Play Fling (A Stupid Cupid Book)

Elliott came around the desk. He shut the
door. Locked it.

Brooke’s heart thumped up her throat.

“I think I’ve made a mistake,” Brooke said,
amazed her voice didn’t crack. “I think I have to go.”

“Don’t go,” he said again, stepping
close.

His words enveloped her. Had she thought his
glasses made him irresistible? She’d been wrong. His lashes set off
depths so blue, so intense, they might penetrate her soul.

Slowly, he reached up, pushed a lock of hair
from her face. His finger ran along her cheek, to her lobe, down
her neck and up to her chin. With gentle pressure, he tipped her
chin up. Brooke’s hands shook. Her mouth watered. Her mind searched
for words and found two: don’t go.

How could she?

His gaze captivated hers. He lowered his
head. She closed her eyes. The tremble in her hands spread up her
arms, down her legs.
Yes. God, yes.
Let him kiss her. Let
her taste his lips on hers, his breath, his mouth.

“Stay,” he whispered against her lips.

She failed to shake her head, no, she
wouldn’t go. He began at her chin, a graze, and in slow succession,
breathed and kissed and wet her skin. Kisses. Tantalizing, sensual,
tickling. Around her mouth, teasing her. Away again, torture.

Her knees turned to water. She almost
whimpered. His mouth found her hungry lips.

Brooke gasped. His hands raked into her hair.
He kissed her lower lip, moved to the side, never quite meeting her
fully. Brooke moaned, awash with a full body shiver. Musk and
sandalwood intoxicated her senses. Mint, sweet on her tongue. She
swayed her weight toward his body. He slid his hand over her lower
back, steadying her.

Her lips parted, begging entry. He took it.
His tongue carefully delved, explored as her lips, suckled and
pressed. Brooke returned each caress, mindless of all but each
sensation coming over her mouth, washing her body.

Her hands rose to his chest. His roamed over
her back, ever lower, inch-by-inch to her hips. He broke the kiss
and pulled away.

Brooke opened her eyes. She could hardly
think.

He swallowed. “I want you.”

~

Praise for
Play
Fling:

“Brooke and Elliott’s story will have you
cheering, laughing and crying.” -Devin McKee, author,
Dangerous
Magic

“A must read! Scott takes cupids and love to
a whole new level in this fun-filled, heartwarming story about
falling for someone you shouldn’t, but do.” -Ann Charles, author,
Nearly Departed In Deadwood

“Chemistry you cannot deny.” -Julie Murillo,
screenwriter, editor

Also By Amber Scott

Fierce Dawn

Irish Moon

Love Lust

Wanted

Soul Search

Coming Soon:

Stealing Dusk

Enchanted Moon

Play Fling

By Amber Scott

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s
imagination and are used fictitiously and are not to be construed
as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition

Tholden Press

Copyright © 2010 by Amber Scott

Editor: Julie Murillo

Cover Artist: A. D. Holt

~

“Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with
traps.”

-Much Ado About Nothing
, William
Shakespeare

Chapter One

If Brooke Munkle checked her watch again, it
might as well be announced on loudspeaker:
Would the pathetic
owner of the rude, no-show friend please remove her denial and
vacate the big table?
Brooke glared down the lines of creamer
skinning her half empty latte cup. Her best friend, Millie, had, in
fact and without a doubt, stood her up. Brooke didn’t have ten more
minutes. She would be in class by then, forced to hand in her
paper, unread. “Is this seat taken?” a quiet, sonorous voice
asked.

Brooke locked eyes up to one fine specimen of
male. He gave her a crooked smile, the charming kind, and pushed
his glasses up his very straight nose. Her tongue sucked to the
roof of her mouth. “Umm. No.” A flutter tickled her voice. “Be my
guest.”

She straightened, gathering her papers and
stack of novels to make room where Millie should be warming space,
should
be sitting next to her. How awful.

He plopped down a stuffed file folder, his
smile brightened, and the chair he took practically screamed over
the floorboards. A stream of pages from his folder spilled onto
hers. He swept them back into the tattered manila. His loopy smile
tipped her way again.

Flutter. This time down in her belly.

Was he searching for something to say? No,
no. No need to break any ice on her account. Brooke didn’t smile
back. Or return his friendly nod. She glanced around the café,
double-checking the bookstore entrance Millie typically came
through. Three other tables sat empty. Better seats, certainly,
than this one.

She shouldn’t have taken the big table alone.
Everyone tried to muscle in on the big table. Well, he could soon
have it. Millie had five minutes left before Brooke gave up. Gaze
averted, Brooke sipped her lukewarm latte and put on a cloak of
aloof confidence. Eyebrows up, finger to her lips. Looking finely
busy and unperturbed, if she said so herself.

Her turtleneck scratched her throat and her
pulse thrummed. She kept her hands in her lap. Was it warm in the
cafe or was it him?

When Jenny, the barista, abandoned her perch
to wipe down Brooke’s already clean table
again
, no question
remained. Brooke stuck out. Jenny meant well. Her smile shined a
world of good intentions. She couldn’t know she made Brooke feel
all the worse. Like some charity case. Jenny wiped and lingered.
Smiled and wiped.

Or maybe Jenny just wanted a healthy eyeful
of broad shoulders. Shoulders angling to make Brooke relocate.
Maybe Jenny thought Brooke should move, too.

Ugh. Where the hell was Millie?

A friendly employee pitying her. A hot body
after a table. If only the café were bigger, or better populated
for a Friday afternoon, she might not feel so stark friggin’
naked.

No haven here today. The aromas of books and
coffee, the grinding noises, the shuffling paper, none of it
settled her one iota. What if she sneaked out the side entrance,
unnoticed? Millie could still show, though, perpetually tardy as
she was, and Brooke hated the thought of her finding Brooke gone.
Standing around, looking, waiting. Feeling anything like she did
now.

The guy next to her shifted. His scent wafted
her way. Earthy. Subtle. She considered sidling her chair away but
that would underline her discomfort. Brooke plucked a thread from
her slacks and paged through her term paper instead. No sense
actually reading the words in front of her. Too late to change
passive intros or mistaken homonyms. Class started in fifteen
minutes. Millie would show. She would read it. Brooke would feel
better.

Not that Millie looked forward to reading the
things for Brooke. She often complained, in fact.
“Why do you
have me read your papers on the due date? If I find something
wrong, it’s not like you can go back home and print a new one off.
Right?”

Brooke couldn’t say exactly. She just needed
Millie to take a scan. While Brooke watched. Got a gauge of what
Professor Shope’s assistant’s reaction might be. The ever-elusive
grad student screened all Shope’s papers, or so the history teacher
claimed at the close of each assignment. “The best of your work
will reach my desk, rest assured.” Or, “Mr. Jovovich gives me only
the best among you.” Her favorite, “Impress him and you might get
the chance to impress me.”

Shope opened each class by skewering the poor
bleeding carcass of whichever paper deemed the worst. At length, he
quoted then commented. Her papers—thankfully—had not been flayed
alive. Yet. Talk about humiliating. If Millie read it first, didn’t
balk or laugh, Brooke would get the small boost she needed to hand
her work over for slaughter.

At thirty-nine years old, Brooke should have
the confidence to simply hand the things over and let it ride. What
was one teacher’s criticism in the bigger scheme of life, after
all? Or his assistant’s? Millie was smart. Educated. Even for her
less than understated ways, real knowledge came out those high
gloss lips. She could trust Millie.

Brooke wasn’t even taking the class for a
grade. Still….

Her unwelcome table bully was eyeing her. She
could feel it. She rubbed her shirt’s knit cuff between her thumb
and finger.
Don’t fidget. Just keep pretending to read, appear
engrossed. He won’t interrupt. Pick up one of the novels if you
need to.
She stole a glance at the stack of novels. Longing
filled up her belly, quieting the flurry. Twenty dollars was
burning a hole in her pocket.

He cleared his throat. She glanced over. His
smile struck her hard in the belly. She gulped and looked back
down.

What if the guy wasn’t angling for the table
at all? What if he wanted…no. Couldn’t be. Of all the blondes in
this place, he wouldn’t pick the middle aged mousy one. She should
have worn a hat. Or her driving glasses. But then, she shouldn’t be
sitting alone at the coveted table that never opened up any other
day, with a stack of books she shouldn’t really buy, pretending to
read.

Where was Millie, damn it?

Brooke peeked at her watch and exhaled.
Forget it. She stood to leave.

“Excuse me,” the guy said. Even his voice was
pretty.

Brooke smiled tightly and made contact with
eyes too blue for anybody’s good. His brown-rimmed glasses framed
the blue, luring her in. “Yes?”

He paused, his mouth open, but only his hands
moved. They were nice hands. Long fingers, bronzed skin. Not soft,
but not rough either. “Can you tell me what time it is?” he said at
last.

Really? Oh, thank God. For a moment she
thought he might be about to hit on her. Must have realized she was
just a tad bit above his age bracket. And by a tad, try fifteen
years. At least. “Quarter after three,” she said and gathered her
things, pushing the stack of novels back.

Exactly enough time to walk to class and
score a window seat. She’d phone Millie on the way to be sure
nothing disastrous had happened to her. Clearance to stay nice and
mad at her. Part of her didn’t know if she should be mad. After
all, had Millie ever been on time? Oh well. Two long hours from
now, she’d be watching the sun slink behind the Sierra Nevadas, the
sky drenching in lavender, the weekend on the horizon.

“You’re leaving?”

Brooke glanced back. Blue Eyes had stood as
well and now looked at her, rather expectantly.

“Uh, yes.” Did her relief show? “It’s all
yours.”

“Oh, well, thanks,” He adjusted the tattered
folder against his hip. “But I didn’t actually want the table.”
Papers leaned out. “Do you have a class?”

He didn’t want the table? “Yes.” Brooke
frowned. “And I’m afraid I’m late.”

She turned away, blaming Millie for the pitch
in her tummy, not him or his college boy good looks. She’d be late
if she spent another minute not walking through the quad and
straight to Lincoln Hall. If the table wasn’t what he wanted, she
didn’t want to know what was. Namely, if she was.

Despite feeling his eyes following her,
Brooke stopped at the cash register and pushed her twenty-dollar
bill across the laminate divide. Her hand shook. Jenny glanced up
from her worn pamphlet, covering it with both hands. “Can I get you
something to go?”