Love of the Game (31 page)

Don't miss the next sweet and sexy novel from

New York Times
bestselling author

LORI WILDE

A WEDDING FOR CHRISTMAS

A TWILIGHT, TEXAS NOVEL

Coming October 2016 from Avon Books!

Read on for a sneak peek . . .

Los Angeles, California

December 23, 7:00
P.M.

K
atie Cheek caught a glimpse of herself in the plate glass window as she strode toward the front entrance of the old warehouse-turned-trendy-art-museum in downtown LA, and teetered in her six-inch platform heels.

Whoa!

She stopped. Stared openmouthed. Holy cow, who was that?

Vamp.

Smoking hot in a skintight, scarlet, designer sheath dress she'd borrowed from the closet of Gabi Preston, the woman she'd swapped houses with for the Christmas holidays. Trading in her tiny yurt in the sleepy tourist town of Twilight, Texas, for a Malibu beach condo, knowing full well she'd gotten the better end of that bargain.

Across the street, a man whistled long and loud. “Yo, mommy, I'd love to find you in my Christmas stocking.”

Katie blushed, and ducked her head to hide an involuntary smile, liking this new her, and freedom from the fishbowl of her hometown.

That's why she was here, to explore her options. And that included her sexuality.

She had changed a lot since high school. LASIK surgery dispensed with thick-lensed glasses. Braces corrected a severe overbite. Brazilian blowouts tamed her frizzy curls. Even so, she had never grown comfortable with catcalls and whistles.

“Brillo hair,” kids had called her, or other old standbys like four eyes, pencil-neck geek, and train tracks.

In public, Katie would laugh and pretend the name-calling didn't bother her, but when she got home, she'd cry to her mother.

Mom would give her a cookie, kiss her forehead, and say, “You won't always be an ugly duckling, sweetheart. One day you're going to turn into a beautiful swan. Just you wait and see.”

The woman in the glass lifted her chin and triumphantly met her eyes. Today, decked out in Gabi's expensive clothing, no one could call her an ugly duckling.

People streamed into the entrance of the star-studded, red-carpet charity event—twinkle lights glittered, two huge Christmas trees laden with numerous ornaments flanked the doorway. The sounds of a band playing, “All I Want for Christmas is You” spilled into the street along with the air-conditioning. It felt strange, celebrating Christmas in warm weather among strangers.

But that was why she'd come here. To escape the claustrophobia of her hometown and the over-the-top, nonstop holiday festivities. Gabi had urged her to use her invitation to the charity ball, relax, have a good time and enjoy herself. So here she was.

It was hard to relax among gold jewelry, Rolexes, Manolo Blahniks, and Rodeo Drive finery. Surrounded by the wealth, opulence and celebrity of Hollywood, Katie's confidence wobbled a bit, and the urge to run flooded her.

Outsider.

She didn't belong.
C'mon, Swan, you got this.
She squared her shoulders, and strutted into the event like she was the star attraction.

And people noticed.

Heads turned. Eyes popped. Several men murmured, “Who's that woman in red?”

Me,
she thought proudly.
It's me.
Small town, unemployed girl that everyone back home felt sorry for because her fiancé had died tragically.

But here in LA, over the course of the last three weeks, she'd transformed. No more almost-bride turned widow-to-be. She was free.

Guilt carved a slick hole in her belly. Why did letting go of the dream feel so disloyal? Was it because she'd started to come alive again? Was that so wrong?

Matt had been gone a little over a year, killed in a boating accident, and although there were times when her emotions were still shaky, there were other times when she couldn't even remember what he'd looked like, or who she'd been when she was with him.

That was another reason she'd fled Twilight for the holidays. The house swap gave her a chance to discover who she was without a man or a job or a community.

She was three months from turning twenty-seven, high time to find her real place in the world. Sweep the stars from her eyes. If she'd learned anything this past year, it was this. Romantic fantasies were bullshit and she wasn't going to waste another second
on wishes and regrets. She was going to live every day to the fullest.

Girl-Next-Door-Gone-Wild.

Well sorta. Wildish.

Inside the museum, she spied an actor she'd been infatuated with as a kid. An actor who reminded her a bit of the first real life guy she'd ever had a crush on.

Ryder Southerland.

Ugh. Another memory she didn't want tromping in her head.

The actor looked worse for the wear. She wondered about Ryder. She hadn't seen the man in twelve years. How would he look today?

Forget Ryder.

Ancient history so old it had arthritis. Focus. Tonight have fun. Mingle. Dance. She studied the roomful of strangers, and anxiety sent her heart swooping to her feet.

Um, maybe she'd have a drink first. Beeline it to the bar. Yes, indeedy.

But before she could put that plan in motion, her cell phone buzzed inside her purse. She almost ignored it, but what if it was Gabi feeling lonely in a strange town this close to Christmas, and needing a shot of confidence? Twilight, and the town's perpetual Christmas cheer, could be a bit hard to digest if you weren't in a happy, happy, joy, joy state of mind.

Stepping from the main flow of foot traffic, Katie pulled the phone from her purse and checked the caller ID. No, not Gabi, but rather it was Emma, her sister-in-law, who was married to Katie's brother Sam.

“Hello, Em,” she answered, scooting to a nearby alcove, and putting a hand to her other ear to block out the hubbub.

“Auntie Katie?”

It wasn't Emma, but her four-year-old daughter, Lauren, Katie's niece.

“Hi, honey.” Katie smiled. Lauren was fascinated with phones, and loved calling people. “Does your mommy know you've got her cell phone?”

“She's inna baffroom. I was gonna play Fruit Ninja, but I saw your pitcher on the phone and calleded you instead.” Lauren sounded pleased with herself.

“That's so sweet of you to call me.”

“Where are you, auntie?”

“I'm in California.”

“Where da?”

“Near the ocean.”

“Oh.” Lauren paused. “Dat's a long way off.”

“It is.”

“So you not gonna be home for Pop-pop and Nanny's Christmas party?”

“I'm afraid not,” Katie said. “But I'll see you later when I get home on Christmas night.”

“But . . . but . . . it won't be the same,” Lauren said, sounding years beyond her age.

“I know, but I'll bring you a present.”

“From California?”

“From California.”

“I miss you.” Lauren's voice saddened. “You been gone a long, long time and no one plays tea party with me as good as you.”

Katie's heart tugged. When she'd taken off to California for three weeks during the holidays, she never considered how it might affect her niece. “We'll play tea party as soon as I get home. I promise.”

“Okay. Bye.” Lauren hung up, leaving Katie a bit disoriented. Her body was in LA, but her mind and her spirit had traveled to Twilight.

She tucked her phone in her purse. Glanced around. Now what was she doing again?

Oh, yes, getting a drink to steady her nerves. She snaked her way past people and art exhibits, looking for a cash bar with a short line, and finally found one. She queued up, took a deep calming breath, guilt prickling her for standing up Lauren on Christmas Eve.

“Buy you a drink?”

She glanced over to see a blond man in sunshades, fashionably ripped jeans, and crisp beige shirt with four buttons undone showing off a shag rug chest. He sported impossibly straight, white teeth and a smile that rubbed her the wrong way.

“I'm good, thanks,” she said, hoping to discourage him.

The guy couldn't take a hint. He stepped closer, crowding her space. “I won't slip you a roofie, I swear.”

She hadn't considered that possibility. As a rule of thumb, people in Twilight didn't get roofied. But the look in his eye and his aggressive body language told her he wasn't above such a stunt.

The band shifted into a bouncy version of “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree” and people started dancing around the exhibits.

Katie glued on a stiff smile, kept her voice light, but firm. “I do appreciate the offer, but I prefer to buy my own drinks.”

“Cock tease.”

“Excuse me?” Startled, she thought she must have misunderstood what he said.

“You heard me. You stroll in here, wearing a slut dress and fuck-me-shoes and you turn down my offer of a drink? What a stuck-up bitch.” He snarled.

Stunned by the creep's verbal attack, Katie stood
there with her mouth hanging open, her brain trying to process what was happening.

What shocked her was the fact that no one intervened. If this had happened in Twilight, half-a-dozen gallant cowboys would have jumped to her aid and challenged the guy.

Where was a knight-in-shining-armor when you needed one?

Katie pivoted on her heels, rushed through the crowd. Maybe no one had spoken up because of the way she was dressed. Did people believe she was asking for that treatment?

No
.

That was her old childhood insecurity talking. Plenty of other women were wearing formfitting clothes, and sexpot stilettos. Still, it disturbed her to think that the way she was dressed—the clothes she'd worn precisely because they made her feel empowered—had spurred the jerk's ugly behavior.

Shame. She was ashamed.

In her mind she heard the voice of the grief counselor she'd visited after Matt's death. Dr. Finley had been kind, but with a no bullshit approach to life.
The guy is a narcissist, antisocial jerk. Don't let him define you.

She wasn't, but she was done for the day. She'd had enough of glittery charity galas. Problem was, in the labyrinth of the exhibits, she'd lost her bearings.

Where was the front entrance?

Rounding a corner, she glanced over her shoulder to make sure the creep wasn't coming after her, and smacked hard into a young woman holding a small plate of food.

“Oof!” exclaimed the woman. She had Angelina
Jolie lips that appeared to be courtesy of an excessive amount of filler, and an overly thin neck that made her head look like a lollipop on a stick. The woman fumbled her plate, and spilled food down the front of Katie's dress.

The plate clattered to the floor, but thankfully didn't shatter. A big blob of something mushy and green, which Katie initially thought was guacamole, flipped into her cleavage, slid down into her bra.

Ugh. What a mess. She prayed Gabi's dress wasn't ruined.

The Angelina lookalike glowered. “Excuse you.”

Katie raised her hands in apologetic surrender. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I should have been watching where I was going.”

“Yes, you should have,” the woman chided, but her tone softened.

The cold green mush that had settled between her breasts started burning her skin. A lot. Katie stared down, and saw a bright red rash spreading over her chest.

“Wh . . . what . . . is that stuff?” She gasped.

“Oh, dude,” said Lollipop Angelina. “That's sick. Are you allergic to wasabi?”

Katie didn't know, but her breasts were ablaze. She had to wash it off. ASAP! “Bathroom?”

“Up those stairs.” The young woman pointed at a metal staircase leading to a second level.

“Thanks.” With energy born of pain, Katie flew toward the stairs in search of salvation, fanning her chest with a hand. But when she got to the bottom of the steps, a red velvet rope was stretched across the bottom, and a posted sign announced C
LOSED
F
OR
P
RIVATE
P
ARTY
.

“B
OLO. BOLO
. Be on the lookout for a hot blonde in a red dress.”

Personal bodyguard Ryder Southerland resisted an eye roll, and muttered into the tiny microphone clipped to his lapel. “I know what a BOLO is, Messer, and I don't need an update every time you spy a good-looking woman.”

“
Not
a hot chick alert. Repeat this is not merely a hot chick alert, although she does sizzle. It's Ketchum's stalker.”

Les Ketchum, the rodeo star turned country and western chart-topping singer, that Ryder had been hired to protect. Two weeks ago Les had broken things off with a buckle bunny in possession of a mean streak who couldn't seem to take
hasta la vista, baby
, for the brush-off it was.

Ryder's entire body tensed, and he pressed a hand to the Bluetooth device that fed Messer's voice into his ear. “You sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Where?” Ryder leaned over the balcony railing, scanning the well-heeled crowd milling in the art gallery below.

You'd think a hot blonde in a red dress wouldn't be that hard to spot, but since it was a celebrity-studded holiday bash, a surprising number of women were wearing red. And sun-drenched LA had a knack for manufacturing blondes.

“You got Ketchum in sight?” Messer asked.

“Yes.” Ryder swung his gaze to his client who was kissing a busty redhead known for her appearances in makeup commercials, underneath a bouquet of mistletoe. “Does your red-dress blonde look armed?”

“It'd have to be in her purse. That dress is spray-painted on. Couldn't hide anything underneath that.”

“Can you still see her?”

“Negatory. She disappeared in the crowd.”

“Stop talking, and freaking follow her.”

“I'm trying, but some drunk sitcom-actress just took off her top, and there's a hundred guys in my way.”

This time, Ryder did roll his eyes.

Trite. His job was trite. Protecting spoiled celebrities from overly zealous fans who thought getting near them meant something special. But after four years in the Middle East, and an unpleasant bout of PTSD, Ryder was good with trite.