And even as the thought runs through my brain, my stupid, traitor of a body sends a happy zing through me.
Bracing myself, I turn and come face to face with my tormentor, my rescuer. Finn Mannus. Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world… From beneath the brim of a battered Mickey Mouse ball cap, his blue eyes twinkle. There’s such sly humor in his gaze that I’m hard pressed not to smile.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he says, crowding my seat. He isn’t exactly insinuating his big frame between Evan and me, but it’s a close thing.
“Who did I piss on in a prior life to deserve this?” I mutter, even as my body stirs with renewed energy. And, really, I’m full of shit because I’m happy to see him. My mouth can lie, but my heart knows the truth.
He’s close enough that the warm length of his arm brushes against mine. “Some say my presence is a blessing.”
“It doesn’t count if you pay them to say that,” I lob back.
He chuckles low and easy. “It was only the one time, I swear.”
My lip twitches. And he sees it, his eyes bright with shared humor.
Jake Ryder takes the moment to make himself know. “Chess!” He bumps into both Finn and me. “Can you believe this coincidence?” He says it with such obvious exaggeration, that I give Finn a look.
He’s got a good poker face, but the fact that he’s even wearing one makes me wary.
“Is it now?” I drawl.
Again, Finn flashes a quick smile meant to charm and evade. But when he leans in a touch, his voice rubs over my skin. “I was just nowhere near your neighborhood.”
My heart gives a little kick. “I’d never imagine you’d quote Singles, Mannus.”
A strangled sound to my right snags my attention. Evan is gaping at us like he’s seen a ghost. Right. Evan. I’d forgotten he was there.
“Finn Mannus,” he says in an awed voice. “Seriously?”
Finn gives him an easy, ah, shucks grin. “Yep.”
“Wow.” Evan’s gaze pings from to me to Finn and then back to me. “You didn’t say you knew Manny.”
“I don’t. Not really.”
Jake slings an arm around my shoulders. “Oh, come on, Chess. You’ve seen us naked. I’d say that counts as knowing us, don’t you, Manny?”
Little shit. I roll my eyes as Evan’s mouth falls open again.
Finn glares at Jake. “Keeping it classy, Ryder?”
“You…” Evan looks at me. “They?”
“Naked,” Jake confirms with a nod.
“They were in the studio for a photoshoot today,” I explain, pursing my lips at an unrepentant Jake.
“Cool,” Evan says, then does a double take. His eyes go wide. “And Jake Ryder too? Fucking awesome play on fourth and ten last week, man.”
Jake grins. “Thanks. I try.”
“I can’t believe you know these guys.” Evan turns to the bartender. “You see who’s here? Finn Fucking Mannus and Jake Ryder.”
The bartender, who had been down the bar, pouring drinks perks up. “No shit.” Soon he’s leaning in, wide eyed as a kid in a toy store.
I roll my eyes again, and my gaze clashes with Finn’s. He’s not paying his fans any attention, but is watching me. Amusement lightens his expression, and for one strange moment, it feels as though we’re sharing a secret joke. “Bet you didn’t know my middle name was ‘fucking’,” he murmurs as the bartender shakes Jake’s hand.
“I’d have guessed ‘asshat’,” I tease.
Finn presses his big hand to his chest, now sadly covered in a white t-shirt. “You wound me, Chester Copper.”
Shaking my head, I incline my head toward his. “The fact that you keep calling me Chester might have something to do with it, Finnegan Mannus.”
“Actually, it’s Finnegan Asshat Mannus.”
“So I was right.”
“You’re the only one who’s figured it out.”
I hadn’t realized how close we’d gotten to each other, that we were nearly nose to nose, him bent over me, his hand resting on the back of my chair. But a loud laugh bursts the little bubble we’ve created for ourselves, and a man slaps a hand on Finn’s big shoulder.
Finn’s expression tightens for a second before he turns his head to look back at whoever grabbed him.
“Manny!” the guy yells in glee. “I can’t fucking believe it.”
“Believe!” I cry, waving my hands in the air.
Finn nudges my side with his elbow. “Cute.”
I blink innocently, but don’t miss the way he keeps his arm pressed against mine, as if we’re together. His skin is warm and firm, and has my body’s complete attention. Which is wrong; I’m on a date with…fuck, not again. Edward? Ethan?
“Evan,” I mutter, pulling Finn’s attention back to me.
“No, it’s Finn,” he says, smug as hell.
He’s so tall, I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “I’m on a date with Evan.”
He lifts a brow, glancing at my date, who is gesturing wildly as he talks to Jake about football stats. “Looks like it’s going well.”
“Well, maybe if someone hadn’t interrupted it…”
“You would have fallen asleep on your stool?” he offers, lightly.
I exaggerate taking a sip of my vodka, turning my back on him even as he chuckles low and close to me. The sound sinks into my skin, an unwelcome prickle that makes everything shiver.
But then he’s crowded by more fans, more slaps on the shoulder. The loss of his attention is like being pulled out from under hot stage lights. It’s cold and dark where he isn’t.
I snort into my glass and keep drinking. I’m losing it around this guy. It’s his fame I’m reacting to. That’s all. It’s normal. Normal.
Except none of the other football players I photographed today did anything for me. And none of them sent giddy anticipation fluttering through my middle.
Manly, deep laughter rumbles around me and then I hear it; the softly feminine lilt of a bunch of women on the prowl. Stiffening, I glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, four women have found their way to Finn and Jake.
These women aren’t wide-eyed with fame. Oh, they’ve clearly recognized Finn and Jake, but they aren’t fazed. No, they’re sizing Finn and Jake up, looking for a good in. Hell, I’ve been part of such groups, heady college days when we’d go out in search of cute guys. It was thrilling back then, the anticipation of hooking up, maybe finding someone who I’d actually want to stick around afterwards. Now, the thought of searching makes me tired.
Pushing my drink away, I lean past Finn’s wide shoulders and tap Evan on the arm. He’s so caught up in fawning over his idols that it takes a couple of taps before he notices.
“I’m going to call it a night,” I tell him.
Relief washes over his face, though he does try. “You want me to take you home?”
“No,” I insist, needing to escape and fast. “I’m good. You have fun.”
I don’t mention seeing him again. We both know that’s not going to happen. He’s already turned back to Jake.
Grabbing my purse and my jacket, I slide off the stool. Finn, who has been mobbed by women, wrenches around and his gaze narrows on me. “You leaving?”
“Yep.”
A brunette hangs on his arm, and he slips free of her before stepping back to give me room.
“Night,” I tell him, needing a clean get away. The longer I linger, the more I’ll like him. And I know my time with Finn is akin to getting a glimpse of a shooting star.
He touches my elbow. “I’ll walk you.”
The heat of his fingertips sends little fissures of awareness skittering over my skin. I won’t pretend the attraction between us isn’t there. But it’s superficial at best. Still, I’m not surprised he wants to act on it. From the second he appeared at my shoulder, I’d known his play would arrive, a foregone conclusion with the inevitable cliché ending; hot, cocksure, famous guy bags the woman who gave him shit earlier.<
br />
I don’t think he’s trying to be a dick. He’s just following the script. Doesn’t mean I have to.
Two women press in on both sides, wanting to be near him. I glance their way and give them a tight smile. Finn doesn’t acknowledge their presence, but gives me an expectant look.
I put on my jacket then sling my purse over my shoulder. “It’s all right. I’m perfectly fine walking by myself.”
Finn lifts a hand the way cops do when they’re about to give you shit. “Can’t do it, Copper. I won’t feel right not seeing you home.”
“Don’t go all caveman on me, Mannus.”
The guy is like rubber, happily bouncing back with each volley I serve. “Didn’t you know?” he says lightly. “All football players are part cavemen. Some more than others.”
I’d never have thought a six four, muscle-packed guy would be cute. But he is. And it’s hard to resist him. “Be that as it may, I’m really fine.”
We reach the door and Finn opens it me. “Okay then, walk me home.”
“You?” Despite myself, I pause on the sidewalk, the humid night air wet on my skin.
Finn’s tan skin glows purple in the light of the bar sign. “Yeah. I don’t feel safe going it alone.”
Such innocence in his expression. I bite back a smile. “And where do you live?”
He gives me my address.
Laughing, I shake my head. “Persistent bugger, aren’t you?”
“Again, football player. We don’t give up.”
With that, I find myself being walked home by the quarterback. With the brim of his cap down low over his head, and his hands tucked into his pockets, no one seems to notice who he is. He still draws glances; a tall, fit guy with an etched jaw will always get attention. But we walk along unhindered.
Crossing Bourbon Street is a show, as usual. Music blares from all corners, country from one bar, rock from another, blues down the street. Drunks and gawkers flow past us like geese in a flock. Finn steps closer to me, his arm brushing mine. “You see,” he says, bending low to my ear. “I might have been swept up in the mob if you weren’t here to guard me.”
I snort. “I’m sure it would have been horrible. Dozens of strangers all vying to buy you a drink.”
“Endless women showing me their tits,” he says with an expansive sigh. “And me without any beads to give them.”
“I doubt they’d mind.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle as he looks at me from under his brim. “No. But I’d rather be with you anyway.”
I’m not one to flush. I blame the heat in my cheeks to the balmy night air. “I’m not sleeping with you,” I blurt out.
“All right.”
“All right?”
A laugh leaves him in a huff of breath. “You expect me to beg?”
“No. Of course not. I just…that was easy.”
His big shoulders lift in a shrug. “I’m an easy going guy.”
“At the risk of sounding paranoid, this all feels odd. Like you’re playing me.”
His lips quirk. “You do sound paranoid. Tell me, does this paranoia affect all areas of your life, or is it just with men?”
We cross Canal at a brisk pace before the light can turn. “I’ve never been walked home by a man without him expecting something, Dr. Phil.”
“You’ve been walking home with the wrong men, Chess.”
No one knows this better than me. But I slow my steps. “Look me in the eye right now,” I say to him. “And tell me that you have walked a woman home without intending to get in her pants.”
He halts, which has me stopping too. From the bar on our right comes the sound of Elvis crooning about how he can’t help falling in love. It’s loud and sappy and fills the resounding silence between as we stare at each other in challenge.
Guilt skitters over his expression, but he tries to hide it. “I have walked a woman home without intending to get into her pants.”
My eyes narrow, and his lips curl in a slow smile. “I’m doing it right now,” he points out.
“You’re impossible,” I tell him with a laugh and pick up walking again.
“Charming,” he counters. “You know, I don’t actually have sex with every woman I talk to, Chess.”
“You don’t?”
“So dubious.” He nudges me with his shoulder. “I do have some standards.”
“And they are?”
He gives me a cheeky look. “Whether or not I want to have sex with them.”
“Your vetting processes is foolproof, I’ll give you that.”
Finn shrugs again. “Attraction is instant for the most part. Whether it burns and grows or flickers out and dies after you talk to someone is the key.”
“Look at you with your insight. And here I thought you had the all the wisdom of a fortune cookie.”
“My wisdom is worthy of at least a pamphlet.”
“Tell me something…”
“Anything,” he says agreeably.
“If you only have one night stands, how can you possibly talk to someone long enough to know if the attraction will grow?”
He opens his mouth and then shuts it. A reluctant smile tugs at his lips. “Okay, you got me. My criteria basically consists of, can I stand her for the next two to four hours? But it still holds true.”
“I want to call you a pig right now,” I say with a shake of my head. “But at least you’re honest.”
“Most football players are. Our world is fairly blunt.”
I’ve judged him. The realization is a slap to the face and not pleasant. Yes, he is blunt, which I knew from the start. And yes, his sex life is fairly shallow; he’s admitted as much. But he’s clearly intelligent and kind. Not the soppy sort of kindness that seems to be more about showing off than actual caring, but a quiet, unobtrusive thoughtfulness that’s unexpected and lovely.
Too soon, we’re at my building. Finn shoves his hands in his pockets and gives me a gentle smile. “Well then.”
“Well…” My voice trails off.
The impact of Finn Mannus is immense. It’s not the way he looks, although he was certainly blessed there; it’s the intensity of his focus, as if you are the most important thing in this golden god’s world. An illusion, but no less potent.
And no less awkward when our stare stretches on, neither of us saying another word.
He looks at me as though he knows exactly what’s going on in my head; which is funny, since I don’t have a clue. I don’t want to leave this spot, and yet I don’t want to invite him in either.
And he isn’t exactly asking to come up. Irritation swells within my chest. For the first time in ages, I’m dithering.
“So,” I say through stiff lips. “Thank you and good night.”
That smile of his returns. The one that’s slow and easy. The one that graces billboards and sells millions in athletic wear. “It’s gonna be like that, huh?” he teases. “No, ‘see you around’ or ‘let’s have lunch.’ Just ‘bye’?”
I’m facing down the man equivalent of devil’s food cake. But years of shitty hookups and bad dates have given me strength. “I also said thank you.”
The lines of his face go tight for a second, and I wonder if I’m seeing disappointment. “You’re welcome, Chess.” He takes a step back, already becoming part of pedestrian traffic. “Sleep well.”
I go into my building and don’t look back. But I want to.
* * *
My day doesn’t go well. At all. I’ve tossed and turned all night long, finally falling asleep when the sky had turned dove gray. Having forgotten my phone in my purse, I oversleep, not hearing my wakeup alarm. Which means I’m not able to take a shower before James arrives and, right after him, the next group of football players I’m supposed to shoot. So I’m stuck with lank hair and a stiff neck from sleeping the wrong way.
James somehow manages to knock over a light, breaking it and putting me out of several hundred dollars. He’s so upset, I can’t find it in myself to do more
than pat his shoulder and refuse to let him pay for it.
The guys I’m photographing are nice and cooperative, which should put me in a better mood, but somehow it makes it worse. They remind me of Mannus. How can they not? These are his teammates, his friends. Every joke they toss out, every good-natured chuckle, and charming smile the send my way, makes me think of him.
I imagine how he’d joke with them. How he’d take up the space in the room without even moving a muscle. The sad truth is he’s doing that without even being here.
The man must have witchcraft in his veins, because he’s managed to haunt me after only one day of knowing him. I don’t want to think about him.
Worse, I feel wrong for leaving him at my doorstep last night. It’s ridiculous. He probably forgot about me before he even reached his home. We hung out for a few hours, made each other laugh. That’s it. Move on.
One of the guys, a big wall of man flesh named Carson, idly jokes that if Manny oiled up for games, it would make him harder to tackle and his job easier.
Dubois, another offensive lineman, tisks at Carson. “Manny already is a slippery motherfucker. You just want to see him oiled up.”
Don’t we all?
I drop my camera. On my toes. “Shit!” I bend down to inspect my camera, thanking the gods that my poor throbbing toes spared it from damage.
Neither of the guys notice.
“Oil this.” Carson grabs his crotch, now thankfully clothed, and hefts his handful.
“No one is oiling anyone or anything but me,” James announces, which makes them all blush and stammer.
Foot hurting, muscles aching, I do my job, hoping to get everyone out of my house as soon as possible. But it’s not until five in the afternoon that I’m actually alone.
Finally.
Except, for the cherry on top of my shitcake day, I get my period a week early, and don’t have enough tampons left to get me through it.
Grumbling, I toss on some black lounge pants and my oversized Tulane t-shirt and head to the drugstore.
The Hot Shot Page 5