Love 'Em: A Bad Boy Romance (8 page)

I lean forward, hands braced on my knees. I need to play
more often. This is embarrassing.

Just sad. I haven’t lost without scoring once between all the
games in probably six years. I can usually at least score one measly point.
Best five out of seven didn’t take too long.

“You okay, Ronnie?” Dave takes a swig of water from his
bottle.

I hold up a finger, still out of breath.

Jackson meets Dave at the net. They shake hands and chat for
a minute, but I can’t hear them for all the wheezing I’m doing at the moment.

Dave and Jackson come my way. I stand, trying to fake that
I’m fine. I’m so
not
fine. That’s it. No more tennis. Since my tits got
this big, it’s just not worth the pain and suffering, even with the two sport
bras I’m wearing—not enough. And I’m sadly out of shape.

“You’re amazing, Dave.” I smile at him the best I can while still
huffing and puffing. Compliment him. He needs to know I appreciate his
abilities. “I don’t think I’ve ever had such a talented opponent.”

Dave offers his hand. “Well, good game, and thanks for the
fun. I’m afraid I have to get to work.”

Not even the offer of a side-hug.

This is great. I’ve made zero progress in trying to pull Dave
in.

Stupid Jackson. Third wheel.

I gather my things from the far end of the court. Dave’s
already gone, and Jack waits near the gate. I start down the court, eyes on Jackson
as he bends over to tie his shoe.

That ass. Oh my. The memory of it in my hand only days ago
sends a shot of fresh adrenaline to my core. Why couldn’t God send me a man
like Jackson who actually wants a relationship? One as well put together, but who
enjoys women for more than a screw—

The world suddenly tilts as something jumps into my path. A
hard thump on my forehead is followed by a flash of pain through my skull.

I let go of my arm full of crap, roll over, and sit up.

Nice.

Follow my miserable set with failing to pay attention to
where I walk. I groan, probing the thumping spot on my head. Wetness meets my
fingertips.

Jackson runs over, kneeling next to me. “Oh, my God, Ronnie.
What happened?”

Great. Dump a little humiliation on top of my disgrace.

I let out a tired breath. “This stupid net jumped out and
tackled me.”

Jack chuckles at my sad joke as he whips off his shirt and
presses it against my bleeding wound. “C’mon, let’s get you to an emergency room.
I think that might need stitches.”

He pulls me to him, holding me tightly to his naked chest
with all that muscle under my cheek. “Yes, my head’s throbbing like a bitch, but
keep holding me right here against your chest and all that masculine scent. I’m
certain I’ll feel better in a few hours.”

His voice rumbles through my head, vibrating in his chest.
“Yeah, okay. Now I know you need to go see a doctor. I’ll hold you anywhere you
want after they fix you up.”

I pull back. “Tell me I
didn’t
say that out loud.”

His cocky grin confirms that I did just that.

He pushes his shirt more firmly into place, half of it
hanging over my face. “Here, you hold it. I’ll drive. Don’t worry; I’ll let you
rub my chest later
.
”

Jackson stands at the emergency care place and taps the
front desk, his tone stern. “I can appreciate that she’s not the only patient,
but she’s bleeding. Can we please get her something to stem the flow other than
my sweaty shirt?”

I sit in a molded plastic chair, enjoying the entertainment.
My head doesn’t hurt too much. It stings like fire, but the headache isn’t
terrible. There does seem to be a lot of blood, but I think that’s the norm for
a head wound. The girls behind the counter seem determined to keep me in the
waiting area as long as possible, probably so they can continue to drool over
Jackson’s naked torso. Can’t say that I blame them.

When he turns back to me, the girl he spoke to uses her
phone to take a photo of him.

Jack pushes his fingers through his hair, falling into the seat
next to mine. His fingers lace with mine, and he pulls my hand to his mouth,
kissing each of my knuckles.

He abruptly stands and drags me out of my seat. “Fuck this.
I’m taking you to my house.”

Jackson keeps one hand on the wheel and one entwined with
mine. “I’ll call Doc. He’ll come out and fix you.”

He’s said some variation of that sentence at least three
times since he bundled me into his car.

I flip the visor down and pull his shirt away from my head.
“I have no idea what kinds of prices doctors who make house calls charge. I
really don’t think it’s that bad. I can probably put a butterfly bandage over
it and it’ll be fine.”

“That’s your face. No. You need to have it looked at. What
if they need to do some kind of plastic surgery to keep it from scarring?” He
squeezes my hand, massaging the back of it with his thumb. “No. Don’t worry
about the money. I got it. It’s not a problem.”

“Plastic surgery?” I push the bloody hair out of the way. “No.
It’s not that big. And it’s right in the hairline. A scar probably won’t show.”

“Humor me, will you?”

Humor
him?
It’s
my
head we’re talking about.

The wound is about an inch long, but it might be bigger. Damn.
Freaking plastic surgery? That’s going to cost about a million dollars I’ll
never have.

He pulls into the driveway of a modern, multi-level home. My
stomach quivers as my gaze moves from the seemingly freshly stained wooden
doors of his garage to Jackson, and back again.

Good gracious. This house. Jackson Tremaine. What am I even
doing with him, much less at his home? He’s so far out of my league it isn’t
funny.

At the door, Jackson stops. “Bull is harmless, but big.”

“Bull?”

He opens the door, but before he can step inside, a freaking
gigantic dog tumbles outside. Jack takes hold of the thing’s collar before it can
run me over.

I take two steps backward. “He’s—he’s the size of a small
car.”

The monster has old-man jowls. A string of slobber hangs
from one corner of his mouth.

Jack scratches the beast behind his ears. “Yeah, he’s a
rescue dog, so there’s some debate on exactly what breeds make up his family
tree. But, we’re fairly sure he’s got some bull mastiff.”

“Thus the name Bull.” I tentatively hold out my palm to let him
sniff.

He doesn’t smell my hand; he licks it with his soft, slimy
tongue. Ew.

“Down, boy. Wait to kiss the girls after you get to know
them for more than thirty seconds.” He ruffles the fur on top of the dog’s
head.

Once inside, he lets the dog loose. I hold still while it
smells my shoes, my legs…my crotch. “Oh, no you don’t.”

I push the dog’s cold nose away from my lady parts, my
fingers sinking into his velvety, whiskered cheeks—do dogs have cheeks?

Jackson grabs his collar and pulls him back. “Now, Bull. You
know better than that. I’m the only one who gets to do that in this house.”

Heat sneaks up my chest and onto my cheeks at the image that
brings to my mind—Jackson with his face at the apex of my thighs.

Jack leads me inside the huge, open floor plan home. Bull
follows us every step of the way, a rather large and well-loved stuffed animal
hanging out of his mouth by its leg. We pass through two living areas, both
furnished with luxurious sofas, chairs, and shiny, glass tables. From there, we
enter a chef’s kitchen.

How does he keep the tables so clean with such a slobbery dog?

Jackson doesn’t let go of my hand until he seats me at the
granite island on one of the four sleek, black leather stools. “Here, let me
get a towel.”

Bull sits two feet from me. His eyes follow every move Jack
makes, occasionally darting to me as though he wonders where I fit into his world.
He’s not the only one.

Jack pulls a kitchen towel from a drawer and turns on the
water. He lathers up well and rinses. Then he wets the corner of the towel.

“Nice house.” As if
that
isn’t an understatement. “You
lived here long?”

“Thanks. I guess I’ve been here for three—no—four years this
coming March.”

I hold out my hand for the towel, but he pulls it out of my
reach. “Let me.”

“It’s an open wound. Don’t touch it.”

“You can’t scare me. I’m not worried about getting a little
blood on my hands.”

I take the warm towel from him and press it to the sore spot
at the top of my forehead. “I’ll wait for the doctor, if you absolutely think I
need one. Otherwise, I’d rather wash it, bandage it, and be done.”

He pulls out his phone and taps the screen a couple of times.
“Yes. Thank you. I need to have Dr. Bentley come out to my place right away. My
girl—my friend has a small head injury, but it’s bled quite a lot.”

After he hangs up, he goes to the almost wall-sized fridge
and pulls out a couple of bottles of water. The dog is right behind him, tail
wagging like mad. Jack cracks the lids and sets them on the counter in front of
me.

I take one of the offered drinks. “Thank you. I appreciate your
taking such good care of me. You really didn’t have to.”

He brushes my cheek with his knuckle. “Well, I couldn’t
exactly leave you there, bleeding out on the tennis court.”

Jack’s tenderness seeps into my skin and soaks into my heart.
It’s unexpected, but in a good way.

“No holiday decorations?”

He shrugs. “It’s just me and Bull. Kind of seems like a waste
of energy to put up a tree and everything.”

I nod. “Yeah. I put up the tree at Shay’s. She said we
should skip it. But it reminds me of home.”

By the time we finish our water, the doorbell peals through the
house, and the dog gallops from the kitchen, sounding the alarm that an
invasion is imminent. But he circles back before Jack even gets to his feet.

Jackson drops a kiss on my cheek. “Be right back. Doc will
have you fixed up in no time.”

As Jackson exits the room my nasal passages are assaulted by
a fetid smell. Did Jack fart and
leave
? That rude—wait…

Bull stands there looking at me, tail wagging, tongue
lolling. A high-pitched squeak sounds, and the whites of Bull’s eyes show and
he jumps as if he’s been shocked. He sniffs his own ass and takes off into the
other room, like the hounds of hell are on his heels.

They aren’t. He left them in here with me. Another onslaught
of rotten egg odor wafts in the air.

Oh, good gracious. The reek is going to stick to my clothes,
my hair...it might seep into my very pores.

I move to the far end of the room, waiving the air.

Oh, Lord, that’s rank.

Jack comes into the kitchen, leading a distinguished
gentleman with the proverbial black bag in his hand. The dog’s right behind the
elderly gent, completely obliterating his dignity by shoving his nose up the
man’s ass. The doctor does a sidestep-hop combo, pushing at the enormous face,
trying to keep the dog from molesting him.

Jacks face changes from that gorgeous smile to one of pure
disgust.

“Aw, Bull! C’mon. You could’ve at least waited until the
second time Ronnie visited to christen her with your eau de’ Bull.” He pushes
up a window. “Damn dog. Sorry about that.”

He stands by the window, using his arm as a fan, trying to
move the stench. “Doc, this is Ronnie Fitz. She tripped and hit her head on the
tennis court. Ronnie, this is Doc Bentley. He’s been my doctor for the last
three or four years.”

The doctor tips my head toward him, gently poking at the sore
spot as he asks me a hundred and one questions. Family and health history, current
living situation—maybe that last part is because he’s nosy and wants to see if
I’m shacking up with Jack. Maybe not.

“I’m afraid it needs a few stitches, dear girl.” He pats my
shoulder and turns to dig in his bag.

I close my eyes and take in a deep breath. “I’ve never had
stitches. Will it hurt?”

Jackson coughs. “You’ve
never
had stitches? Ever?”

That is what
never
usually means. No. Let it go. Don’t
be rude. He’s being so sweet.

I shake my head.

He’s probably had stitches more—

“I’ve had stitches so many times, I’ve lost count. There was
this one time…”

Jackson walks Doctor Bentley to the door, leaving me on the
sofa.

The stitches weren’t that bad, a couple of pinches from the
Lidocaine shots and that was that. Four stitches and done. No facial
reconstruction as Jack feared.

I take a magazine from below the side table. Let’s see what Jackson
reads. A science journal. Nah, what else is down here? I flip up the edges of
several periodicals, subject matter ranging from medical breakthroughs to
racing. There’s even a ladies’ quarterly. I pull it from the middle of the
stack.

Bull sits at my feet, his brown eyes trying to tell me
something. His brow wrinkles, and he looks from me to the sofa and back again.

“Sorry, boy, I don’t speak Bull. And I don’t have any
goodies for you.”

He stares at me as though he’s trying to give me a
telepathic message. I have a feeling he wants on the sofa. Specifically,
my
spot.

“Fine. If Jack lets you on the furniture, that’s his
business.” I move to the other end.

Bull jumps up onto the cushion, somehow managing to turn
three circles, his feet almost tangling beneath him, before he plops down. He lays
his head on the arm of the sofa and lets out a deep sigh. As long as that’s the
only thing that comes whooshing out of him, we’re all right.

I’ve thumbed through half of the magazines by the time
Jackson returns.

I raise the journal. “I’m impressed. You have wide and varied
tastes in reading material.”

“I like to keep up with what’s new and interesting to people.
I have staff that research and bring things to the table, but I’m active in the
day to day stuff of the show as well as hosting.”

I nod. “Well, you obviously take your job more seriously
than a lot of people might give you credit for. You work hard. That’s
admirable.”

His chest puffs out a smidge as he comes to the back of the
sofa and slides his hands over my shoulders. “Come on. I’ll show you the rest of
the house.”

Bull scrambles off the sofa, grabbing his toy and following
Jackson.

We take a tour through the basement. There’s a wine cellar in
one part, and a game room and exercise rooms also take up large portions of the
walkout basement. The wide doors lead to a lanai located on the side of the
house.

The main level has an extra couple of rooms I didn’t realize
were there, one office and one bedroom. Out through the huge glass doors is a
breathtaking view of the city below. A beautiful blue pool blends with the
horizon.

“Wow, is that a negative edge pool?” My hand goes to the glass,
but I pull back at the last second so I don’t leave a smudge in this perfect,
flawlessly kept home.

Jackson hits a button at the end of the picture window-type
doors. They slide open almost silently. Suddenly the inside feels like we’re
outside. For December, the day is superb, with the shining sun, and a touch of
warmth in the air.

Jack leads me onto the patio surrounding the pool. The pool
sparkles like sequins on a turquoise evening gown, all the way to where the
water flows over the edge into infinity.