oh God, his eyes are deep, dark blue like sapphires. His hair is in need of a cut, the shaggy dark pieces of it falling over his ears and over his forehead. When he smiles at me, and he does, broad and full of fire, I nearly melt and topple down the steps.
 

Even before he tells me his name, I know I’m screwed. I can’t be in a house with this man, not over the holidays, not while I’m recovering from all the shit that’s gone wrong in my life.
 

He says his name, and it takes me a minute to process it, because I’m still staring at his eyes, studying the long contour of his nose, the regal strength of his jawline.
 

“Cadence,” I say. “Is there a place for me to stay?” After that, nothing much makes sense because I’m still in a daze. The porter grabs my bag again and lugs it into the house before I can think about taking it in, and I watch as the man—the billionaire—walks down the steps and takes my bags of clothes and my laptop from the trunk of the limousine. I stay standing, looking off into the night, down the long stone driveway that leads out into the wooded wilderness of New Mexico. In the distance there’s a coyote howling—or at least I think that’s a coyote—and I suppress a deep shiver.
 

“That’s just an old coyote. No need to worry,” Rowan says, carrying my bags up the stairs like they weigh nothing. It’s not like I brought a ton of stuff with me, but there’s plenty there that weighs more than he’s letting on, and oh God, I think there’s the swell of a bicep under his shirt. He brushes past me and I shiver again. I bury the impulse to reach out and grab his arm, to touch him and make sure he’s real. “Come on in the house, Cadence. I don’t want you to catch your death out here in the cold. Didn’t think New Mexico would be that cold, huh?”
 

I shake my head dumbly and do the only thing I can do—follow him into the house. He dumps the bags on the confused porter, and the poor little man heads upstairs, conveniently leaving the suitcase of paints downstairs.
 

“I can just keep this down here, if that’s okay. It’s all my paints and stuff,” I say, still openly staring at Rowan. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. He’s probably too classy for that. And what’s wrong with looking at something I can’t have?
 

Maybe this is good. Maybe it’s okay to stare, to look at not have. After all, I am a woman, even if I’m an infertile one. I can look at this man if I want to, and maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
 

“That’s just fine. I’ve got the nonprofit office just down the road in town.”

“In
town
? I didn’t think we passed a town.” He laughs out loud, and his dark eyebrows knit together in amusement.
 

“Touché, Miss Cadence. There’s not much of one, but there’s a big wall inside. And it’s a beautiful building. It’ll be just lovely once it’s all done. And I might even get you back out here in the spring to paint the inside—”

“Oh no. No. I’m only here for one month, then I’m going back to New York.”
 

“Well you might just find that this place has a way of getting under your skin. But I tip my hat to you, Miss Cadence. You know exactly what you want. I can tell that about you already.” He tips an imaginary hat to me, and I can’t help but imagine what he might look like in a
real
cowboy hat. The thought sends a tiny pinprick of heat to my belly, a place I haven’t felt it in a long time.
 

“I don’t think—well, I haven’t felt that way in a long time. Like I know what I want.” I’m on the edge of bursting and telling him my whole story, I realize.
 

Don’t overshare, Cadence. Not everyone wants to hear about all of your depressing bullshit.

“Oh?” Rowan’s deep, rumbling voice seems to reverberate from in the foyer, bouncing off the dark wooden floors and the surrounding walls. “I guess you just have that look about you. I’ve been wrong before, and I’ll be wrong again.”
 

I hear the porter walking around upstairs, throwing bags around in a way that suggests this is his first time handling bags. I cringe a bit and put my hand to the railing. If this man hasn’t got a hotel or a guesthouse for me, I need to get upstairs before I go and lick the side of his face. He looks like he might taste like vanilla and cinnamon, like a wintery treat in his wintery gray shirt and his dark jeans and his...
 

Is he wearing Uggs?
I put my hand to my mouth and stifle a laugh, and he follows my eyes down to his feet.
 

“Yep, these slippers are exactly what you think,” he says. A big grin moves across his face. “Laugh if you want to, but you already know it’s colder in New Mexico than you thought. And I’ll have you know that these are chocolate suede. I think they’re very manly. You know what’s not manly?”