Romancing the Running Back (13 page)

“Take a load off. I’m gonna need a few minutes and a glass of wine before I can properly plan anything.” When he sat, she noticed his hair was a little damp. “Did you come straight from practice?”

“Yup.” He draped an arm over the back of the sofa, and his fingers brushed her hair just a moment before settling on the cushion behind her. An accident, of course.

Which didn’t explain the goosebumps that rose along her arms. Those must be from the air conditioning.

“You ever wear this differently?”

“Huh?” She looked at him, found him sitting with one knee pulled up to face her on the couch.

He tugged on the end of her braid, which lay against her arm. The backs of his fingers grazed her bare arm as he did.

“Oh. Well, with hair as long as mine, it’s just easier.” She picked up the end of the braid and fiddled with the ends of her hair a bit, fanning them out. “I debate cutting it once a month. Cutting it more than a trim, I mean. Lopping it off, really, to my chin or so.”

“No.”

She looked at him.

He cleared his throat. “I mean, it suits you like this. That’s all.”

“Hmm.” She leaned down and dug in her bag for her notebook. “Let’s plan.”

*   *   *

This had been a mistake. Why had he come here? They could have finalized plans over the phone, or by email. Heck, a smoke signal.

Instead, he’d come here to get tortured. Tortured by her scent, by her movements, by the way she acted oblivious to his presence—except for her body’s natural reactions. The way the hairs on her arm stood up when he scooted closer. How her pulse in her throat raced. The way her breath caught for just a moment when he reached over her to point at something on her tiny, frivolous notebook.

She could act like it didn’t matter that he was sitting a hair’s breadth away, but it did. And he was dying to explore the why.

Twenty minutes into their planning, she stood abruptly. “I still need wine. Do you want wine?”

“No, I’m good,” he said slowly, watching her hustle to the small kitchen and open the fridge for a bottle of white wine.

“Of course. You’re in training, or whatever.” She waved that off. “Water? Soda? I don’t really have much else, I’m afraid. I don’t like tea. You’re from Alabama. You probably like tea. I should probably start being an adult and making tea even though I don’t like it, because it seems like everyone else does. Should I run out and grab some tea?”

“Anya.” He grasped her arms and she jolted, sloshing wine over the rim of her glass. Clearly, she’d been so inside her
own head trip, she hadn’t heard him approach. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Her hand shook a little as she reached for a paper towel. He took her hand and stayed it, reaching instead for the sponge sitting on the edge of the sink. “Of course. Save the planet, use a sponge.”

“And nuke it at least every other day. Kills the germs,” he said when she looked at him. Her nerves were shot. He liked it.

“Right. Of course. Germs bad, planet good.” She took a sip, then slipped around him to walk back to the couch. She froze as she stared at the spot they’d been sitting in before. “I just realized I have nowhere to put this. I’ll go put it back.”

“Let’s sit at the table instead.” He picked up her notebook and brought it with him to the small two-seater table. “Tabitha definitely took an odd selection of stuff with her when she left.”

“I think she tried to make it as unusable a space as possible without making it literally unusable. It’s impractical, but not impossible. Not the point.” She waved that off, then took the notebook from him and started flipping back to the page they were on before. “I’m sorry about last week,” she said quietly.

They’d suffered an overtime loss to the Dolphins. Rough enough to lose by so close a margin. Rougher still that it was to Miami. “We’ll come back. Small hiccup. You can lose as many games as you want during the season. It’s the post-season that counts.”

She propped her chin on her hand. “Very philosophical of you. Not going to say something about how it’s the journey that counts, not the destination?”

“Hell no. I want that Super Bowl ring.”

That made her laugh. “Don’t blame you one bit, even though they’re a bit gaudy. Okay, so we have almost everything covered. No bartender, so we’re on our own there, but a stocked bar.”

“A stranger in the room would only dampen things. We want to have a good time. Not be conscious of being watched. Plus, I don’t want this to turn into a drunk fest, more for Stephen’s sake, but also because that’s not what Trey would want. So we can mix our own beverages, but for the most part it’s about having fun and relaxing, not getting trashed and making poor choices.”

“Hear, hear,” she said, raising her wineglass and taking a sip in a toast. “Oh sorry, a drink for you.”

“I’m good.” He stayed her with a hand on her arm. Then, experimenting, he left it there while he asked a question about when to decorate the hotel penthouse. When she didn’t shrug his touch off or make some attempt to slide out from under it, he let his thumb rub over her wrist gently.

She shivered, but didn’t pull away.

After another minute, her phone rang. She sent him an apologetic look, then got up and walked to her purse to check her phone. “It’s my mom. Normally I’d let her call back, but she’s selling my car in Atlanta and it might be—”

“Go for it. I think we got this taken care of.”

She stood, watching him as he headed for the door, the ringing phone still in her hand. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I can honestly say I’m looking forward to this party.” On impulse, he leaned down and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. Not at all what he really wanted to do, but it would suffice for now. “Goodnight, Anya.”

Party day dawned, and it was going to be a fantastic one. Anya hurried over to the hotel where they were hosting the co-ed party. Normally, check-in didn’t start until two in the afternoon, but she’d worked out a deal where she could come in earlier to get started on decorating. For what Josiah was paying for the penthouse for the weekend, it was the least they could do.

As she hung the streamers—yellow and gray, to match the wedding—she debated going with the more risqué decor she’d picked up with Josiah at the sex-toy store. None of it was truly horrifying—more kitschy than kinky. And both Cassie and Trey had good senses of humor; they wouldn’t be offended. But still . . .

In the end, she hung up about half of what she’d originally intended. Enough to set the mood for fun, but not so much as to make the entire room feel like a cliché of debauchery. Decorating, much like fashion, was mostly about editing. Knowing when to push further, and when to pull back. She’d still hand out the necklaces and other props, because those were simply for fun. But the room at large would stay comfortable.

When the guests started to arrive hours later, she knew she’d made the right choice. They laughed, they pointed, and they settled down with cocktails, sodas, or a plateful of food. Anya kept an eye on Stephen, making eye contact with Mags more than once. But Mags had planted herself firmly at his side, hands clasped together, and Anya had faith the other woman wouldn’t let him falter.

“This is awesome,” Cassie said, hooking an arm through Anya’s. “Thank you. Seriously. It’s better than going out barhopping. I would have had fun doing that, but this is more special. Right?”

“Absolutely.” Anya fluffed her friend’s fake veil, then looked at her own ginormous light-up diamond ring. “I think mine’s bigger than yours.”

Cassie laughed and held out her real engagement ring. “Since yours would be about twenty-five carats, I think that’s a given.” She pressed a kiss to Anya’s temple. “Thank you. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Oh, and I promised Irene and Mellie we’d have a special day, just the four of us, before the wedding. ’Kaythanksbye!” She slipped away with Cassie glaring and calling her name, and ran straight into Killian Reeves.

“Whoa. Easy there.” He held her at arm’s length. “Drunk already?”

“Stone-cold sober. Hostess has to keep up with the guests. Need anything?”

He shook his head, then motioned to the area where four couches and love seats had been arranged in a circle. Many guests were already sitting down and looking through the board games on the coffee table. “No embarrassing games planned?”

“That was a bit difficult, since it’s a co-ed party. We’ve got one or two things planned, but nothing too bad. It’s mostly just a time to relax and enjoy. Where’s Aileen?” she asked, looking around.

“Deadline. Editing. She’ll make it.” He gave her a smile, then held up his glass. “And I’m empty. Heading for the bar.”

“Have fun!”

After another thirty minutes, she judged the atmosphere and gathered the party guests around for a quick game that they got to witness, testing Cassie and Trey’s knowledge of each other. The questions were a tad more adult than “What is your fiancé’s favorite color?,” but Anya had been careful when picking the questions that, other than some blushing, there was nothing too embarrassing.
Does Trey wear boxers or briefs? Would Cassie prefer candlelight or the glow of a computer screen to set the mood?
She wanted people to have a good time, not leave feeling ashamed and like they needed a shower.

Shockingly, Trey won, proving he knew Cassie inside and out. He claimed his reward in the form of a long kiss from the bride, causing whooping and laughter, and a few crumpled up napkins to be thrown their way while people insisted they get a room . . .
a different
room.

Another hour went by, and the guests started their own game, which Anya got sucked into. Men versus women, in a game of
Friends
trivia,
Family Feud
style. Anya settled down on the couch next to Aileen, who had shown up late to the party, looking exhausted but ready to roll.

Trey and Cassie, the MCs of the game, picked up the next card. “Okay, ladies, are you ready? Who’s up?”

“That’s me.” A woman Cassie worked with in the Bobcats HQ office—though not a part of the Nerd Herd—wiggled her hands in the air like an
SNL
cheerleader. “Bring it on!”

“Here we go,” Trey said in an exaggerated announcer’s voice. “Bethany, for another point, and to take the lead, what is Chandler Bing’s job?”

There was a hushed moment while Bethany thought, then said, “Trick question; nobody knows what his job is.”

Cassie made a buzzer sound, looking sorrowful. “Sorry, sweets. That is incorrect. Now the gentlemen have ten seconds to steal the question for a bonus point.”

The men gathered together in a huddle, looking very much like they would have on a Sunday afternoon during the game. It made Anya giggle. Then Matthew stood up and said, “Chandler Bing is an IT procurement manager.”

“That’s not a thing,” Bethany started to argue, but Trey pumped a fist in the air.

“Correct!”

“What?” Bethany shrieked.

The guys all slapped hands and bumped shoulders. Matt grinned and held up his hands. “What? My ex loved that damn show.”

“And did you choose Bethany’s penalty for the steal?”

Matt nodded. “We wanna hear one full verse of “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” opera style.”

The guys all laughed, and a few ladies, too. Bethany grumbled, but walked over to stand by Cassie, folded her hands together, took a deep breath, and belted it out like a good sport. The effect had everyone rolling, and while Bethany blushed, she didn’t look mortified.

They were good guys. The game could have taken such an ugly turn when the idea of penalties had been brought up . . .
but they were decent men. They respected women. It was clear enough from how they behaved. They had no problems taking the piss out of Trey, and they found the “Who Knows Whom” game hilarious, but it was all aboveboard and good fun.

She couldn’t have designed a better outcome. Grabbing her ice water with a lime wedge, she took a sip and smiled smugly to herself.

“For the men, now,” Cassie said as Trey went to mark down the bonus points on the score sheet. “Who’s up?”

Josiah straightened. “That’s me, I guess.”

Cassie cleared her throat, started in a deep voice, then shook her head and waved that off. “Not happening. Okay, your question is . . . When moving a couch up the stairs, what was Ross’s oh-so-helpful direction to Chandler and Rachel?”

Josiah froze, then shrugged. “Help?”

The guys behind him groaned and several women behind Anya let out quiet squeals of glee.

“No, I’m sorry, not the answer we were looking for. Ladies, ten seconds to steal.”

They grouped together—though it was almost comically unnecessary—before they decided who should answer. In the end, it wasn’t necessary. They answered as one, “Pivot. Pivot!
Pivot!
” then dissolved into laughter.

“Steal for the ladies! Mark that down, Trey. Ladies, your penalty for Josiah?”

“Do something unpredictable before the end of the night,” Bethany shouted from the back. “One of us
has
to witness it.”

A few other ladies nodded in agreement. Sounded harmless to Anya. Could be as simple as standing on the coffee table to profess his undying love to Lady Gaga. Josiah nodded and accepted his fate like a good sport.

The game continued, but Anya realized after she reached for her glass that she was running on
E
. “Refill,” she whispered to Aileen, who scooted her knees to the side to let her pass. She’d answered her own question in the second round and wouldn’t be due for a while yet. She walked to the bar and poured herself another ice water with a fresh wedge of lime. A cocktail wouldn’t have hurt, but, as the hostess, she wanted to stay sharp.

She should go back, she thought, sipping her drink and watching the group play. Should . . . but not yet. She wandered through the rest of the penthouse—mostly unused. Three bedrooms, two with two queens, one with a single king. If anyone felt uncomfortable leaving due to alcohol consumption, there would be plenty of room to crash. But most had hired a cab or, in the case of a few guys, a town car for the evening to make sure they got home all right.

Seeking a moment of privacy, she stepped out onto the balcony from the master bedroom. The air was cooler twenty-three stories up, but refreshing. She let the wind swirl around her, lifting her skirts a little to cool off her skin from being sandwiched on the couch for so long.

The door opened behind her, and she leaned against the railing, taking another sip.

“Hey.”

Not the voice she would have guessed. She turned around, leaning her elbows on the chest-high railing, and watched Josiah close the door behind him. “That door locks, you know. Now we’re stuck out here.”

His eyes widened and he reached for the handle before she chuckled. “I’m kidding. It should be fine.”

“Having fun?” he asked after a moment, coming to stand beside her. He rested his hands on the metal, staring out while she looked back into the room.

“Fun, yes. It’s exhausting, though.” She rattled the ice in her glass and gave him a slow smile. “I thought I’d earned a quick break.”

“You have. You created an amazing party for them. It’s exactly what they wanted. You can tell they’re both having a blast. Even Trey, wearing that stupid clip-on bow tie with boobs on it.”

“It seemed like the thing to do,” she explained, then closed her eyes and tipped her head back. Her hair fell over the side of the balcony, whipping around in the wind. She’d pay for it later, with an hour’s worth of tangles to brush out. But for now . . . oh, it felt glorious. “Been thinking about your penalty?”

“Hmm?”

She cracked one eye and found him staring at her intently. She wondered if she’d smeared chocolate on her face from the cupcake she’d indulged in earlier. Oh well. She was too relaxed at the moment to give two damns. “Your penalty, from the game. Do something unexpected before the end of the night. I have a few suggestions, in case you were coming up dry.”

“Really.”

“Yup. Let’s see . . . a dance number would be delightful. Do you know the Bunny Hop?”

He snorted.

“Okay, then. Maybe a poem you could recite. Oh, any rap numbers you know really well?”

He sighed.

“You could streak through the party.”

That had him silent. She peeked again through one set of lashes, and found him closer than she’d remembered.

“None of those seem quite right.”

“Well, it’s your penalty. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” She started to take another sip of her drink, but he took it from her hand and brought it to his own mouth for a drink.

“Water?” he asked.

“With lime. I figured it’s easier to keep on top of things when I’m not operating in a haze.”

“So you’re sober.”

“Sober dober,” she agreed, then watched him set the tumbler aside on the small patio table.

“So when I do this, you’ll remember in the morning.”

“Do what?” she asked, still looking at her drink. He’d downed the whole thing.

Then his hands were cupping her face, tilting it upward, and his lips were on hers.

*   *   *

An entire herd of defensive linemen couldn’t have kept him from kissing her at that moment. Josiah’s hands cupped her face, and he watched her lips part in surprise, her eyes widen a little. Her hair flipped and flicked in the wind, wrapping around them, almost like small ropes tugging them closer together. And when he laid his lips on hers—testing first, light—he waited for her to protest.

Instead, she gripped his shirt and pulled him closer to her. He stumbled, surprised, then caught himself and her against the railing and opened his mouth over hers. Her lips parted more fully, giving him access to taste. Her lips were cool from the ice water, and the contrast of her hot skin and cool mouth ripped through him like a shock wave. Her tongue met his, and her hands alternated smoothing over his chest and gripping his shirt again to pull him tighter, tighter against her.

His knee parted her legs on instinct, bracing itself against the concrete of the balcony wall behind her. But she was short enough that that little movement lifted her up onto her toes, riding his thigh. She let out a moan of pleasure, and he captured it with his mouth, angling his head more to take the kiss deeper.

When her hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders and into his own hair, tugging and scratching at his scalp, he nearly lost all sense of self-preservation, brought her to the floor of the balcony, and ripped their clothes off.

She pulled away on a gasp, suddenly, and almost as if in pain. He inched back to give her a moment to catch her breath.

“You didn’t . . .” She breathed heavily. “. . . do that for the . . . for the penalty, did you?”

“For the . . . what?” He reared back farther to look in her eyes, and saw wariness, and maybe a little shame. He hated both. “Penalty. What fucking penalty?”

“The game. The lost point.” He stared at her, his hormone-soaked brain completely unable to follow her line of thought. “‘Pivot’?” she said.

“Oh, Jesus, Anya.” He let his head fall until he nuzzled against her neck. “Fuck the game.”

Her hands clenched in his shirt, just above his heart. “This isn’t for the penalty.”

“Fuck the penalty. Just kiss me,” he growled, and took her mouth again.

The fire, the sassiness, the sharpness she used against him in their verbal sparring found a new outlet, and she poured herself into the kiss as much as he did, holding nothing back. His hands roamed over her body, taking in her curves and hollows like he hadn’t been able to before with his eyes alone. Her dress was tight, though not skintight, and had given him a good idea of her shape before. Nothing compared to testing the shape out with his own touch.

A second, a minute, an hour later, who knew how long, she pulled away slowly, regretfully. “We have to stop.”

“Fuck stopping,” he said, nibbling at her lip.