The Game of Love (4 page)

Brett knuckled the corner of his eye. “So he told you about that one, huh?”

“Yup. Didn’t mention what started it, though.” She continued walking and he followed.

“The color blue.”

“The color…blue…” Chris shook her head. It was true what they said. The Y chromosome really was just a damaged X. “You bloodied each other up because of the color blue?”

He shrugged. “Hey, to a five-year-old, it was a serious issue.” Then he grinned. “Might have also had something to do with a mutual crush on a certain girl named Caroline.”

“Ah.” The universe once again made sense. They’d reached the hood of her car. She turned to him. “So now what?”

“Now we figure something out.” He ran a hand over his closely buzzed hair. “We don’t really have an option. I refuse to give up the cash to the basketball team.”

She had to smile. His competitive streak was a mile wide—yet another thing she could relate to. “Oh, on that we both agree completely. But what do we do about it?”

“We talk.” A flash of white teeth before he continued. “We could meet at Beans tomorrow.” She stared at him. “Sorry, forgot you’re still new. It’s a coffee house downtown. I like to use local businesses when I can. And it just so happens Beans has the best coffee, anyway. It’s on Western, impossible to miss.”

Supporting local business. Nice. “That sounds good. Ten tomorrow morning?” He nodded. “All right. Well, bye.” He didn’t move. She blew a piece of hair off her forehead and walked to the driver’s side of her car.

He followed her to the door and reached the handle before she did. His arm brushed against her breast in an almost-caress and her nipples tightened in automatic response. She wanted to yell at him, call him pathetic for copping a feel in the most juvenile way possible. But looking back, his face was completely impassive, as if he didn’t even know what part of her body he’d brushed up against.

She spoke, keeping her voice light. “You know, you really do need to stop trying to take my car.”

His chuckle was low, moving the fine wisps of hair next to her ear. “I have my car. You’ve seen it. This is just those manners again at work. I open doors for ladies, period.”

She spun around, then regretted it immediately. He hadn’t moved back, and with his hand on her door handle, she was almost caged in. Adrenaline rushed her body and she felt the fight-or-flight instinct so strong, she locked her knees to keep from kicking him and running. When she looked up, he was staring at her.

“You just went chalk-white. You feeling okay?”

When he didn’t make a move to touch her, she felt the panic recede, replaced by embarrassment. “Yeah. I spun around too fast. Just light-headed.”

His dark brows scrunched together in the most adorable way, and she plastered her hand against the hot metal of her car to keep from reaching up and smoothing the lines away. “Should you drive?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine.” But his concern was nice. Unexpected but very nice. “So, Beans tomorrow at ten.” He didn’t budge. “What?”

He raised one brow, then smiled. “I can’t open the door if you’re plastered against it.”

“Oh.” She shifted to her right, feeling like a moron as he opened the door and held it for her so she could slip in. The sun had turned her interior into a sauna, and she quickly started the car to get the air flowing before he closed the door. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He gave her an easy grin. Just before he shut the door, he leaned down. “Guess we’re getting that cup of coffee after all.”

Beans was a lovable little squatty body with googly eyes, short fat legs, ears as tall as a rabbit’s and a big underbite. Beans, the dog, anyway. A Boston terrier with more personality than brain cells or good looks, he was the namesake for the coffee house that sat in the middle of what could pass for Milton’s downtown area.

The owner, a little blue-haired lady named Matilda Brown, brought the dog with her every day to the old brick building with concrete floors. Beans, the establishment, had overstuffed armchairs, coffee tables where you could put your feet up and nobody would care, and beanbag chairs scattered on colorful area rugs. When you opened the door, the place practically sighed with contentment and said, “Come on in, make yourself comfy.”

“Hey, Coach Wallace,” a man said, crossing the parking lot with his hands full of coffee cups. Brett nodded in greeting, then saw the guy fumble for the door. He reached over and pulled it open.

“Thanks,” the stranger said. “Looking forward to the upcoming season. Hope the boys bring home the big trophy this year.”

“So do we.” He patted the hood of the car and headed down the sidewalk.

The best thing about Beans was how involved the business was in the community. Where other stores or restaurants might scorn high school students hanging around for hours on end, savoring one cup of coffee and doing their homework, nobody at Beans minded. Instead of hanging prints of impressionist paintings or playing elevator music, Matilda showcased the artwork from all the local schools, displayed the picture of the Little League teams the shop sponsored over the years and invited the local garage bands to play on Saturday nights. Pretension had no place in the little shop. It was the perfect spot to have a casual convo with Chris about the financial situation.

He’d given some thought as to how to approach the Amazon about the money. She wasn’t going to be a pushover, and that excited him. It had been too long since a woman didn’t fall at his feet and treat him like a god.

Plus, he just plain liked a challenge.

Inside, the smell of coffee mixed with baked goodies had his mouth watering while he searched for Chris. She wasn’t standing in line or sitting in any of the nearby tables. He stepped off to the side, determined to wait for her. Plus—he checked his watch—she was now five minutes late. He’d give her some hell for that…all in the spirit of fun, of course.

His stomach growled and he was about to order a blueberry muffin—manners be damned—when he heard a throaty chuckle and a voice that sounded very much like the Amazon’s. He took a few steps to the left and caught a glimpse of her.

She was sitting on the floor, feet tucked under her, with Beans in her lap. His head was hanging off one jean-clad thigh. The little guy’s eyes were rolled back in pure bliss. Her hand scratched his belly, and one fat leg twitched in canine ecstasy.

Wouldn’t mind that hand scratching my belly.
His body tightened with the thought, and he shook his leg a little to stop the beginning of an erection. Approaching a man-hater with a hard-on seemed like a bad idea. He walked up behind her. “Making friends?”

She jerked, then her spine straightened into posture nuns would be proud of and she turned her head. “He’s hard to resist, really.” Another belly rub. “You’re late.”

He crouched down to sit on his heels, and his knees spanned to either side of her arms. Reaching around, he scratched Beans behind the ears. Brett was positive the dog actually sighed with happiness. “I’ve been here, just didn’t think to look for you on the floor.”

“Ah, well.” She shifted and Beans reluctantly left his throne of pleasure, trotting off to seek out other unsuspecting customers.

He stood and held out his hand. After a few moments of scrutiny, she apparently decided it was safe enough and put her hand in his.

For a woman as fit and muscular as she was, the delicate hand was such a contrast. Taking care not to squeeze too hard, he pulled her up, then headed to a nearby table. Something tugged at him and he turned around.

She raised an eyebrow, then glanced down at their still-joined hands. “You forgot to give something back.”

He dropped her hand like it was on fire, and waited until she bent over to grab her messenger bag to wipe his damp palm on his shorts. He tried to think of a good comeback but his mind went oh-so-conveniently blank. Yup, he was fifteen again. When holding a girl’s hand would make his palms sweat and talking to the female species could turn his mind into a clean slate. To fill the void, he asked, “What do you want?”

She sat down. “Iced coffee with chocolate, please.”

He walked up to the line and ordered their drinks, treating himself to a pep talk while waiting.

You’re acting like a moron. Pull it together, Wallace. For fuck’s sake, you weren’t this tongue-tied at the Playboy pool party.

By the time he returned to the table, he was in control. He was in charge. He was Brett Wallace, dammit, and he wasn’t going to let one woman with a nice ass and soft brown eyes push him around.

He handed her the drink over her shoulder. She looked up and smiled, saying thanks. The table was covered with notepads and pens. And when he sat down across from her, she reached in her bag and brought out a pair of glasses.

His body froze, hand clutched around his drink.
Naughty librarian daydream come to life.

Oh, good Christ. He shoved the thought into the back of his mind. She wore them more like armor than fashionable eyewear. But sexy armor. The simple wire frames suited her. She probably thought she looked nerdy—or maybe unapproachable—in them.

He forced himself to settle into the chair across from her. His legs, cramped under the table, brushed against hers. After a moment she stiffened, then jerked her legs away with a huff.

His gut told him that this wasn’t just a personal-space issue. It was the move of a woman frustrated with her own reaction to his touch.

Interesting.

“So I guess the best place to start is to give the reasons we gave Jared for why we want the money, and then we can go from there.” That voice was all business. Her pen poised above the paper, she looked expectantly at him. “What were your reasons for wanting the scoreboard?”

He glanced back and forth between the pen and her face. “First of all, scoreboards aren’t indestructible. Since they’re never taken down, they’re subjected to all the elements and can take a serious beating. Ours is beginning to rust to the point—are you seriously taking notes?”

The scratching of pen on paper stopped and her head jerked up. Her glasses slipped down, and to keep them up she scrunched her nose in the most stupidly adorable way. It made him want to push them up with his finger and kiss her nose.

Kiss her nose? God, Brett. Get a hold of yourself.

“I want to remember this.” When he raised one brow, she scowled. “It helps me concentrate. Get over it.”

He shrugged. “Fine. The scoreboard is starting to look bad, and by the end of the season it’s going to look horrible.”

She kept her head down. “I believe your words at the meeting were, ‘It looks like shit.’”

“All right, so I was trying to be PC this time. Sue me. It looks like shit now, it’ll only get worse. Yeah, we could wait until it’s at death’s door to replace it, but why wait when the money is there?”

Seeing her hand moving furiously over the paper trying to keep up, he paused until the scratching stopped. Was she actually taking notes or just scribbling “I hate men” over and over?

“I know you don’t understand why it matters, since it’s still functional. I get that thought process. But understand this. What sport has the biggest crowd? What’s the most popular? What puts the butts in the seats?”

Her head jerked up and her eyes narrowed into slits. If looks could kill…he’d be buried under the fifty-yard line.

“I know that sounds rude, but it’s the truth. Football brings in the biggest crowds. Crowds pay money. Money that ends up going back to the athletic department, and is spent on not just the football team.” He shrugged and broke off a chunk of muffin ready to pop in his mouth. “It’s the biggest income-maker, as far as sports go.”

Chris tilted her head to one side. She did that a lot and almost always followed it with an insult. So he cut her off at the pass with more logic.

“The more professional the field looks, the more the spectators get into it. That includes alumni, who happen to be the biggest donors. Hell, the person who sent in the bonus was probably an alum. And if we’re showcasing shit, that reflects poorly on us.”

“Kind of like when the girls’ tennis team shows up to the first away match in rags?” Her voice was sweet as honey.

“I’m not saying it’s right, I’m saying how it is. Football is the draw. Most people won’t see the tennis team—besides their parents, I mean. Is that unfortunate? Sure. All sports need support. But life isn’t full of fuzzy puppies and shiny rainbows. In my opinion, the best way to make everyone happy is make the regular donors happy. That would be with a nice-looking scoreboard.”

Leaning back in his chair, he popped a chunk of muffin in his mouth, content with the way he’d presented his idea. She hadn’t called him an ape or a chauvinist yet, so that was a good sign.

She continued to scribble on the pad of paper, her hand moving in harsh, furious strokes. He could see the outside of her pinky was shaded black, probably from not letting the ink dry on the paper.

She was a pisser, all right. And really, she was the first woman he’d met in years who wasn’t working an angle on him. She hadn’t played the coy game to lure him into her web, hadn’t made a move. In fact, he probably held as much appeal to her as a bug on a windshield. Just something she had to deal with until it was convenient to wipe it out of the way.

So different from Lilith. Master manipulator, that one. Three years into the NFL, he became used to women expecting flashy gifts. So when a teammate’s wife introduced her and she’d seemed reluctant instead of eager, he’d been intrigued. When he gave her a gift, she’d try to refuse it, embarrassed that he’d spent money on her. Protested when he flew them to the Bahamas for a long weekend. He found her charming and the complete opposite of all the obvious money-grubbers he’d been used to.

And then they’d married, and oh God had he been duped. She worked him good. And he’d felt like an idiot ever since.

Worked him good…was that this one’s angle? He looked once more at the Amazon sitting across from him. She was still writing, and some stray pieces had escaped her ponytail. Without looking up, she took a sip from her iced coffee. Then she glanced up, and her eyes widened.

“What?” She dragged a wrist across her chin. “Do I have something on my face?” When he shook his head, she raised her eyebrows and shrugged. She popped the top off her drink and chased an ice cube around the rim of her cup until she caught it between her teeth and crunched.

He had to know. It was going to dig at him from now to doomsday if he didn’t find out. Was she really immune to all the qualities that had other women pining for him? Did the money, the prestige, the brush with fame mean nothing? Or was this some sort of new angle, some untried method to secure a sugar daddy?

“I didn’t always coach football.” He worked to keep his voice easy but couldn’t control the poker-tell as his fingers picked the muffin apart until it crumbled into a mess on the plate.

She didn’t say a word, just blinked, her expression blank, mouth slightly parted. She looked like a cartoon owl.

“I played in the NFL for about ten years.”

Her expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes. “Oh, really?”

He told himself to back off, to let it go. He’d thrown out the rope and she’d either ignore it or hang herself with it in the days to come. But some primal need to know where she stood on the gold-digger scale now pushed him over the edge. “I played for the New York Liberties.”

“That’s nice.” He might as well have told her he had eggs for breakfast for all the interest she was showing in the conversation.

“Does knowing a pro athlete excite you?” The instant the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to snatch them back. Turn the clock back ten minutes, to when he hadn’t acted like an ass. Or ten years, to when he hadn’t had the immediate suspicion that every woman was after his credit card.

Those deep brown eyes narrowed into slits and her hand squeezed the pen until her knuckles turned white. Her lips thinned as she pressed them together, and she now looked exactly like a librarian. Hold the “naughty.”

Then those same eyes softened, grew heavy-lidded. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and worried it for a moment as she traced a line of condensation around her cup. “Excite me…sexually, you mean?”

His gut churned, and he felt the surprising sting of disappointment. He’d hoped the Amazon wouldn’t be like the others, the women who got off on having as many pro athletes in their bed as possible. A pro-ho. He’d thought he wanted to know, but now…“Forget I asked.”

“No, I don’t think I can.” She tapped the pen on the paper for a minute, then leaned forward over the table. Her T-shirt covered any possible cleavage, but the movement still had her breasts pushing against the shirt. Damn if she wasn’t working him. And double damn that he still noticed, still wanted her even after learning what she was after.

She glanced to the left, then right. Her voice dropped, and she whispered, “See, I have to tell you a little secret.”

God. If she confessed to having a “thing” for athletes, he’d throw up.

She looked at him, all pretense of sex kitten gone. Her gaze was sharp, cutting through him. “This thing, this ‘I’m a former pro athlete’ thing? It’s about as attractive to me as herpes.”

Ouch.
“Okay, that was a little harsh—”

“And for the record, I’m not into herpes. That pretty much leaves you at the bottom of the barrel for any possible flings.” She shoved the notebook back in her bag, stabbed the pens into the small outside pocket. Probably imagining stabbing him instead.