Nixon (Raleigh Raptor Book 1)

by Samantha Whiskey

  Teagan waved him off, but I smiled at the two. “You two are adorable. How long have you been together?”

  Roman’s eyes widened, and he cleared his throat.

  Nixon snorted.

  And Teagan waved her arms back and forth like she was a ref declaring someone safe on third base. “No,” she said. “No, we’re just friends.” She nudged him with her elbow. “I’ve known this one since preschool.”

  I tilted my head, narrowing my gaze as I studied their body language. The effortless way they were around each other, the hint of longing in Roman’s—

  Nope. Not going there. I cursed my psychoanalytic brain and my inability to not look beneath the surface level sometimes.

  “I’m actually with Rick Baker,” Teagan said.

  Tight end for the Raptors?

  Rick The dick?

  Or at least, that is what the press referred to him as because of his attitude on and off the field. Though, to be fair, as I slowly was being acclimated to this new life alongside Nixon, it couldn’t be easy living in the public light. Having everyone judge and comment on every single decision you ever made was pretty heavy.

  “Oh,” I said, clearing my throat as I motioned between the two. “My bad. I just assumed—”

  “Happens all the time,” Roman said, waving me off. “Bound to,” he continued. “With how long we’ve been friends.”

  I nodded.

  “Anyway,” Teagan said. “Let’s go check out your closet, shall we?” She tugged on my arm, ushering me toward the stairs, but paused and let me lead the way when I hadn’t turned into Nixon’s master bedroom like she’d assumed.

  “I’m down this way,” I said, laughing at her silent apology for the blunder.

  Teagan hurried to the closet once I opened the door to the room I’d claimed when I’d moved in. “This is all you have?” she asked, her eyes wide as she checked out the few outfits I had on hangers in the closet.

  I shrugged. “I don’t need much,” I said. “My mom raised me on the road, so I’ve always only purchased what was necessary. Moving with a ton of stuff is a hindrance when you do it often.”

  Teagan nodded. “Okay, well, tonight’s dress is absolutely necessary. And lucky for you—and me—Rick is out of town, so I’m free for the entire day.” Something sharp passed across her features, but it was gone in a blink. She hurried past me, heading back down the stairs toward the guys. “We’re going shopping!” she declared with such gusto and excitement I wondered how many times she actually got to go out and do it.

  “We don’t have to,” I said, not wanting to bring her down but thinking about the amount of money I had in my savings. I had a little, but likely not enough to buy a dress worthy of the type of event she’d described. “Maybe I should just sit the party out. I feel like I’m already causing a problem with my lack of ball gown attire.”

  Nixon shook his head and pushed off from the kitchen island. He reached into his back pocket, thumbing through his wallet before he handed me a thin piece of plastic. I glared up at him as he all but forced it into my hand. “Buy whatever you want,” he said.

  I shook my head. “I don’t want your money.”

  “You’ve made that incredibly clear.”

  Roman choked back a laugh behind Nixon.

  “Look,” Nixon said. “I asked you to come to this event. So, it’s only fair that I pay for the dress. Honestly, as long as you’re not buying houses, you couldn’t possibly spend what I make in one day.”

  I popped my hip out, arching a brow at him and his confident grin. “That doesn’t impress me,” I teased.

  The smile turned genuine, and he leaned down, lowering his voice. “I’d pay quite a bit to learn just what would impress you, Liberty.”

  Chills raced across my skin at the way he whispered my name, and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to be alone in this kitchen with him again. To have him press me against that kitchen island and feel that hard, warm body of his flush with mine. The blood in my veins raced hot as a hunger wrenched deep in my core.

  Roman cleared his throat, and I jolted a little. I had moved closer to Nixon without even realizing.

  God, I needed to get out of here before my hormones made me jump the quarterback in front of his friends.

  “Shopping,” I said, taking a few steps away from him. I tilted my head at Teagan. “And lunch? I’m starving.”

  Teagan clapped her hands, jumping a little on her toes. “Cool if you pick me up later?” She glanced at where Roman still sat.

  “Of course,” he said. “All you have to do is call.”

  Teagan clapped some more and then hurried to loop her arm through mine. “I can’t remember the last time I had a girls’ day.”

  “It’s because you haven’t had one since high school,” Roman all but grumbled behind us as we headed toward the garage door. I fished for the keys to the car Nixon had loaned me and looked over my shoulder.

  “Can’t wait to see what you pick out,” Nixon said, his smile wide and genuine.

  And I can’t wait to see you in a suit.

  Not that I’d tell him that.

  “I may buy out a whole store,” I said instead, waving the credit card at him.

  He laughed, and Roman clapped him on the back, and then Teagan was hauling me out of the house.

  “Where are we headed?” I asked once I was behind the wheel. It wasn’t like I knew any place to buy a fancy dress—the most lavish I ever went was a flowy skirt from my favorite vintage shop.

  “Oh,” she said. “I know the best boutique, and there is a legit Cuban place right next to it that is amazing.”

  “Sounds perfect,” I said, and let her enter the address into my phone.

  Armed with Nixon’s credit card, his car, his starving baby in my belly, and apparently one of his dear friends, I found myself wondering why I didn’t feel more awkward about it all. But nothing about Teagan screamed forced, nor did the car or the money. It was easy to fall into this lifestyle.

  Like I’d somehow always had been meant for it.

  “I thought you said this was a preseason cocktail party?” I said, my pulse spiking as Nixon’s driver pulled up to the curb of a historic building in downtown Raleigh.

  “It is,” he said, tilting his head.

  I pointed out the window. “There is a red carpet, Nixon.”

  And cameras. Loads of them.

  Nixon shrugged. “Our events coordinator tends to make every function a publicity event. Its proceeds will benefit my brother’s fiancé’s charity foundation. It’s also a chance for the team to get together and let loose before the grind really starts.”

  I raised my brows at him—he practiced non-stop, and when he wasn’t doing that he was working out. I swear, the man threw passes in his sleep. And the grind had yet to start?

  “Are you sure about this?” I asked, gesturing to myself. “To being photographed with me. I mean, I’m not exactly a model.”

  “I know who you are,” he said, his dark eyes trailing the length of my body. They lingered on my tummy for a few seconds before he returned his gaze to mine. “And I’m not hiding you. I know we’re still figuring this whole thing out, Liberty, but until we do, I want you by my side.”

  Warmth surged across my skin, and suddenly I was thankful for the strapless black number Teagan had helped me pick out. “Don’t let me fall, okay?”

  That crooked smile shaped his lips as he reached for my hand. “Fast reflexes, remember?” He grinned. “I promise, I won’t let you fall,” he said, and then he was ushering me out of the car and into a frenzy of lights and shouting voices.

  “Nixon! Who are you wearing?”

  “Nixon! What does offense look like this year for the Raptors?”

  “Who’s on your arm tonight, Nixon?”

  A stream of questions, all yelled in our general direction as Nixon smiled and waved for the cameras.

  “This is Liberty Jones,” he said, patting my arm which was looped around his. “
And I’m wearing Armani. Offense looks tight.”

  And that was that.

  He hurried us through the doors, past a grand marble-floored entryway, and into a giant ballroom filled with way more than a handful of Raptors. No, there were athletes and celebrities and models and wait staff and more, all dressed in finery so shiny it almost hurt my eyes to look at.

  Music filtered from hidden speakers in the ceiling, beckoning several couples to dance on the space designated in the center of the room. Standing high-top tables draped in cream linen lined the walls around the dancefloor, most occupied by one gorgeous Raptor or the next. A full mahogany bar dominated the right corner of the room, and Nixon guided us toward it. I let out a sigh of relief when I spotted Teagan next to Roman, and that was Hendrix freaking Malone on his other side. Holy hell, the wide receiver for the Raptors was even more stunning in person—blond hair, crushing blue eyes, and a body of chiseled muscles that surely made him one of the fastest in the NFL. Would I ever get used to the insane amount of celebrity-worthy attractive men that naturally came with Nixon’s world?

  Did I want to get used to it?

  Because, honestly, while I could appreciate the buffet of sexy NFL stars, none held that thrall like Nixon did. None made me want to lose all my well-placed safety nets and fall into a charged whirlwind of uncertainty and risk just to get another taste of him.

  I shook off the weakness in my knees at the mere thought of Nixon’s lips against mine again, and smiled at Teagan.

  “You look stunning!” Teagan said by way of greeting when we reached them.

  “Thanks to you,” I said, beaming at her. “I love that you went with the blue,” I said, pointing to her beautiful off-the-shoulder dress. “It brings out your eyes. You look gorgeous.” Heat bloomed on her cheeks, and she waved me off, her eyes finding the floor. I’d seen that many times in my studies—deflection and unacceptance of a compliment. Usually that meant—

  No, Liberty. Turn it off!

  “She’s right,” Roman said, his hand gently touching Teagan’s elbow to draw her attention.

  Teagan swallowed hard, then reached for her champagne flute on the bar. “Thank you,” she said, though her voice was much softer than before.

  “That better be tonic in your glass,” Nixon said, eying Roman.

  “And what if it was Gin, boss?” Roman smiled. “What would you do?”

  Nixon shrugged. “I’ll run it out of you in the morning, then.”

  Roman laughed, shaking his head. “It’s tonic. I’m not a masochist.”

  “I am,” Hendrix said, raising his glass tumbler filled halfway with an amber liquid.

  Nixon sighed. “You’re going to puke on the field tomorrow.”

  Hendrix laughed and took another sip. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Nixon glanced down at me. “Ginger ale?”

  “Yes, please.” Luckily, since moving in with Nixon the sickness had gone down by about fifty percent, and I could only pray to the pregnancy gods that they’d give me a reprieve tonight. Still, I’d marked all the bathrooms the second we’d walked in, just in case.

  Nixon ordered two, then handed me the glass. I sipped it, my stomach instantly sighing in relief at the bubbly liquid. I chased a few stray drops from the corner of my mouth, only to find Nixon’s eyes on mine. The heat that churned behind them coiled everything in my body like a tight spring. It didn’t help that his all-black suit hugged his carved muscles in all the right places. It also didn’t help that he’d been nothing but caring, considerate, and downright funny these past few days. I hadn’t laughed this much in a long time, and considering our circumstances, laughing was the last thing I thought we’d be doing.

  Weren’t accidental pregnancies supposed to be more stressful than this? More fights or struggles to mold two lives that clearly were never meant to be together? I mean, Nixon was the quarterback for an NFL team, and I was an aspiring psychologist with dreams of bringing mental health awareness around the globe. And this baby…this baby was one string holding us together in a tapestry of fate no one could possibly understand.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked, smoothing a hand down my bare arm.

  I parted my lips, then shut them. “Who says I’m thinking about anything?” I finally asked.

  He cocked a brow at me. “You’ve got that look.”

  “What look?” I laughed.

  Nixon stepped closer to me, the heat from his body curling around my own. He smoothed a finger down the center of my brow, his touch feather-light, and yet somehow branding.

  “Whenever you’re battling something internally, you get the sexiest little grooves right here.” He drew his finger back after another pass, and my entire body whimpered at the loss of contact.

  “I do?” I asked, my voice cracking slightly.

  He nodded, his eyes open, churning with something I couldn’t place. Hope? Worry? Regret? God, I was usually better at reading people. Why was Nixon so hard to get a handle on?

  Maybe because he had so many versions of himself—the quarterback for his team, or the quarterback for the media, or the twin brother Nixon, or the one I’d met in Vegas, or the one who’d asked me to move in with him.

  “So?” he pressed.

  I opened my lips and shut them a few times. Maybe I should just be honest with him. Let him know I not only can’t figure him out, or what he wants, but I can’t stop thinking about that damn kiss too.

  “I’m thinking—”

  “There you all are!” A masculine voice edged with irritation cut off my words, and Nixon shifted his stance, electing to stand just a hair in front of me instead of at my side. It was such a subtle move I wasn’t even sure he knew he’d made it.

  A large, muscular man in a gray suit—Rick Baker—stomped up to the bar and clapped Roman on the back with a little bit too much force, if Roman’s clenched jaw was any indication. “Thanks for bringing my girl here, Romo,” he said, immediately taking the flute from Teagan’s hand and throwing back the contents. He smacked the flute on the bar, raising two fingers at the bartender before turning to face Teagan.

  “Anytime,” Roman said as he rose from his stool. He nodded toward a group of guys across the room, and he and Hendrix headed their direction, leaving Nixon and myself at the bar with Teagan and Rick.

  Rick slid his hands over Teagan’s hips, his eyes trailing the length of her body. “Blue, huh?” he asked, a slight edge to his tone.

  Teagan nodded rapidly. “I know you don’t normally like blue, but I went shopping today and—”

  “With who?” he interrupted her.

  “With me,” I said.

  Teagan’s eyes flashed to mine for a brief second, and before I could blink, Rick whirled around, his tense features relaxing as he noted the proximity in which I stood to Nixon.

  “This the one you knocked up?” Rick asked, his smile wide, teasing.

  Nixon cleared his throat, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he placed a hand on the small of my back. “Rick,” he said. “This is Liberty.”

  My ears flushed red at the way Rick clearly sized me up, then shrugged. “So, you’re the one who convinced my girl to wear blue?” He took his glass from the bartender, not bothering to hand Teagan hers.

  I tilted my head, surveying him as he had me. “It hardly took much convincing,” I said, gesturing to Teagan. “Look at her. She looks amazing. A mirror did most of the work.”

  Rick turned to lean his back against the bar, able to look from Teagan to me and back again. “You know I hate blue,” he said. “And you know black hides the curves better.”

  Teagan’s eyes found the floor, but she nodded quickly. “I wanted to try something—” She cut herself off quickly, and plastered on a smile. “Next time, I’ll wear the black.”

  “Smart girl,” Rick said, sliding his hand over her cheek.

  I gaped at the exchange, but a pressure at the small of my back made me bite back the words I wanted to say. Nixon’s hand, warm and stro
ng, a silent warning to let it lie. And in reality, he was right. I didn’t know much about Rick and Teagan’s relationship, and just because my psychoanalytic brain saw some mild toxic behaviors from Rick didn’t mean he actually was toxic. Teagan—from what I’d seen from her earlier today—was a smart, capable woman. She wouldn’t be with him if he didn’t make her happy.

  “Nix,” Rick said, draining his second glass. “Jordan from the Titans is over there.” He motioned to the other side of the room. “Let’s go give him shit for his turnover stats from last season.”

  Nixon rolled his eyes but nodded. “How about we compliment him on his touchdown passes instead,” he suggested, releasing me with a silent question of if I’d be okay here alone for a minute. I nodded, and then he followed Rick across the room.

  I sank onto the stool next to Teagan, silently sipping my ginger ale and wondering if I should ask her what the hell the dress debacle had been about.

  “What’s your impression?” she asked after a sip of champagne. I breathed a sigh of relief, a question about Rick on the tip of my tongue, but she continued with a wave of her hand. “About your first party?”

  “Oh,” I stumbled over the word, scanning the room she’d indicated. “It’s…interesting,” I admitted. “Nice, even.” Everyone looked amazing in their best suits and gowns and under the glittering chandelier lights. Most of them were recognizable in some way or another—athletes or celebs—and the fact that they were here to support Harper’s charity as well made it all seem more important than a mere get-together before the season officially started.

  Teagan laughed, and the tension in my shoulders uncoiled. “Some of them can be,” she said. “Though they get kind of boring after attending so many.”

  “How long have you been coming to these sort of things?”

  Her eyes found Roman chatting up a pretty, fit redhead across the room. “Years,” she said. “First, I’d tag along with Roman because he never wanted to come alone. Even as friends, I can sometimes keep the more zealous attention seekers at bay.” She smiled, her lips soft and not forced. She sucked in a deep breath. “Then, after Rick and I got together two years ago, I always go with him. Though, today, he flew in late, so he asked Roman to make sure I was here on time and waiting for him when he rolled in.”