My insides clench in protest, and I move my hand to my lower abdomen before I can stop the action. My stomach is flat for the most part, but I’m not a fan of sit-ups, and I have a soft little swell just below my navel.
I have a love-hate relationship with my little pooch. When I’m standing up, I find it kind of cute and sexy, a bit of feminine softness on my body that sometimes makes me feel like a gangly giraffe. But when I sit down in a bikini and everything kind of pillows, I hate it.
Right now, I cradle that vulnerable spot. “James? Do you ever feel…” A shuddering breath leaves me. I should shut up. Right now. But I have to ask someone. And James is my closest friend. He’ll never judge me. “Defective? Like damaged goods?”
Instantly, my face heats with shame and annoyance. I’ve shown my underbelly, and I don’t like the sensation. But James’s soft voice comes through the phone. “Chess, I’m bisexual. I get shit from all directions. I’m either a liar or deliberately choosing to be as I am. But clearly defective to both camps.”
Even though he’s a thousand miles away, I want to hug him. “They’re the ones who are defective, not you.”
He’s silent for a moment. “There is nothing wrong with you either, babe. Not one fucking thing.”
“That’s the messed up part. I know I am not defined by what I lack but by who I am as a whole. And I’d probably kick someone’s ass if they tried to tell me differently.”
“But?” James prompts, because he knows me well. “Something’s not clicking in that head of yours. What is it?”
“Sometimes…” I lick my dry lips. “Sometimes I wonder if my heart hasn’t gotten that message. That maybe I sabotage myself with men. You know, what if, when they learn everything there is to know about me, they decide I’m not worth it.”
I don’t even know what trying to explain. Only that, despite my best efforts, there are days when I feel flawed. When it feels like my fault that I’m single and have never had a boyfriend.
“I used to think that too,” James says quietly. Which is a shock, because his sense of self-confidence has always been enormous. “And at the same time I have thought that there was no one perfect enough for me.”
I give a little half-hearted laugh at that, because, despite my insecurities, I fully admit to being picky as fuck over men. “Yeah.”
I hear the smile in his voice. “Now I know that there is someone perfectly imperfect for all of us.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“And if that person for you happens to be a six-four, hot as fuck-sweat quarterback, then I’ll love you forever.”
I snort. “You’d love me forever anyway.”
“True. But I’ll forgive you when you turn into a PMS rage demon from now on.”
“So magnanimous. But I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”
“Then tell me I’m wrong. Go ahead, I’m waiting.”
I look down at the coffee table I’m standing in front of. Cheese platter, baguette rounds, a plate of cured meats, a bowl of wasabi peas and roasted almonds are arranged just so. And a couple of Abita beers are chilling in an ice bucket. My cheeks heat.
At home, I often make myself a little happy hour for one. Or two, when James sticks around. Life is short, and I like to enjoy the small things as well as the big events. But this spread isn’t for me. It’s for Finn.
He’s been gone for over a week and is due to arrive home at any time. What will he think of this? Is it too much? Girlfriend territory? I don’t know. All I know is that I want him to be happy coming home. I want to do things that shows my appreciation.
It’s fairly stunning how easy it is to care about the man.
But maybe he won’t like this. Maybe it will freak him out and make him think I’m angling for something else.
Panic has my chest growing hot and tight. Shit.
“I gotta go,” I tell James. “I’ll text you later.”
“I knew it! He just get home?”
I ignore the teasing lilt in his voice. “No. Girl issues.”
It’s our long established code for me admitting I have to use the bathroom. And nothing will get rid of James faster.
As soon as I hang up with him, I reach down to clear the table. But the lock on the front door turns, and before I can move, Finn walks in.
There’s no more panic about cheese trays and beer, because he sees me and smiles. And, damn if I it doesn’t light me up like one of those old-fashioned pinball machines. I’m grinning back so hard my cheeks hurt, while those little zings of giddy pleasure dance through me.
He’s wearing gray track pants and a black Henley, which should make him look like a slob. He doesn’t. Those clothes hug that hard, fit body of his, showcasing every ripple, every bulge. I envy those clothes.
Finn tosses his gear bag onto the floor, never taking his eyes off me. “Honey, I’m home.” He says it like a joke, but his voice is thick and rough.
Exhaustion? Or something more? I can’t think. I should say something witty or light, but the only thing that comes out is, “Hey.”
Finn’s smile only grows. He heads straight for me, as if I’m the happy end of a very long day. And I can only stand there, shifting my weight on my feet, my fingers curling at my sides with the repressed need to grab him.
Before I can say a word, he’s sweeping me up in a big, bear hug, my nose pressed in the small space between his hard pecks. The scent of clean cotton, warm skin, and potent as hell male pheromones washes over me like a sigh.
Finn’s voice rumbles in his chest and warms the crown of my head. “I’ve missed you.”
The simple declaration slides through my defenses with such ease, I don’t have time to brace myself. I close my eyes and give him a gentle squeeze, unable to form words, because I am not a sentimental girl. I don’t know to say sweet things.
Maybe Finn senses that. Or maybe he’s just tired of hugging me. Either way, he sets me back on my feet. “How’ve you been settling in? Is your wrist still hurting?” He peers at my face as if trying to make sure I’m okay.
When he’s away from me, I forget how blue his eyes are. Azure blue. I’m a fan of brown eyes. Yet here I am, staring up at his eyes like I’ve never seen the color blue before.
And, holy hell, I don’t recognize this moony person I’ve become.
I take a step back and get some much needed space. “I’m fine. The swelling has gone down and the pain is nearly gone.”
He nods but then glances behind me, catching sight of the food. Surprise registers first. His big body gives a little jerk. And then he blinks as if trying to clear his sight.
I grow uncomfortably warm, my arms twitching with the desire to swipe the table clear.
But then his gaze meets mine. “You did miss me.”
The heat inside me grows. “What a thing to say. Of course I did.”
That soft expression of his expects too much.
“I should probably warn you…” I gesture toward my damn cheese tray. “I like to do this in the evenings.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up. “You think I’m going to complain?”
I shove my hands into my back jeans pockets. “James says it’s very nineteen fifties domestic.”
Finn chuckles.
“But that’s about all I do that can be considered domestic,” I warn. “So don’t expect me to greet you with dinners or—“
“Cocktails?” Finn supplies, pulling a beer out of the ice bucket.
Fuck.
“Yeah…”
He laughs again, and then swoops in, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Relax, Chester. I’m not expecting anything. I won’t be asking you to fetch my slippers. Although, if you want to…” He wags his brows. “I won’t try to stop you.”
“Asshat.” I give his arm a slap. It’s like warm granite.
With an expansive sigh of contentment, Finn plops onto the couch, twists the top off his beer and takes a long drink. He sighs again and rests his head against the back of the
couch. His lids lower like a relaxed cat’s. “Gotta admit,” he says in a near purr. “Coming home has never been this good.”
“Glad I could—” I yelp as he takes hold of my good wrist and tugs me onto the couch with him. “Easy there, Superman.”
Finn cuddles me up next to him, draping his arm over my shoulders. “Sorry. But you were standing there all twitchy and shifty like you’d been caught stealing or something.”
The laughter in his voice is unmistakable. And I elbow him, trying to ignore that his fingers have threaded through my hair, lightly stroking the strands.
“You colored your hair again,” he murmurs, playing with the tips that now have glints of teal, gold, green, and magenta playing in the black.
A shiver of pure pleasure goes through me. His body is warm and solid, and I’d like nothing better than to rest against it without care.
“It’s called an oil slick effect.” Why am I telling him this? He doesn’t care about color techniques.
But he lifts a whole section and slowly lets it sift through his fingers. “It brings out the green in your eyes.”
It feels good. Too good. And wrong. I don’t cuddle with James. I’ve never wanted to. I don’t cuddle with anyone. Ever.
What we’re doing here is dangerous. Because it would be so easy to turn my head and nuzzle the heated hollow of his throat, to lick a path up to the curve of his jaw and the soft turn of his lower lip. It would be as easy as taking a breath.
I’m living with him now. Hitting on my host is a definite faux pas. And stupid.
I edge away, causing Finn to frown slightly.
“Hey, Chess?”
I don’t like the quiet, serious tone of his voice. “Yes?”
“When are we—”
The doorbell rings. We both flinch as if snapping out of a daze, and then Finn glares at the door. “Who the hell?”
“You don’t get random visitors?” I tease, rising.
Finn sits forward on the couch. “They have to get past the doorman. My assistant Charlie has clearance, but I happen to know he’s hanging out with Rolondo and Woodson right now.”
The bell rings again.
“I’ll get it,” I tell him. “You have your beer. Dear.”
He smirks at that, but stands. “No, way. I don’t know who the hell got past security. I’m answering the door.”
We both go, bickering along the way. Which is ridiculous, but I can’t seem to let it go; I have this weird sense that Finn shouldn’t answer it.
But he does, swinging it open as if he’ll gladly pummel anyone who’s here with ill intent. That all changes when he sees the woman standing in the hall.
At his side, I halt, my skin prickling in shock. Because the woman is stunning. White-blonde, silky hair, ice blue eyes, tanned skin, and the kind of bone structure artists commit to marble. It’s my job to photograph women like her. And though I’ve never worked with this woman, I know who she is immediately. Britt Larrson. A supermodel whose face currently graces the cover of Vogue.
She and Finn stare at each other as if nothing else exists.
It drops the bottom out of me. These two are golden people. The kind of pairing that media and fans alike eat up and sigh over.
“Britt.” Finn’s voice is a rasp.
She leans toward him but stops, her gaze falling on me.
The back of my neck tightens. Finn flinches as if he’s forgotten I was there. I don’t blame him; if I liked women that way, I might have forgotten too.
“Britt. This is Chess. Chess, Britt.” It sounds like he’s chewing on nails.
She gives me the barest of nods. “Hello.”
“Chess is a photographer,” Finn says, as if explaining something.
I’m small time. And she knows it.
Britt’s features tighten a fraction. “Yes. The calendar photographer. I’ve heard. Must have been a big deal getting to shoot you and your team.”
Nice. I could say something snide. But it isn’t worth it. Finn looks as if he’d rather the floor swallow him whole. He still hasn’t moved back from the door or offered to let Britt in. She stands there awkwardly, clearly at a loss, and clearly expecting more.
“I was hoping we could talk,” she says then, another glance in my direction.
Finn straightens then as if coming out of a fog. “Ah…yeah.”
His neck is so stiff, I have to wonder if he’s actively trying not to look my way.
Enough is enough.
“I’m just headed out,” I announce, grabbing my purse and keys. Both of them thankfully sitting on the hall console. Then I remember my phone. “Let me just get my phone…”
I jog to the kitchen, my temples throbbing.
Finn and Britt haven’t moved from their spots by the door. But Finn frowns my way. “You don’t have to—” He shuts his mouth abruptly, then grimaces. “Thanks, Chess.”
The apology in his eyes irks. The hell if I’ll let him see that. I give Britt what I hope is a pleasant smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“Same,” she says with about as much sincerity.
She’s going to eat my cheese. I hate her.
I leave without looking back.
Chapter Ten
Finn
* * *
My feet seem to have grown roots. I can’t make them move. My body is one dull throb of old pain and new shock. Dimly, I take note of Chess walking out, her dark, glossy hair swaying like an agitated ribbon down her back.
Don’t go.
I want to call her back. It would be easier that way. I could shut the door on Britt’s face and tuck Chess back against my side. But that’s the coward’s way out.
Britt makes a small sound, and I snap out of my fog. My parents taught me better than this.
“Come in.” I step back to let her pass.
She leaves a trail of expensive and too flowery perfume. That scent stuck to my skin and gave me a headache when I’d fucked her.
Not something I want to think about.
I follow her into the living room, watch her as she strolls around, taking in the space. When Chess had done the same, I’d been filled with a strange need for her to be pleased, to like my place. With Britt, I just want her to spit out why the hell she is here.
Britt stares down at the coffee table with the appetizers Chess set up so prettily, and I am hit with a sense of wrongness that she’s here and that Chess is out there somewhere.
I have never had anyone welcome me home before. Never knew I needed it until I walked in the door and saw Chess standing there, so fucking pretty in her casual jeans and black v-neck top. And so adorably nervous and prickly about doing something nice for me.
Maybe it’s true that she always has a little personal happy hour. But she clearly had included me in her plans tonight. That makes all the difference.
“You’re living with the calendar photographer?” Britt asks.
Seems like a petty distinction, calling her a calendar photographer when she’s more than that. But I let it slide. “Chess, and she’s staying with me, yes.” It’s none of Britt’s business. But I’m not trying to hide anything.
Britt nibbles on her bottom lip.
“How do you know who she is, anyway?” I ask.
“They are showing pictures of you two. At an aquarium. Food shopping together.” Her smooth brow barely wrinkles. “They’ve been taking pictures of her coming out of your building all week.”
Great. Chess will love that.
“You seem to know a lot about it.”
Britt shakes her head as if I’m naive. “I envy you your ability to tune out the press. They’re everywhere, Finn.” Her lashes sweep low. “They photographed us once too.”
Annoyance skitters up my spine and claws my neck. “They took photos of everyone at that party. It was fashion week.”
Fact: football players troll fashion shows and parties for models. Not because they like clothes. When you’re a rookie and you get invitations to hang out with the most
beautiful women in the world, you go. Hell, you’re ecstatic.
Models, actresses, pop stars, they love us. We’re fit, rich, and most of us aren’t looking for complicated. Is it a shallow set up? Sure. But as long as no one gets hurt, why should it matter?
Only sometimes, people do get hurt.
“Why are you here, Britt?”
She lowers herself onto the edge of the couch, picks up a piece of cheese, frowns at it and drops it back down. I almost snap at her not to touch anything; that’s Chess’s meal. But then Britt gives a little sigh. “I don’t know. I saw the pictures and thought of you. You’re getting on with your life.”
Is that was this was? Some guilt trip. Worse thing is I don’t know if I should feel guilty or not. “Was I not supposed to?”
“No. Yes.” She shakes her head, the simple movement stunning on her. I’d been so blindsided by this woman’s looks when we met, I’d turned stupid. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know what I’m saying half the time.”
And like that, I do feel guilty. “It’s all right, Britt.”
She utters a half-sob, half-laugh. When she looks up, her eyes are wide and a little hesitant. “Your mother has been calling me.”
She couldn’t have shocked me more if she’d slapped my face.
“What?”
The fuck?
Britt’s chin lifts a touch. “She invited me to your house for Thanksgiving…” Her nose wrinkles. “No, that wasn’t what she called it.”
“Thanksmas,” I get out through clenched teeth. Blood rushes in my ears. I am going to kill my mother. I don’t care if it’s a crime. I don’t care if my dad kills me in retaliation. The woman has gone too far.
“Right, that’s it.”
“Britt.” My voice is hard. I can’t control it. “No. I’m sorry, but no.”
Her mouth falls open, her eyes welling as if she’ll soon cry.
“My mother means well,” I press on. “But this isn’t the right thing for either of us.” It sure as shit isn’t what I want or need.
Britt staggers to her feet. I reach out to steady her but she shakes me off. “I thought…” She takes a breath. “I thought maybe she was speaking for you.”
The Hot Shot Page 14