by Ivy Hunt
Not by the Playbook
A Fake Relationship Football Romance
Ivy Hunt
Copyright © 2020 by Ivy Hunt
www.ivyhunt.com
[email protected]
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, organizations, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.
Edited by Pam Elise Harris
Cover design by Robert Jan de Vries and Natalie To
Not by the Playbook
There are consequences when you stop following the rule book.
RULE #1
Don't celebrate your new job before you have it.
Especially not by having a one-night stand with a star quarterback.
RULE #2
Don't sneak out of said star quarterback’s bedroom the next morning.
You don’t know who you might run into in his kitchen.
RULE #3
Don’t lie to your potential boss
Definitely don’t tell her the quarterback is your boyfriend.
Most important rule of them all—don’t fall in love with your fake boyfriend.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Thanks for reading
About the Author
Chapter One
FRIDAY
BECS
My blood pounds as pin-sized lasers drill through my eyelids, sending twinges of pain between my brows. I raise a hand to shield my eyes from the attack and try to shift, but a solid weight holds me down. My head turns, its contents swirling for a second before settling again as I burrow deeper into a cocoon of warm skin.
Warm skin.
My eyes snap open. A muscled limb bands around my torso. A muscled limb that is attached to a naked man. Who is attached to a naked me.
Pressure mounts in my skull and my heart stutters as I seize on the bold features in front of me—a sharp jaw, high cheekbones, and slashing eyebrows. Logan Barnes. NFL star quarterback. And my one-night stand.
Beneath my ribs, my lungs convulse. My nipples throb, but not in a good way. If I wasn’t already lying down, I’d keel over.
Don’t hyperventilate. Don’t hyperventilate! God, where’s a paper bag when you need one?
I force myself to suck in and release slow breaths as images from last night assault my brain, rapid fire.
It started out innocently enough. I’d just found out I was one of the final candidates for a job at McCann Advertising. My best friend, Carrie, insisted we meet at a nearby bar where she proceeded to lecture me on the dangers of adulting, all the while calling for more rounds of drinks because one should never squander an excuse to party.
Normally, I wouldn’t get ahead of myself and start counting poultry, but at the grand old age of twenty-four, I am lipstick-deep in student debt, and this HR coordinator position is the only thing that will keep me afloat and tethered to New York.
More pieces of the jigsaw fall into place.
The crowd separates, and three men, each one hotter than the last, swagger into the bar—Jaime Lannister, Thor, and the Christian Bale edition of Bruce Wayne. All are tall, well-built, and oozing confidence, but it is the blue-eyed Batman who captures my attention.
Thor ambles over to where Carrie and I are perched, already two Proseccos in.
“Ladies…are we celebrating?”
Carrie’s flirt is on, her smile dazzling. “Yes. Rebecca is.” She points at me.
“No, I’m not. Don't jinx it.” I shush.
“What are we jinxing?” Christian Bale has followed his friend over. His deep, gravelly voice hums along my skin. And that gaze is more than merely blue, more like a polished sapphire. Mesmerizing. When hypnotists say, “look into my eyes” they’re describing eyes like his.
Carrie announces, “Rebecca’s got a new job!”
That snaps me out of my stupor, and my palm jams over her mouth. “I don’t. Not yet.”
She smacks my hand away and frowns, but that transforms into a confident smile a second later. “You'll find out on Monday. Becs, you’re a sure shot.”
“I don’t know about that. The woman who interviewed me was scary as shit. It was like trying to impress an icicle.”
Blue Eyes chuckles, and the sound skitters down my spine. “Well, how about a drink for luck instead?”
Jaime Lannister, right behind his squad, promptly orders a bottle of Dom Perignon.
Carrie’s eyes flit to him and then to the other two men. Her jaw goes slack. Nails dig into my arm, and she yanks me close. “Holy fuck!” She barely contains a squeal.
“What?” I whisper.
“Do you know who that is? Who they are?” She’s hissing, all googly-eyed. Her Louboutins are doubling as tap shoes.
I slant a gaze back at them. Fine specimens, but the look-don’t-touch kind.I shake my head hesitantly. Should I?
“That’s Connor Hall.” She points at Jaime Lannister. “The blond is Jake Cunningham. And your guy is Logan Barnes.”
My guy? Did they come pre-assigned?
My lashes flutter upward. Blue Eyes—Logan—is staring at me, a cocky grin playing on his lips. My pulse quickens, and electricity sizzles through me.
Carrie continues, “They’re NFL. They play for the New York Titans. Connor is the running back. Jake is a linebacker. Logan is their star quarterback.”
My brain kicks in at that statement and orders my body to refuse the drink. I have no idea why someone like Logan has singled me out, not in a place littered with models and celebrities. I’m about to step back, but he is already in front of me, pressing a champagne flute into my hand. His touch is intoxicating enough; the bubbly is superfluous.
“In anticipation of good things to come.” His eyes are hot on my skin. “Very good things.”
We spoke well into the night. I don’t remember what about, just that there were more lingering gazes and illicit touches, and the vague sensation I was doing something I shouldn’t.
Champagne was followed by tequila shots that morphed into Fireballs, then into a series of Jager Bombs.
And now here I am. From HR candidate to ho.
Hold it together, Becs. I try to shift Logan’s arm, but it’s too heavy. What is this guy made of? He’s more Man of Steel than Dark Knight.
Do I wake him or duck out from under his arm? The sudden dryness in my throat makes me swallow. I risk option two. I press my face against his side and start to slither down, my nose grazing his skin. Logan’s scent evokes more sc
enes from the night before. His body tense and hard over me, his eyes blazing with every hard thrust. His face buried between my parted thighs while his fingers dug into my hips as he pushed me over the edge.
My head spins at these pictures and a low, strangled grunt escapes my lips.
Beside me, Logan shifts and makes a sound.
I freeze. Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up.
Throat tight, I wait. But he only lets out a soft sigh. I suck in a breath of my own and continue my journey down, one tanned mile at a time, my heart thudding the entire way. The moment my head clears his arm, I spring up and angle my frame away, covering my breasts with my hands as if his hadn’t been all over them last night. What was I thinking? Oh right. I wasn’t.
I sneak another look at Logan. Closer perusal reveals corded muscles and tight brown nipples. Mouth dry, my gaze trails down his body, inch by slow inch, only stopping at the base of his eight-pack. I know the “V” is there, but it’s covered by a thin sheet. My stomach clenches, and my eyes skid up to his face. His features are relaxed. There’s no hint that he might share the shitstorm raging inside me.
Cool air hits me, and queasiness wars with embarrassment. My clothes and his are breadcrumbs of shame from the door to the bed. I trace them back, first snapping on my blue lace bra then tugging on the rumpled mess that is my shirt. My black pencil skirt resembles a broken accordion.
Where are my panties? My eyes dart around the room, taking in the details I missed last night—floor-to-ceiling windows with views of Battery Park, dark shelves anchored to slate walls filled with books and trophies and other memorabilia. But no underwear.
Shit. I skulk back to the king-sized bed and inhale sharply. My crab pincers inch up the sheet. No panties, but I am confronted with an eyeful of that. I drop the cloth and squeeze my thighs together in reflex.
Oh yeah. That.
More pieces fit together. Logan’s lips hot on mine in the Uber, making out in the elevator up to his floor. Plastering me against the front door the moment we’re inside then carrying me to the kitchen counter and pressing his hard body between my thighs while fishing a condom out of his wallet.
Skirt rucked up, panties yanked down, and touchdown.
It was the quickest orgasm of my life.
I was still pulsing when we relocated to the bedroom for round two only minutes later. Football stamina is real.
Even though his wooden headboard is notch-free, I’m reasonably confident based on his—skills—that he’s done this before.
What’s the protocol now? Run? Leave him my number? Write a thank-you card for the best sex ever? My stomach picks that exact moment to rumble. I should wake him up and demand breakfast for services rendered.
The sheets rustle again, and Logan turns over.
Panties are overrated. One more trophy to his collection won’t make a difference. I grab my purse and shoes and tiptoe out into the living room.
It’s ginormous, at least twice the size of my entire apartment. Three dark leather couches frame a square coffee table in front of a large TV on one side. An eight-seater dining table separates the space from a long kitchen island—the scene of my disgrace.
I spy a blue bit of lace on the ground by the counter and I scurry over. When I bend, a cocktail of blood and booze rushes to my head. I have to squeeze my lids shut and clench my teeth together to keep from throwing up while I question my poor life choices.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The clicking increases in volume but comes to an abrupt halt a few feet away.
One of my eyes rises on the back of a patent stiletto. The other opens on a red sole.
Oh. My. God.
His wife? Was he wearing a ring last night? He wasn’t stupid enough to bring me to a home he shares with a partner, was he? I huddle tighter under the counter. Stupid is relative. Football brain injuries are a thing.
A switch clicks on and the scent of caffeine fills the room. Keep your shit together, Becs. My eyes dart to the front door. The four yards to the exit might as well be four continents.
Lace in hand, my shaking knees straighten.
Chapter Two
BECS
“Rebecca?”
The whirring of the coffee machine halts, and my name echoes in the sudden silence.
Bile-flavored dismay congeals in my throat. My bare toes curl into the cold floor looking for purchase, and bag, panties, and shoes slip from my fingers to the ground.
Say something.
“Ms. Barnes,” I choke out.
“What are you doing here?”
“Ms. Barnes.”
Say something else.
I’m pretty sure my vocabulary extends beyond her name, but I’m hard-pressed to prove it because Jenna Barnes of McCann Advertising and the icicle who holds my future in her hands stands before me.
Perfectly arched eyebrows knit as she examines my walk-of-shame ensemble. What started off as a respectable interview outfit couldn’t be in greater contrast to her wine-colored sheath dress and stockinged legs. I bet she even has underwear on.
My would-be work life flashes before my eyes, over before it’s begun. Who wants an HR coordinator who sidelines as a ho?
My face is seconds from melting off. If only the rest of me would disappear, liquefy into a champagne puddle at her feet.
“…didn't realize my brother had company over…”
Brother? Logan is her brother? My lashes flutter, once, twice, and the resemblance becomes obvious. The same piercing ice-blue eyes and inky hair, but where his locks curl over his ears, hers are up in a tight chignon. She’s not as tall as him but well able to look down her regal nose at me.
Sibling is better than spouse. Sibling is better than spouse. Sibling is better than spouse. God, where’s that raging wife when you need her?
Ms. Barnes’s eyelids twitch. “Have you been seeing Logan long?”
I saw long, all right.
“Yes?” It emerges a high-pitched squeak.
She crosses her arms and her nose wrinkles. I take a discreet sniff. Desperation is a blend of sex and sweat with undertones of caffeine.
“I didn't realize he was dating anyone,” she says a beat later.
Neither did I. How is this happening to me? I pay my taxes on time, call my mother regularly. I even floss, for God’s sake.
“It's new.” Words leave my mouth. Words not approved by my brain.
“What a surprise.”
To me too. I stand still. Afraid to move in case the being that currently occupies my body attempts something else.
Ms. Barnes sets her coffee on the countertop. Right where my butt was moored last night. My hand itches to run a Clorox wipe down the granite surface.
She notices my gaze. “Would you like some coffee, Ms. Gerone?”
“I, uh…yes. Sure. Thank you.” Yes. Anything. Just shut me up.
She pours me a cup and hands it over, all the while observing. My fingers curl around the ceramic, and I bring it to my lips, welcoming the scalding liquid.
Eons later, I wheeze an, “Excuse me. I’m sorry, Ms. Barnes. I just…didn't expect to see you here.” Understatement of the century.
She continues to study me over the rim of her cup. “Yes, Ms. Gerone. It's a small world.”
I nod dumbly.
“Very small indeed,” she tacks on a moment later.
“Yeah. I didn't know that… you…,” I flail around.
“I’m here for the week. My apartment is being painted. Logan must have forgotten.” She sniffs. “He was supposed to meet me in the lobby yesterday. It’s a good thing his doorman let me in.”
“Ah…I met Logan last night. I mean, he was with me. Right after the interview. To celebrate,” I scramble.
“To celebrate, hmmm?” A single eyebrow lifts.
And now I’m a presumptuous bitch.
The sloshing in my belly returns. This time it’s not the booze’s fault.
“I supposed I’m just surprised. You’re very different from his usual…companions.” She takes another sip of her coffee.
So I don't look like a football player's standard fuck. Small favors.
I’m saved from more verbal dysentery when said football player, now clad in boxers that conceal little, strolls into the kitchen rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He stops. The sleepy expression on his face transforms into a frown as his gaze swings from me to Ms. Barnes. Before he can say anything, desperation carries me to his side. My grappling hooks twine around his neck, and I drag his lips down to mine.
Chapter Three
LOGAN
For a man who relies on his quick reflexes to make a living, I’m remarkably slow at registering the situation I’ve just walked into before a mouth is fused to mine. Rebecca.
I stand there stunned, but it’s only a momentary reaction before my eyes jerk up, over Rebecca’s head, to meet Jenna’s bemused stare across the kitchen island.
Fuck. My. Life.
Words to explain why a stranger is mauling me when I’m in nothing but my underwear queue up on my tongue, but Rebecca speaks first.
“Hon! I just met your sister!”
Hon? My eyes drop to meet her wide green gaze.
“You didn't tell me she worked at McCann! She's the woman who interviewed me yesterday!”
Understanding dawns.
The lunatic's fingers tighten around my neck like a noose as she darts a glance at Jenna before returning panicked features to mine. She mouths, “Please, please, please.”