To Catch A Player (Second Chance)

by Piper Sullivan

  I opened my mouth to tell her it was fine with me, but Janey was distracted again, off to rope some other poor, unsuspecting soul into doing something he would later regret. Mostly.

  With a beer in my hand and my gaze, finally, on the pool tables, I waited for the sense of relaxation to kick in. My beer was half empty by the time I realized I wasn’t on edge or stressed out. I was bored. Inside a bar filled with beautiful women, more booze than they should be drinking, and loud music, and I was bored.

  And it was all the fault of a tiny blond with a barbecue obsession. I wasn’t interested in any of the women, local or otherwise, shooting me bedroom eyes or otherwise admiring my form in jeans and a button-up shirt that wasn’t western in theme so it made me stand out even more. Not one of them in their tight jeans and low-cut shirts had a thing on Reese, with her constantly mussed hair, her bare feet, and cheeks that were always a little rosy from too much time in a warm kitchen.

  “Dammit.”

  I would rather be in the kitchen of her restaurant or at her house than here at a bar, filled with unattached women who weren’t looking for strings. That dressed-down beauty and her smart mouth were a siren song I couldn’t ignore, and her kitchen sorcery was just the cherry on top.

  I was on my feet and headed toward the door in seconds. I didn’t want anyone but Reese and she wasn’t here, which meant I didn’t need to be here, either.

  I needed to be wherever she was, and that was exactly where I went.

  Reese

  “Your ribbons are very pretty, young lady.” Aunt Bette leaned over the table where the ribbons and medals from the last two cooking competitions sat, a prim smile on her mouth. And zero recognition on her face. The young lady part of her comment was a knife straight through my heart.

  “Thank you, Aunt Bette.”

  She frowned and I flashed an apologetic smile, remembering that the staff had said not to upset her when she was confused. “Your family must be proud.”

  “Of course,” I said, because what else could I say? It wasn’t her fault that she didn’t remember me, just as it wasn’t her fault that she was my only living family, in any way that mattered. “I’m sure they are.”

  “I used to love to cook, but I don’t do it much anymore. I wonder why that is,” she mused with a smile, turned toward the window where birds played around a feeder. That was it—Aunt Bette was gone completely.

  Not that she’d remembered anything of me or her life during the visit, she hadn’t. The only saving grace was that she wasn’t frightened or angry over her lack of memory today. It was, according to the staff, a good day.

  She didn’t remember me, but it was a good day.

  That didn’t hurt to hear. Not at all.

  “How was the visit?”

  I shrugged at one of the friendly nurses. “She didn’t remember me, but she wasn’t bothered by it, so good. I guess.”

  “I know it’s hard,” she offered, along with a soothing hand to my back. “But just remember, for her, that’s a good day.”

  “I know.” I did, and that was what made it all so sad, because I was powerless over all of it. Powerless to do anything about the pain I felt over her memory. It wasn’t her fault, I knew Bette would remember me if she could. Which made my pain selfish and immature. And that made me angry.

  So, I headed home where I could get lost for hours, burying my sorrow in the kitchen. It was my favorite form of therapy, and right now I needed an hours-long session.

  Three hours later, I felt better. Not good, but thanks to a half-finished pitcher of Bloody Marys, I felt better about things. Two sauces simmered on the stove and my meatballs cooked in the pressure cooker on the other side of the kitchen, while the oven worked hard to help my slider buns rise. The kitchen was steamy and my hair was a frizzy mess, and it was all okay because I was alone.

  “Totally and completely alone. All alone.” The more I said it aloud, the more it became like a game to see how many different ways a person could be alone.

  “Orphaned.” I snorted, I’d been that for most of my life. “Spinster.” Well, that was an in progress kind of thing that only bothered me once in a while. “Solitary. On my own.”

  Another bitter laugh escaped and I buried it behind another sip of my drink. There was nothing I could do about Aunt Bette’s situation, because there was nothing modern medicine could do. I could accept it, which I was trying to do, but it was hard. It was like losing a mother all over again.

  “And on that thought, I’m done thinking.” I cranked up the music until it drowned out my thoughts. Completely. I moved around the kitchen, my focus on the different pots simmering—and my drink, of course. And the lyrics. Cannot forget the lyrics.

  “It’s too bad you’re not selling tickets to this show. We could make a killing.”

  Although it registered immediately that it was Jackson’s voice behind me, my fear impulse took over and I screamed—loudly—and spun while tossing a barbecue sauce covered wooden spoon at my would-be but would-be-not attacker. “Crap. Sorry but you did scare me.”

  Jackson looked down at the blue button-up shirt that was almost like his uniform, rolled and pushed up his forearms just to tease the fairer sex. Then, his gaze slid to mine and a lazy half-smile kicked up one side of his face. “You got barbecue sauce on me.”

  I shrugged. “You know what they say, if you can’t stand flying sauce, don’t sneak up on the chef.”

  “No one has ever said that.” He reached across the counter and turned down the volume. “Who pissed you off?”

  “No one.”

  Jackson laughed. “That would’ve been more believable if you hadn’t crossed your arms all defensively like that.”

  “I’m just doing kitchen stuff and rocking out. Is that all right?”

  “Fine by me. Want some company?”

  “Sure. What are you doing here, anyway?” We didn’t have plans to see each other and since I was following his lead, I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.

  The smile that spread across his face was irresistible. And contagious. “I found the weirdest thing over at Bo’s and I wanted to share it with you.” He stood there looking as charming as the devil, but it was that hint of vulnerability and uncertainty that had me unconsciously leaning in.

  Ready to swoon, because it was such a sweet gesture. “What is it?” My curiosity got the better of me and I leaned over the counter to try and get a peek inside the bag, but Jackson yanked it behind him with an admonishing look.

  “In time. What smells so incredible? And please, don’t tell me it’s just sauce.”

  I gasped. Loudly. Dramatically. “Just sauce? Did you say just sauce? To me?”

  His smile was playful but his hazel eyes showed just enough wariness to show he understood his mistake. “No. What I meant is, it would be a shame if there wasn’t a massive amount of food to go with all that delicious sauce.”

  “Wow. Pretty and quick on his feet.” He really was pretty, especially as he finally peeled off the blue button-up to reveal a plain gray T-shirt that had seen a few too many washings and looked soft. So, so soft. And touchable.

  “My eyes are up here, Reese?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I waved him off and ogled the way his chest muscles bulged behind the thin T-shirt, and the way it hugged his narrow waist while hiding the mouthwatering six-pack beneath the fabric. “I already said you’re pretty.”

  His laugh was loud and booming, full-on amusement, and I couldn’t help but join in and watch the way the lines in his face transformed him from the staid cop to the handsome guy giving me bedroom eyes. “Thanks. But seriously, what smells so good?”

  “One-track mind,” I grumbled and went to check the oven. “Meatball sliders. Spicy BBQ meatball sliders, to be exact.”

  “Is this for the cook-off?”

  “No,” I sighed. “It’s for me.” I didn’t want to get into anything heavy with Jackson, it wasn’t really our relationship, but I was too tired and still too raw to ho
ld my defenses all the way up.

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  “Yes. No. Not really. My aunt isn’t getting any better.” I told him all about how she didn’t remember me and treated me like a polite stranger. How it hurt like hell. “I know this is her illness and it’s about her, not me, but I can’t help feeling sad about this. Sad, and sorry for myself.”

  That was how you turned a guy on, right?

  “Sorry.” I turned away from Jackson and begged the tears to go the hell away because I didn’t want him to see me cry.

  But suddenly, there was warmth. A lot of warmth, and strong arms wrapped around me, holding me close. Jackson’s chin rested on my shoulder and when he spoke, his voice was right beside me ear. “I’m sorry about your aunt, Reese.” His lips pressed softly against the line of my jaw, a strictly platonic move that had the unwanted effect of touching me between my legs and in my heart.

  I was so screwed, so I smiled and pushed out of his arms before I changed my address to that exact spot. “Thanks, Jackson. No more stalling, what’s in the bag?”

  His smile charmed me once again as he reached down and pulled out a miniature wooden crate. “It’s a cheese and pickles kit from around the world, apparently.”

  I stared at the stylized crate in disbelief—not that it was so cheesy, no pun intended, but that it was so perfectly weird. So unlike Jackson that I tossed my head back and laughed at how right this moment was. The perfect distraction. “This is great, actually. Let’s crack it open. Do you think it’ll go well with half a pitcher of Bloody Mary?”

  His gaze slid to the glass pitcher and back to me, one brow arched. “Half a pitcher?”

  “Well, it’ll be a full pitcher in a minute, so hush.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He zipped his lips and I turned away to replenish the Bloody Mary pitcher.

  “That’s more like it. How about we take the pickle kit on the back porch, since it’s kind of hot in here?” I heard the words, but it was too late.

  “You already got me out of my shirt, Reese, maybe slow it down a bit. Feed me first.”

  “Who says men only have sex on the brain?”

  “We do, but food is a more acceptable topic. Or so I’m told.”

  “By your mom?” Sure, I was fishing, but I was also curious.

  “Yeah,” he sighed. “She tried to make sure I didn’t grow up a complete Neanderthal.”

  “Well, she succeeded on that front. What about your dad?”

  “No dad, just a Steve. My stepdad. He’s a prick, but Ma loves him. He had a heart attack recently and she’s bending over backwards for him, as usual.” Jackson sighed and dropped down on the steps instead of one of the chairs right behind him. “I sound like an asshole, don’t I?”

  “A little, but you’re not usually one on purpose so I assume there’s some bad blood between you and Steve?”

  “You could say that.” And then Jackson shocked me by sharing the details of his tumultuous relationship with his stepfather. “He’s just a bully and she just wants to keep him happy. It’s not abuse, but it’s abusive. Does that make sense?”

  “Yeah,” I snorted. “I’ve found myself in a few of those before I realized what was happening. It sneaks up on you.”

  “I guess. I’m just worried about Ma. Now she’ll do even more for him, ignoring her own health in the process. If something happens to her…” He couldn’t even finish the thought, and I didn’t blame him. It was happening to me for the second time, and I knew there was only one thing to do about it.

  I refilled our glasses. “Then you owe it to yourself to go check on her. Not him. Her.”

  “Is that why you keep going to see Bette even though she can’t remember you? Because it helps?”

  “Yes and no. I go because she deserves to have someone come visit her, someone who cares about what happens to her and how she’s feeling, and not just because they’re being paid to care. She took me in when she already had a house full of kids. Raised me. Loved me. This is the least I can do for her. No matter how much it hurts.” And it did hurt. It hurt like hell, and I buried my face in a big gulp of fresh tomato and spicy horseradish and vodka.

  After a long, thoughtful pause, Jackson sighed. “You’re a good niece, Reese.”

  “Thanks, Jackson. You’re a good friend.” I rested a hand on his shoulder and left it a little too long before I remembered that we were friends. Just friends.

  I assumed.

  He looked at me over his shoulder and placed a hand over mine, brow cocked in amusement. “Is that what I am, a friend?” He leaned back, looking up at me with a playful smile.

  “Aren’t you my friend?”

  “I am, but am I just your friend? Because I don’t sleep with my friends.”

  I sucked in a breath at his words, at his spoken reminder of what had happened between us. And how much time had passed. “We haven’t slept together in a while.”

  “I know.” Those two words came out low. Seductive. Then, before I could think of anything clever or flirtatious to say, his lips were on mine. Slow and sweet at first, like the man who’d hugged away my anxiety earlier. Then it grew hotter, like a raging fire of passion that exploded between us. Our positions made the kiss awkward until I tumbled on top of him, and we kissed for what felt like hours, his tongue dancing with mine in a slow waltz that slowly consumed me.

  Then a hand slid up my shirt and found a nipple, hard and ready to play. I arched into him and moaned, sliding my fingers through his hair to hold him close. As close as I could get him.

  “Reese,” he growled in my ear and rolled us on the hard porch until he was on top of me, rocking back and forth between my thighs. “I need you. Now.”

  There was only one thing to say to that. “Yes.”

  Jackson carried me inside where he slammed the door and pulled down the blinds, so it was just me and him inside the steamy kitchen, making it even hotter. “Reese,” he growled again, and when he kissed me this time he didn’t stop until I was breathless and begging for more. He didn’t stop until my toes curled. Until my heart was his.

  Completely.

  Jackson

  “You sure you want to give all this to me?” I held up the oversized canvas bag that held several plastic containers filled with food, specifically last night’s leftovers. There was meatballs and sauce, brioche rolls, pesto, coleslaw and cake. Chocolate fudge cake. And it was all for me.

  Reese nodded, looking sexy as hell with her sleep-rumpled hair falling all around her shoulders and down her back. The T-shirt she wore barely covered her ass, leaving miles of leg on display.

  “You more than earned it, and if you eat it, then I won’t. Feel free to share with your coworkers, though.” Her lips twitched, because even Reese knew I was too enamored with her cooking to ever share.

  I held the bag away from her with a frown. “Is that a requirement of accepting the food?”

  She tossed her head back and laughed, in what was slowly becoming my favorite look on her. The laugh was throaty and deep—like a woman, not a girl.

  “No,” she said. “If you don’t want to share, you don’t have to.”

  When it came to Reese, I didn’t want to share a damn thing. Not what was happening between us, not the time we had together. I wanted her all to myself. All of the time.

  “Good,” I told her and leaned in for a kiss, because those succulent pink lips had called to me all night long. Every sleepy smile pulled me in and challenged me to find a creative way to wake her up. To make that smile bigger. The way she nibbled her bottom lip when she was deep in thought or the throes of passion, I wanted a taste. “That’s almost as sweet as all this food.”

  “That’s me,” she deadpanned. “A real sweetheart.”

  She was, but Reese didn’t want to believe it. Yet. “Last night was fun.”

  She nodded and leaned her weight against me. Trusting me. “I thought so, too. The pickles and cheese were particularly interesting.”

  “So were th
e Bloody Marys,” I told her and pressed a kiss to the crook of her neck. “But you and pickles, that was my favorite.”

  “Jackson,” she moaned a second before I kissed her again, savoring the taste of hazelnut and coffee on her tongue for a good long moment until I had to pull away or clock in to work late.

  And I was never late for work. “Gotta go,” I said against her lips.

  Reese’s hand fisted in my T-shirt and she pulled me closer. “Go.”

  If only it was that easy. I was powerless under the best of circumstances, but a half-naked Reese pulling me in was more than a man could stand. “I have to.”

  “Bye,” she said, swiping her tongue along the seam of my lips.

  “Tease,” I growled and stepped back, feeling a swell of masculine pride at the pout that stole over her face before she replaced it with a smile.

  “Maybe. Have a good day, Detective.”

  Dammit, this woman had me all tied up, and I had a feeling those matchmakers were responsible. “How could I have anything else after a night and then a morning like this?”

  She kissed me one last time and pushed me out the door with a smile I knew would stay with me for the rest of the day.

  By the time I’d changed into one of the shirts I kept in my trunk and settled in at my desk, there was a message waiting for me. From Reese.

  That shower was the highlight of my morning.

  I groaned and leaned back in my chair as the memories played like a highlight reel in my mind. Reese naked and soapy, riding my mouth. My cock. Screaming my name.

  “Ugh, I don’t want to know what I just interrupted. I’ll give you a minute.” Andrea’s voice penetrated my fog and I sat up straight, suddenly alert.

  “What’s up?”

  Andrea’s brows lifted in surprise. “We’re really not gonna talk about that?”

  “Nope.”

  “Is it the chef?”

  “Stop.”

  She laughed. “I heard things were getting hot and heavy with you two.”

  My eyes flew open on a frown. “You did?”