Wild Ride (South Florida Riders Book 1)

by Breezie Bennett

  “So…” I push a strand of hair behind my ear. “You guys all know who Leo Sterling is, right?”

  “The Riders’ wide receiver?” Drew asks. “Yeah, uh, we know him.”

  “Right,” I continue. “Well. Here’s the thing.”

  “You got him as your first client?” Mom asks hopefully.

  “Uh, no. Not…exactly.”

  “Please, for the love of God, don’t tell me you’re dating that douchey playboy.” Luke frowns at me in disgust.

  “First of all, I said no interrupting. And no, I’m not dating him. Not really, anyway.” I look at all of their confused stares and decide I’d better just get to the point. “Well, I’m just gonna spit it out. I’m pretending to be his fiancée, just for the season, so he can fix his reputation and get the media off his ass for hanging out at a strip club with Dominic Cassano. To make him look like he has a nice, sweet future wife and basically just to convince everyone that he’s a decent person.” I pause to let them take it all in.

  Drew’s eyes are the widest I’ve ever seen, and Eric fights a smile. My mom holds a dramatic hand over her mouth in utter shock.

  Luke looks at me with overwhelming skepticism. “What the hell’s in it for you?”

  I jump on his question, seeing an opportunity to get my family to at least partially support this. “I should have mentioned that. My boss at my new agency, as you all know, is Ryan Kingsley.”

  “I hear he’s a total dick,” Drew asserts.

  “He is, well, yeah. But right now, he kind of single-handedly gets to decide my fate. The whole agency was in a panic over this strip club thing, and this was my golden opportunity to get to the very tippy-top of Ryan’s nice list, which puts me in line for a possible agent opening much faster than if I spent the next four years being his loyal assistant. I’m getting my full pay for every day of work, even though most of my work for the next several months will consist of being a supportive fiancée.” I look at them. “Fake fiancée!”

  Drew leans back and sips his beer and pushes his long hair out of his face. “Doesn’t sound like a bad gig to me.”

  I’m flooded with relief, anxiously waiting for the approval of my other family members.

  “Yeah,” Eric agrees with Drew. “Living in a beachside SoFlo mansion and sitting in the best box seats at all the Riders games? And all you gotta do is be cute and hang around with some dicky athlete? You got it made, sis.”

  “Frankie…this is a little weird,” my mom says cautiously. “You have to understand how strange it sounds to us all. I’m just trying to process it.”

  “Of course, Mom,” I assure her. “I just wanted to be honest with you guys, and I wanted to tell you myself, rather than having you hear it on SportsCenter tonight.”

  “I get it. Stranger things have happened in the glorious world of sports. Wish it didn’t have to be Sterling, though,” Dad grumbles and curls his lip at the name.

  “Oh yeah, he does seem like a real womanizer,” Mom says. “Why couldn’t it be that sweet running back? The one with the kid?”

  Dad’s eyes light up as he takes a sip of wine. “Elliot Danes! Great guy.”

  I sigh and hold back an eye roll. “Because Elliot Danes doesn’t need to prove his character to the American public.”

  My mom and dad look at each other and shrug. Four out of five. I turn back to Luke, who’s silently running a fork through the remnants of sauce on his plate.

  “I’m not buying this shit for a second,” he says. “Frankie, come on. You’ve been down this road before. You got absolutely burned by a guy who is basically Leo Sterling—without the NFL, obviously.” He points to the living room sofa. “You sat on that couch and cried until you practically couldn’t breathe, because of how much you loved him and how badly he hurt you. I, for one, am not just going to be totally okay with you falling into the superstar-athlete trap again.”

  I push back the mixture of anger and embarrassment that rises in my chest. “This is fake, Luke.” I steady my voice. “No feelings, no dating, no anything. I’m doing it for my job. For myself.”

  “We know how hard you’ve worked to get to where you are now, starting as a receptionist at that sportswear firm and then as a secretary at that tiny agency, and now this job. You are in control of your career, and I’m proud of you, honey,” my mom coos. “How about some dessert? Boys?”

  I break my tense eye contact with my oldest brother, thankful for Mom’s segue into a new topic. Luke shakes his head skeptically and stands up from the table to clear his plate.

  “Be careful. Don’t get attached to this guy,” he warns me.

  I ball up my paper napkin and throw it at him to lighten the mood. “No feelings. Promise.”

  No feelings, I repeat silently to myself. Promise.

  TEN — Leo

  After getting home from the Atlantic, I do a last-minute sweep of my house, just to make sure Frankie doesn’t have to open a drawer and find a rogue pair of panties or handcuffs that belong to God knows who. I feel an unfamiliar tingle of excitement at the thought of her infectious laugh filling the empty air of this giant home. I wonder what she’s going to think of everything. I mean, she can’t hate it, right?

  I open the sliding glass door that makes up the entire back wall of the main living room, exposing a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the Atlantic Ocean. Even though the time is nearing ten p.m., the salty beachside air is always a good atmosphere, especially in the summer. Normally, if I had a girl coming over at this hour, I would already have poured a couple drinks and put on my Sex and Vibing playlist. But now I’m realizing I don’t even know what kind of music Frankie likes, and since when do I give a fuck what kind of music a girl likes? Even still, I decide music and drinks might be presumptuous. After all, she is staying in a guest room.

  Suddenly, the intercom from the house gate buzzes, causing my heart to jump a little in my chest. She’s here.

  “How the hell does this thing work?” Frankie’s muffled voice comes through the static of the receiver. “My God, does he honestly need this shit? It’s a house, not freaking Fort Knox.”

  I smile and push the talk button. “I can hear you,” I say to her through a laugh.

  “Oh, uh, hey. Yeah. Sorry, it’s been kind of a long night. Can you let me in?”

  “Depends,” I tease her. “What’s the password?”

  She groans audibly over the machine. “I brought tequila.”

  “You’re in!” I press the button to open the gate and feel a weird lightness in my head at the idea of hanging out with her tonight. I have to consciously remind myself I’m not getting in her pants. Tonight, or ever.

  I walk out onto the circular drive as her Jeep rounds the corner past the gate and pulls up to the house. That fucking car. Why is it so damn endearing that she drives that car?

  “Hey.” She jumps out of the driver’s side and immediately turns to open a back door.

  “Let me help you with your stuff,” I offer. But the second she unlatches that car door and I reach forward to grab a suitcase, a massive white and brown animal comes tumbling out. Oh, shit, I completely forgot about the dog.

  “This must be Tebow,” I say, thanking my lucky stars I remember the ridiculous name. The pit bull has got to weigh at least sixty-five pounds and is throwing his entire body onto my chest.

  “Tebow, no jumping!” Frankie lunges for the dog and tries, unsuccessfully, to hold his feet on the ground. “I’m sorry. He’s super friendly, I promise.”

  Her eyes glisten at me in the moonlight. She’s leaning over, holding Tebow’s collar, and her perfect boobs are exposed just enough in a tight black tank top. She’s wearing her glasses again, which just adds to the cuteness factor, and there’s a couple patches of beach sand scattered over her ripped jeans.

  I reluctantly drag my gaze up from her flawless body and crouch down to pet the dog.

  “Hey, buddy.” The hilarious animal is sporting a massive smile, panting with his tongue hanging ou
t of the side of his mouth. As soon as I’m about to make a virgin joke to Tebow, he swipes his giant tongue across my face, then pulls away and stares at me, looking awfully proud of himself.

  “Oh shit.” Frankie covers her mouth and tries desperately to hide a laugh. “I am so sorry.”

  I wipe the slobber off with the sleeve of my T-shirt and give Tebow an enthusiastic head scratch. “Hey, he likes me.”

  “He only wants you for your money, just like the rest of ’em.” She throws me a ridiculously sexy wink and snaps a leash onto the dog’s collar.

  “I’ll take what I can get.” I smile at the dog.

  “If you really want to be a knight in”—she playfully snaps the waistband of my pants—“gray sweatpants, you can grab my suitcase out of the trunk.”

  I ignore the spot on my skin that’s still on fire from her touch and open the hatch to grab her bags.

  “You know…” I shut the door and smile at her as we walk into the house. “They did a study and proved that women find gray sweatpants to be the single most attractive piece of clothing a dude can wear.”

  “Wow.” Frankie feigns fascination and slings a duffel bag over her shoulder. “I had no idea you were so up-to-date on scientific research.”

  “Hey, I like to focus on news that matters.” I gesture at the smiley animal bounding toward my house. “Tebow feels me.”

  “I told my family the truth,” she blurts out. “They all really understood, and don’t worry, they’re extremely trustworthy. How did your teammates take it?”

  “AJ knows, as you probably could have guessed since Erica figured it out on her own. But the other two were pretty damn clueless, and with a decent bit of explaining, I think they bought it.”

  “Good.” She nods, her gaze lifting to the front of my house. “Well, Sterling, I can’t say I expected anything less.” Frankie stops walking and stands in front of the main entrance, leaning back against the eager pull of the dog’s leash.

  “It’s not really as crazy as it seems.” I look at her oversize eyes and slightly parted lips, overwhelmed as she studies the Floridian façade of my beachside mansion. The silence is broken by the sound of the waves crashing from the ocean in the backyard. “Okay, yes, it is. But you’ll be surprised. The inside is very homey, and you have your own wing of the house, with a huge bathroom and even a media room, just to yourself.”

  She looks at me with a serious expression in her eyes. “I’ve never actually gone inside one of these houses. I didn’t ever think I’d be in a place like this with a…with you.” She brushes off the obvious attraction of the moment and pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, trying to hide some serious fuck me eyes which, combined with those parted lips, send a rush of blood to my dick.

  The moonlight pours down over the driveway, and I’m not sure why, but I’m suddenly wishing my house were a few thousand square feet smaller. Dumbass Chase Kennedy talked me into this place, said it would bring “every hot chick within a twenty-mile radius.” Can’t say he was wrong, but Frankie isn’t exactly some brainless model I’m trying to smash.

  I open the large wooden double doors and let her into the entrance of the house. I expect more wide eyes and sexy stares of amazement, but she, alongside crazy virgin dog, strides right through the living room and out the sliding doors and onto the back deck. She leans against the railing and lets the nighttime sea breeze blow her hair back.

  I stand next to her, unable to take my eyes off of her stunning profile. “The view is a little more impressive during the day.”

  “Don’t worry, All-Star.” She turns to me and flips a lock of shiny hair over her shoulder. “The ocean will always impress me.”

  “Don’t you want to see the rest of the crib?” I gesture at the home behind us that is starting to look more and more like a museum to me.

  “In a sec.” Suddenly, she turns to me, and her eyes light up, a look of excitement so pure and enthusiastic, it makes me want to push her against the railing of the deck and feel every ounce of that intensity with my lips. “Do you have a football?” Frankie blurts out.

  The irony of that question interrupts my dirty thought, and I can’t help but laugh my ass off. “Yeah, kiddo, I can probably dig one up. Why?”

  “Let’s play. But first, shots.” She skips across the deck and back into the house, and I can’t help but smile, noticing she’s wearing a black pair of those sneakers that you always see in pictures of kids from the 1950s.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I follow her bouncy ass into the living room, where she’s pulling a bottle of Jose Cuervo out of her duffel bag. “Wow, you’re packing some heat.”

  She raises her eyebrows and looks up at me. “I know you’re probably used to the fancy shit, but I promise you, Jose is a special, special man.” She walks confidently into the kitchen, completely at home, and rummages around until she finds two crystal shot glasses. I smile at the first girl who’s ever walked into my house without gawking and cooing and spoon-feeding my already sorta inflated ego.

  “Okay, get some salt and a lime,” she says as she pours two excessively large shots of the liquor.

  “While we’re pretending to be back in college, I assume you want me to shoot it out of your belly button and lick the salt off of your…?” I nod at her boobs, resting perfectly in that tank top.

  “Very funny. No. But taking a shot of tequila without salt and lime is like running an off-tackle without a tight end.”

  I stare at her, pretty much fucking speechless. “You’re really something else, you know that?”

  Somehow, in the time that I was trying to comprehend her effortless football reference, she’s dug up a lime and a container of sea salt. “Okay, lick your hand so the salt sticks.”

  “Kinda gross…” I say to her, laughing.

  “Pussy.” She grabs my wrist and lightly runs her tongue along the back of my hand between my thumb and index finger. Heat soars through my body as her mouth touches my skin. I can’t stop my mind from imagining that perfect mouth wrapped around my cock, but I try my best to push away the tempting visual.

  After pouring some salt onto my hand and giving me a small slice of the lime, she holds up her shot glass, focuses her green eyes on me, and smiles. “To our fake engagement. May we successfully fool the entire world.”

  I clink my glass against hers. “And have a good-ass time while doing it.” The shitty tequila burns like a bitch, and I look up to watch Frankie down it like a frat boy.

  She sucks on the lime and looks up at me, holding it between her lips. Come on, she has to know exactly what she’s doing. “All right, number 15, let’s see whatcha got.”

  Frankie hurries back out to the deck, and I grab an old football from a storage closet by the patio, following her. I smile at the dog snoring on my giant leather sofa. These Monroes sure do know how to make themselves at home. We step back outside, and she props her butt up onto the railing and kicks off the 1950s boy sneakers.

  “Okay.” She looks up at me. “I have this game called beach football.”

  “Clever.” I wink at her.

  She flicks her hand and ignores me. “The deck is the end zone. Yours is…a little bigger than ours, but it’ll still work.”

  I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the moonlight or the way her eyes sparkle when she says end zone, but man, she’s fucking gorgeous.

  “My brothers would change the rules every time we played when we were kids, but it’s basically just a game of catch with random tackling and touchdowns.”

  “Hate to break it to you, but that’s all real football is.”

  She gasps and snatches the ball out of my hands. “It’s so much more than that! Now go long.”

  At her command, I run off the deck and onto the sand, and she throws the ball right to me with a speed and accuracy that is pretty damn impressive. “Nice spiral, Monroe.”

  Frankie’s hair is up in a ponytail now, and it swings from side to side as she jogs out onto the beach. “Okay, now I�
��m on defense.” She jumps in front of me and tries to stop my run, her playful laughter bouncing off the ocean.

  “There’s absolutely no way you can tackle me.” I jerk to the left, inches from her face.

  “Maybe not, but I can do this!” She grabs the football right out of my unsuspecting hands and runs all the way down to the water, splashing it up around her ankles and dancing in the low tide. “Touchdown! Six points for me!”

  I laugh and walk over to her. “You can’t just take the ball like that. Also, you said the deck was the end zone.”

  “Oh, well, I switched teams, so it was the ocean for me.” She kicks the water up, and it sprays against my legs.

  “What?” I laugh and run my fingers through my salty hair, following the magnetic attraction and getting closer to her. “You literally just changed your own rules. You’re worse than your brothers!” I crouch down and splash the water right back at her.

  She jumps away from my splashing and giggles, taking her ponytail out and shaking her hair around. “I don’t make the rules, Sterling.” She plops her ass right down on the beach and squishes her toes through the wet sand.

  “Actually, yes, you do.” I sit down next to her—fuck my hundred-and-fifty-dollar sweatpants, I guess—and lean back onto my palms.

  Drawing a deep breath of salty air in through her nose, she leans her head back. “How do you deal with the pressure?”

  The gravity of the abrupt question catches me off guard. “What do you mean?”

  “The NFL. Being a professional athlete. Having thousands of people watch you every game, knowing they’ll get really pissed if you screw up.” She looks at me with pure, genuine curiosity.

  My brain instantly starts listing off the bullshit answers to that very question I’ve spewed to so many women before. Meaningless crap that makes me sound like I’m some sort of warrior: the glory, the field, the fame and power, and the rush of it all. I make it seem like I’m a gladiator, like I’m fighting for something noble. All of those answers are basically instant panty-droppers.

  I turn to Frankie. “I get paid a lot of money to play a game. It’s fun, but it’s not real pressure. Just a game, nothing more than that.” I think I’m more shocked by my answer than she is.