“Like your usual female guests do.” I arch my eyebrows at him.
“Hey, I’ll call an Uber for a chick in the morning. I’m not a total dick.”
“Debatable.”
He ignores the dig. “It’ll get out, and then we’ll both be in even deeper shit.”
“Okay, so I basically have to live with you for the entire season,” I say slowly, letting the magnitude of this assignment settle in my brain. “What about the rest of my job?”
“I’m sure Ryan will throw you projects during the day, and you can work from my home if that looks like a conflict of interest. It shouldn’t be a problem. My place isn’t exactly in a trailer park.” He lifts a shoulder.
I shudder to think about the disgustingly huge South Florida beachside bachelor pad that someone like Leo Sterling would call home.
“Okay.” I take a deep breath. “But no wild parties. And I get to bring my dog. And I stay in the guest room.”
“Damn, girl, you’ve got a lot of rules.” Leo sips his coffee and smirks at me.
“I’m doing this for you, jackass.”
“I’m teasing, relax.” He reaches out and touches my hand, and electricity jolts through my entire body. I notice the way his navy blue polo hugs his biceps and think about how easily he could pick me up and hold me against a wall…
“Frankie?”
“Huh? Oh, sorry, what did you say?”
He chuckles. “I asked what kind of dog you have.”
Yikes. Get it together. “Oh, right! He’s an American pit bull I rescued two years ago. His name is Tebow.”
“You named your dog after a virgin?”
“I named my dog after an incredible quarterback who played for my alma mater, thank you very much.” I straighten my shoulders.
Leo smiles. “All right, virgin dog can come. And what was that about the guest room?”
“I assume your mansion can accommodate me having my own space, and that’s where I would like to stay. Sleeping in your room would be…” Too tempting. “Inappropriate. I don’t…”
Trust myself around your six-pack. “Want to cross any boundaries and make it weird. It’s a business deal, right?”
Leo holds out his hand to shake mine. “Pleasure doing business with you. But we gotta do something about the whole appearance situation.”
“Excuse me, the what?” I gape at him.
“Don’t get me wrong. The big-glasses-librarian thing is totally working for you, but if you’re gonna be a future NFL wife, you’ve gotta look the part. Here.” He takes out his wallet and hands me a sleek black credit card that must weigh a pound and a half. “I’m gonna call my boy AJ and have his wife take you shopping tomorrow. She doesn’t bite, I promise. Put everything on that platinum card.”
I wave the card in front of me. “Why, thank you, Richard.”
“Huh?”
“Richard Gere? Pretty Woman? This is such a Pretty Woman moment.”
“Is that the hooker movie? Yeah, never saw it.”
“Pretty Woman is not a hooker movie. It’s a classic rags-to-riches love story. Richard Gere gives Julia Roberts a fat wad of cash and sends her shopping so she can pose as his bougie wife for business events.”
Leo grins. “Sounds horribly cheesy. You’re awfully cute when you’re defending a terrible hooker movie, though.”
I shut down the desperate girl inside me screaming, HE CALLED YOU CUTE! HE WANTS TO BE WITH YOU! “Watch it. You may be surprised.”
“Yes, the day I get a pedicure and get my hair done I’ll watch your girly rom-com.” He hands me his cell phone and glances at me, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Here, put your number in. For business reasons.”
“All right.” I enter my name and number. “Just in case you forget who I am amidst the thousands of girls you undoubtedly have in here, I’ll put something next to my name.” I hold the phone out to show him. “A football, because that’s our one and only common interest, and a diamond ring, since I’m your new fiancée. Now you won’t forget.”
He looks at me for a long time, his deep-brown eyes drawing me closer. “No, I certainly will not.”
THREE — Frankie
A black Escalade pulls up outside my townhouse at ten a.m. on the dot, and a skinny woman with a mountain of blond hair and sunglasses bigger than her face steps out.
“Hi, sweetie! You must be Frankie. I’m Erica, AJ’s wife. Well, I’m so happy to meet you! It’s such a darn shock that crazy Leo got engaged so suddenly, but we are all so excited for you both!” She engulfs me in a hug, and for a moment I fear I might drown in her boob job.
“Hey, thanks. It is definitely spontaneous, but you know what they say—when you know you know.” I smile shyly. Yikes. I should have read up on the basics of acting last night instead of watching old footage of Steelers games.
Erica lowers her voice and puts her arm around me. “Hey, I know this whole pro-athlete-wife gig can come with a bit of pressure. We’ve all had to adjust, and you will, too. I got you.” She squeezes me tightly, and suddenly my nerves are at ease.
We walk around the back of her Escalade, and as I hop into the passenger’s side, she drops her massive Louis Vuitton tote (take a shot!) onto the floor of the back seat.
The woman is flawless. She obviously has a personal trainer and a dietitian, or genes that just really love her. Her skin is as smooth as silk, and she’s decorated in what looks like thousands of dollars’ worth of diamonds and accessories. Despite all of that, something in her smile is real and unassuming. Maybe she’s not just a grown-up sorority girl who got to be AJ Anderson’s trophy wife. Maybe she’s just trying to look the part, too. Maybe this whole thing won’t be so unbearable.
“We’re headed to the Boca Town Center because, girl, you need to up your glam game before the season starts! I’m so glad Leo thought to call me. I just love makeovers.” She shimmies around in the seat.
“I do want to fit in with the other wives in the family box seats,” I say, suddenly wishing I had put on more makeup and worn heels instead of my white Chuck Taylors.
“Like I said, it can be a lot of pressure. Media is everywhere, and you are a direct reflection of your man. It’s shitty and kinda sexist, but it’s reality. Gosh, you should have seen when AJ and I first got together. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. I was the first white woman he ever dated, like that’s a big deal in the twenty-first century. Oh, and I used to be a flight attendant, which some reporter tried to equate to being a stripper. They are always looking for something to turn into dirt.”
I remember that the press conference for Leo’s strip-club incident is tomorrow, and nerves flood my body. She’s right, though—they always find something new. I’ll have to keep telling myself that. For a Gucci-decorated pair of tits on a stick, this woman is weirdly comforting.
We pull up at the glamorous Town Center, a place I’ve only ever window-shopped, and Erica whips the Cadillac into the valet parking area. The Florida summer sun beats down on us as we walk up to the stores, and the prickles of sweat on the back of my neck make me feel at home.
Shopping with Erica Anderson is like shopping with a tornado. Thousand-dollar pieces of clothing are thrown around the dressing room. Purses, shoes, jewelry, and a whirlwind of beautiful, sparkly things that make me feel girlier than I ever have—or wanted to—in my life. If only I could tell my thirteen-year-old self, who dressed solely in boys’ hand-me-downs, that she’d be wearing Lululemon and 7 For All Mankind at age twenty-six, maybe I would have felt a little more beautiful.
“No. No. Take it off. Get it off. Get it out of my sight.” Erica’s absurdly perky boobs bounce under her tank top as she waves her hands around, dismissing an apparently atrocious sundress I tried on.
“Okay, that’s a no on the yellow daises.” I laugh as I step back into the dressing room. “I’m wiped out, and I feel like I’ve put enough miles on poor Leo’s card for the day.”
“Oh, honey, you’re gonna have to le
t go of that feeling. But I get you. We gotta head to the hair salon now anyway!” She claps her hands in excitement.
I trudge back to valet parking with handfuls of giant shopping bags. I’m sure I look ridiculous, but feeling ritzy was more fun than I thought it would be. We get back into the car, and Erica pushes her gigantic sunglasses on top of her head.
Suddenly, her expression is very serious. “I know it’s fake. Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul.”
Shit. Shit. Shit! We haven’t even gone to the press conference yet, and I’ve already somehow screwed it up. Play it cool, Frankie. “What are you talking about?” I laugh nervously.
Erica flips her cascading blond locks behind her shoulders and smiles softly. “I know Leo Sterling. And I also know Ryan Kingsley, his agent. And I also know about the strip club and the press conference. Convenient timing for the Riders’ biggest playboy to pull a fiancée out of his ass.” She sets her hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “I’m serious. I won’t tell anyone. Except my husband, who’s also Leo’s best friend. But you better let me help you if you really want to sell it.”
I ease up. She’s good. She’s okay. She’s honest. I sigh deeply and meet her warm brown eyes. “Yes. I’ll take that help.”
Erica plops the sunglasses back down over her eyes and turns back to face the steering wheel. She grins. “I got you, girl. Ooooh, this is gonna be fun! I love a good secret. Now let’s do something about that dishwatery brown hair thing you got goin’ on, ’kay?”
FOUR — Leo
“So you say you were, in fact, at a strip club, with members of the opposing team?”
Ryan spits the question at me with way more aggression than is necessary. Practicing these “tough questions” before the press conference has me feeling like I’m in the fourth grade again, sitting on the couch having my mom quiz me on state capitals. Frustrated the hell out of her, too, no doubt.
“Yes. For the nine millionth time, I am a twenty-eight-year-old male who went to a bar with some friends, like any normal person.”
I can hear the muffled sounds of microphone testing and camera setup coming from the press room adjacent to the locker room where we prep for the reporters. Nerves are beginning to fray, but I push them away faster than they come.
My skinny agent squats down in front of me, resting his elbows on his knees. “That’s the bottom line, Sterling. You’re not a normal person. Whether you like it or not, you’re going to be in the spotlight. This thing can and will blow over, but your reputation needs some saving. You’re not just an athlete anymore. Kids look up to you, people care about you. The whole franchise is riding on your back.”
“Riding? No pun intended, I assume?” He walked right into that.
Ryan throws down his clipboard and waves his hands in the air. “That’s it, I’m out. Good luck, dickhead, you’re gonna need it.” He storms out of the room.
“Because we’re the Riders, dude, come on! That was funny,” I shout after him, shaking my head. Maybe not the right moment, but easing heavy situations with comedy has always been a specialty of mine.
“It was funny in a pathetic, laugh-out-of-pity sort of way.” Suddenly, a sexy warm woman’s voice fills the cold, tense air of the locker room. I turn to meet those captivating green eyes as my fake future bride strolls into the room. Everything in my body tightens up. All the blood leaves my head and pools somewhere…else. Holy shit.
No more oversize sweater, that’s for damn sure. An unreasonably perfect pair of tits is wrapped in a white lace sundress cut low enough to make me want to pull it off with my teeth and bury my face in what’s under it. Lace frames a tiny waist and flawless hips and…wow.
It’s just business, I remind myself. No distractions, definitely no feelings. And with her…no sex. It would complicate everything.
AJ’s wife really came through with the whole makeover thing, though. Damn.
“I know, I know. NFL wife.” Frankie swings a Louis Vuitton bag and dramatically points a finger gun at the side of her head.
“Nice bag. Take a drink.” I can’t help but chuckle at her adorable theatrics. Her silly, boyish, football-nerdy self comes through loud and clear in that quirky smile. All the makeup and dark chocolate hair dye in the world couldn’t cover her up.
“I gotta say, you really look the part.” I stand and lift her hand, twirling her around so the skirt of her dress floats in a circle above her knees. As she stops in front of me, I catch a sparkle in her eyes and enjoy the music of her contagious giggle.
“I feel ridiculous.” She lifts her foot to show me a pair of bright pink strappy high-heel sandal things. “Why would anyone wear these when they own a perfectly good pair of Nikes?”
“Because they’re sexy as hell.” I lose myself in those eyes again for maybe one beat too long, and she shoots me a warning look.
“Watch yourself, Romeo. It’s a fake engagement, remember?” She crosses her arms and slouches a bit, clearly self-conscious about the fact that her boobs are seeing more sunlight today than they probably have in the last five years. Such a tomboy. “You may think every girl on the planet will fall for you, but you are most definitely not my type.” She tilts her chin up.
“Wow.” I drag out the word. “One sexy sundress and you’re already worried you’re going to end up in my bed? Come on, I’m not that easy.”
“Sexy?” Frankie yanks the skirt to make it longer.
I have no clue why anyone would try to hide a body like that, but I get the feeling that sexy isn’t usually how she tries to come off.
“Extremely.” I tease her with a wink. Brushing hair out of her face, she gives me a smile that could melt just about any dude’s heart. Something about her is so…different. But she’s electric.
Suddenly, the locker room door flies open, and Ryan Kingsley storms back into the room, clipboard in hand and beads of sweat dripping down his forehead. His frantic energy is stressing me out already. I don’t want to think about this press conference, so I stay focused on the tempting white lace stretched over my dime of a fake fiancée.
“Where’s the ring?” Ryan points at Frankie without acknowledging how insanely hot she is. Oh, fuck, the ring. I feel the blood drain from my face, and not because it’s going to my dick this time.
By the grace of God, Ryan’s phone rings, and he picks it up, scurrying out of the room. “You two better be ready in fifteen!” he shouts at us in his nasally stress voice.
“Ah, yes,” Frankie says in a playful, this-whole-thing-is-fucking-ridiculous tone of voice. “I believe you owe me a ring.” She flutters the fingers of her left hand in the air.
I’m pissed at myself and pretty embarrassed that I forgot to buy her a ring. I have just been so wrapped up in this press conference and working on my game and…yeah, I fucked up. Again.
“Okay, so, hear me out.”
Frankie’s eyebrows rise slowly, and she leans into her left hip. Probably the first girl I’ve met who doesn’t swoon over my bullshit. I kinda like it.
“I don’t have a traditional ring. But I figured you’re not a traditional girl.” I throw her a cheesy grin, which is met with a massive eye roll.
“You forgot to buy one.” She sits her round lacy ass on one of the benches and crosses her legs. Damn, I keep forgetting she really doesn’t fall for my spew. But I do have an idea. Sort of.
I walk over to my locker, feeling her gaze follow me across the room. I enter the combination and open the door to find a ring hanging from the hook at the top. Not an engagement ring, that’s for sure. A small toy Super Bowl ring. The stupid thing hasn’t been out of my locker in almost five seasons. Superstition plays with my mind, but I push it away and grab the shitty little piece of plastic that means way too much.
I sit down next to Frankie and show her the ring.
“You’re giving me a toy Super Bowl ring from…” She narrows her eyes and examines it. “Twenty-four years ago?”
I place the ring in her hand. Sorry, Dad, I ho
pe you understand.
She blinks when our fingers meet, and I try to hide the jolt of attraction that surges through me as soon as I touch her. “I know it seems pretty lame, but this fine piece of jewelry actually means a lot to me. My dad gave it to me when I was a kid. He said as long as I keep it with me, I’ll be the best. It’s no diamond, I know that. And I’ll totally get you one that’s sparkly and expensive to go with the rest of your new look, but for now this is—”
“Perfect.” Frankie holds out her left hand and looks up at me, smiling.
Damn, she’s so fucking cool. Most chicks would throw a world-class bitch fit over getting a plastic engagement ring—well, fake engagement, but still. I clumsily slide the ring onto her finger, playing it as calmly as I can. Why is this girl shaking me up so much? I scoot down the bench away from her, reminding myself that this is a business deal and nothing more.
Distractions are the enemy. The season is starting soon, and she is nothing but a coworker. A hot coworker, maybe. A hot coworker who loves football whom I definitely can’t bang.
“It’s every girl’s fantasy, I know,” I tease, gesturing at the shoulder pads and dirty practice jerseys hanging from the locker doors surrounding the bench we’re sitting on.
“It actually is mine. Well, sort of. I’ve always wanted to get engaged in a football stadium.” She wrinkles her adorable nose at the jock strap hanging behind her head. “Maybe not in the locker room.” We both laugh. “But, yeah, I don’t know, the lights and the people, the smell of the grass…it’s magical. It’s my favorite place.”
She looks down, trying to hide the way her eyes light up like a little kid’s when she talks about football. I can tell she feels a little silly or embarrassed, but she shouldn’t.
“I think you might love this sport more than I do.” I chuckle and stand in front of her to help her up. “You’re something else, kiddo.”
Frankie looks skyward at my slightly demeaning nickname, stands in front of me, and wobbles a bit in her massive heels.
Wild Ride (South Florida Riders Book 1) Page 2