Stay the Night (10 page)

She nodded, filing that away for later.

“The thing about Mac is that he’s loyal and not a player,” Rowdy continued. “At least not like some of the guys in sports. It’s easy to sleep around with all the travel and fame, but Mac doesn’t.”

“I don’t know why I’d care about that.”

He tugged her hair. “Come on, Goldie. You know he’s a stud.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” she lied.

“Uh-huh.” He grinned mischievously at her. “But I can understand how I’d distract you from his sissy-boy looks.”

“Uh-huh,” she replied with a grin. She got up, leaving her camera on the table. “Know where I can find him?”

“Down the hall, second room to the last, on the left. He’s having alone time with his friends, but just go in.”

“He has friends?”

“Smart ass.”

Smirking, she turned to go find the elusive footballer. But then she paused and looked over her shoulder. “Thanks, Rowdy. I really mean it.”

He grinned. “Like I said, I like you, Goldie.”

She heard them before she even opened the door. It sounded like combat, or like the cock fights she took photos of in Puerto Rico one time.

Pressing her ear to the door, she listened. There was a profound silence, and then rousing cheer followed by everyone in the room talking at once.

Shrugging, she opened the door and stepped in.

Eight pairs of eyes turned on her, and then she was hit by a wall of testosterone.

She paused in the doorway of the mini theater, complete with a row of oversized leather reclining seats. Two had large men sprawled in them. Another three guys were sitting on the floor. Two men stood to the side, riveted on the TV, which flickered with a football match.

MacNiven sat on one of the recliners, a king looking over his subjects. He reclined in his seat, the leg completely out, nursing a beer that still looked full. She looked for empty bottles around him, but there weren’t any, and she knew instinctively it was because he was training. When Gigi was prepping for a role, she was strict about her intake, too.

Titania’s grip tightened on Psyche, wishing she could take the camera out and capture the hidden moments in this vignette, like the grace of the men on the floor and the casual way they lounged, and the glistening silver champagne bucket that held beer. Or the raw masculine beauty of the group. She wasn’t sure she’d ever been around such stark male magnificence.

Only MacNiven hadn’t given her permission, and earning his trust was crucial. He’d resent it if she took photos without his consent, and that didn’t sit well with her for some reason. So she sighed and kept her urges under control. For some reason that was difficult around him.

“Well, hello,” one of the men from the couch said as he stood. He had a smile that said he was sexy and he knew it. His outstretched hand took hers and drew her closer into the room. “And who are you?”

“No one to you, George,” MacNiven growled from his throne. “Let her go.”

George never took his eyes off her. “I don’t think you’re no one, sweetheart. What do you think?”

“I think I’m disturbing your football match.” She withdrew her hand and glanced at MacNiven. “Rowdy told me to come back.”

“Rowdy has a misplaced sense of humor.”

One of the men already standing smiled warmly at her. “You should stay now that you’re here. You’re prettier to look at than these blokes.”

“You smell nicer, too,” another one said.

“Hey, I smell fresh as a daisy.” Another one sniffed under his arms. “I showered today.”

She shook her head. “I don’t—”

“Ian,” George said, watching her, “don’t be rude. Ask your friend to stay.”

She tried not to grin as MacNiven shot nonverbal daggers at his bold friend. She glanced at MacNiven and raised her brows.

He exhaled as though he were beleaguered. “Fine. Stay. Don’t encourage them though. I won’t be held responsible.”

“He
is
responsible,” one of the men on the floor contradicted, reaching to hand her a beer bottle. “He’s our captain.”

She took the beer and sat in the closest free recliner, which happened to be next to MacNiven. “You’re his teammates?” she asked, surprised though she didn’t know why.

“They came to visit,” MacNiven said simply, taking a stingy sip of his beer. “I couldn’t stop them.”

That launched into a series of protests and insults that escalated and had a lot to do with their mothers. Titania listened and watched it all, wishing she could see it through her lens, too, where everything was refined and clarified.

“Do you have a name, sweetheart?” George asked as he sat down on the armrest of her chair.

“Titania.”

“How do you know Mac, Titania?” one of the other men said.

She glanced at MacNiven, wondering how to answer, but she couldn’t read anything in his expression so she just told the truth. “I’m discussing doing a feature on him.”

The men grinned, a couple of them snickering. One said, “All the women want to feature Mac.”

Titania took a sip of her beer, nodding her head. “It’s understandable. He’s pretty.”

“Pretty?” MacNiven sat up, a frown marring his forehead, as though she just accused him of wearing a pink tutu.

She shrugged. “You are pretty. I think any of your men would agree.”

That launched a discussion among them about who was the prettiest of them all. One of them said it was the Chunk, whoever that was. It sparked a round of laughter and even a slight smile from MacNiven.

The easy camaraderie they all shared was enviable and lovely. The men would do anything for MacNiven, and the same went for him—it was obvious. They loved each other even though they might drive each other occasionally mad. This was what family looked like.

Her family looked like this.

She blinked in surprise at the realization. How many times in the past few weeks had she seen a similar scene, only at the South Street house or the local pub? The cast was different, but the sentiment was the same.

And she shared that with them, she realized with sudden clarity. She may not like it, it may aggravate her, sometimes she may want to strangle someone, but she was part of it nonetheless, the same way MacNiven was part of this group.

She waited to feel trapped or resentful, but really it felt welcoming. Nice, even.

What had happened to her?

George leaned toward her. “If I had to vote, I’d say you were the prettiest.”

Glaring, MacNiven pushed up the armrest between them and pulled her closer to him. “Back off, George.”

The man studied MacNiven’s face. “It’s that way, is it?”

“Yes.”

Frowning, Titania stared at MacNiven. He was obviously staking a claim. She just didn’t understand why. Because he wanted to keep her away from his teammates, or because he wanted to keep her for himself?

Project much, Tawny? she heard Gigi in her head.

MacNiven lowered his head to whisper in her ear. “Are you all right?”

No, she wasn’t. His leg was pressed against hers, and she could feel the warmth of him through her jeans—and it heated her up. His scent wrapped around her, making her want to burrow her nose in his neck and just inhale.

If she were Gigi, she’d just do it. Her sister wouldn’t have hesitated to express how she felt, to take what she wanted, even if the room was full of other people.

Too bad she wasn’t.

“Titania?” he said, his hand brushing hers.

Was he going to hold her hand in front of his teammates? She stiffened, feeling like she was an adolescent all over again and navigating boy-girl relationships for the first time. Very badly, too. “I’m fine,” she managed to croak, scooting to the right to give her enough space to breathe.

He looked at her like he couldn’t figure her out.

She didn’t blame him.

Chapter Nine

Ian lay on the yoga mat, prone. He could feel every muscle in his body—not because he was so connected to his physical being but because he was so sore.

Every part of him hurt. Muscles he didn’t know he had ached with sullen vengeance. Simply lying flat was too much effort.

Rowdy walked in and stood over him with his hands on his hips. “You’re supposed to be doing the video.”

“I’m doing yoga. Corpse pose.”

“Huh.” Rowdy scratched his head. “They aren’t doing that in the video right now.”

“I’m advanced.”

“Huh,” his friend said again. Then he shook his head. “Whatev, dude. There’s someone here for you.”

Titania.
Ian’s smile faded in the wake of remembering the feel of her body pressed next to his as they shared a seat. She’d smelled like the sun, and he’d wanted to bask in her. He hadn’t thought of sex in so long, but need and desire had come crashing back, right there with his boys around him. Every time she’d wiggled, he’d stiffened—literally. He hadn’t been able to stop from imagining her lithe body wiggling on top of his.

That image had kept him up all night.

Thank goodness she’d left. There was no telling what could have happened. She was dangerous. His head was screwed up enough right now without adding her to the mix. “I don’t want to see her.”

“Good, because this is a him.” Rowdy crossed his arms. “It’s the kid again. Stanton Frank.”

Ian sat up suddenly. “No.”

“He seems like a good kid, even though his name is backwards.” Rowdy shrugged. “Why would someone do that to their kid? Isn’t childhood hard enough without saddling him with a name like Stanton? Anyway, I told him you were working out and that he should come back later.”

“He’s the kid who ran into me.”

“You don’t say?” Rowdy threw his hands in the air, exaggerating surprise. He dropped the act abruptly. “I know. I met him before, remember? The poor pup still has his tail between his legs. Do you know what you’re going to say to him when you see him?”

Ian got to his feet and grabbed a towel, even though he hadn’t done anything to sweat. “I’m not going to see him.”

“You have to. It’s part of the healing process.”

“Stop managing me. You’re here to help me play again, not to be my therapist.”

“Dude, this is
part
of the healing process.”

It wasn’t for him. The last thing he needed was to revisit that day.

“You’re going to be stubborn about this, aren’t you?” Rowdy asked.

“No.”

“You seem stubborn.”

“Your perspective isn’t the most impartial, is it?”

Rowdy shook his head like he was disappointed in him. “Fine. I’ll get rid of him, but you’re being an idiot.”

He watched his friend walk out. He should have been relieved but mostly he felt like he’d let Rowdy down.

He hated that feeling.

He walked out into the main room and kitchen area, wanting to say something to Rowdy but not entirely sure what that was.

Fortunately Rowdy wasn’t there, so it was a moot point.

Unfortunately, Titania
was
there, her camera next to her. She turned around and saw him before he could quietly walk away.

“Hey,” she said carefully, looking at him like he might bite.

After the other night, it’d been a definite possibility. “What are you doing?”

“Eating.” She held up a bag of Wotsits. “Hungry?”

He angled the bag to read the ingredients. “This is shite. How can you eat this?”

She looked at him as she extracted another cheesy puff and took a deliberate bite.

Shaking his head, he took it away from her hand threw it away.

“Hey.” She started for the garbage.

“Stop that. I’ll fix you real food,” he said, not sure why he cared that she not pollute her body.

Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Because he was mad. “You’re going to argue about being fed?”

She grinned crookedly. “That seems silly, doesn’t it?”

Something in his chest
fluttered
. It’d happened to the heroine in the book he was reading and he’d scoffed, thinking it was romantic nonsense.

But it just happened to him, and if he were being honest it’d happened once or twice that night in his media room. He gave a silent apology to the romance author for disbelieving her as he seasoned chicken breasts and stuck them in the broiler.

“Your refrigerator is well-stocked,” Titania said, leaning on her elbows as she watched him. Her hand gripped her camera.

He wondered if she knew how she looked, as though she were physically restraining herself from taking his picture.

She did it for him, because he’d asked her not to.

He stopped abruptly, staring at the chopping board in his hand. Why did she care?

“Are you stuck?” she asked, breaking him out of his reverie. “I’d offer to help but my idea of cooking is popping a prepared meal from Harrod’s in the microwave.”

“You never learned to cook?”

She shrugged. “I’m happy eating the things that may kill me one day. They’re delicious.”

He shook his head. “It’s a wonder you don’t weigh more.”

“Genetics.” She frowned at that, looking introspective.

“You always look like that”—he pointed the cucumber in his hand at her face—“when you talk about your family.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Family is complicated and baffling.”

“Mine isn’t.”

“Then count yourself lucky.” She nodded at the salad he was assembling. “Did your mum teach you to cook?”

“No, I took a class on healthy cooking.” He chopped the cucumbers quickly and tossed them in a bowl with the tomatoes and peppers he’d already cut. “Eating out all the time while we travel takes its toll.”

“That’s one of my favorite things about traveling, eating different things.”

She sounded so wistful he looked up. “If you like traveling so much, why are you here bent on getting me?”

“Change of situation,” she said, sitting up stiff. She pouted at her camera. “If you’d only cooperate I’d be out of your hair. All my problems would be solved if you just agreed to sit for me.”

“You could have just taken my pictures without consent,” he pointed out as he began to make a dressing.

“That’s not how I work. The pictures will be better with your cooperation.”

“What problems do you have?”

“Your food is burning,” she said, pointing at the stove.