by Vi Keeland
“You look nice.” He was wearing a hunter-green cashmere sweater that fit him well, snug across his broad shoulders, but not too tight, and simple black slacks.
He glanced at me and back at the road. “Thank you.” I wasn’t sure if I liked him more or less because he didn’t lie and feed me a compliment back about my outfit.
“You look different with your hair up. I like it.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. It’s sexy librarian.”
“Sexy librarian, huh?”
“I’ve always had a thing for librarians. You know . . . unpin her tight hair, let it loose down her back. And then make her moan between the stacks.”
“How romantic.” I shifted in my seat at the visual he painted.
“I don’t think women want romance as much as they think they do.”
I cackled. “You don’t know women very well.”
“Oh, but I think I do. I think most women, especially women who work hard and have a lot on their mind, prefer a man to come home, lift her off her feet and take her against the wall rather than hand her some bullshit flowers and pussyfoot around with sweet gestures all night.”
“We like bullshit flowers and sweet gestures.” Though I could use a good wall banging.
“Then you haven’t been fucked properly against a wall.”
“Let me guess. You could demonstrate?”
“We could skip dinner.”
“Big of you. But our deal was dinner for an interview.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
We arrived at the Regency, and the valet who opened the car door for me knew Brody by name. “Usual time in the morning, Mr. Easton?”
“Actually. I’ll probably be using the car again tonight. Why don’t you keep it close by?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Easton.”
Brody walked around the car. His hand went to the small of my back.
“Probably?”
“A man has to hold on to his dreams.” He winked.
As we walked through the lobby, more employees greeted him by name. He was a household name, but they spoke to him with the familiarity of a frequent visitor. “Do you come here often? Dinner at a hotel? How convenient for dessert.”
“I live here.”
“You live at the Regency?”
“During the season, I do. The field is less than an hour from here, even with traffic.”
“Where do you live in the offseason?”
“I have a cabin upstate. I stay there mostly.”
“A cabin? In the woods?”
“Yes. I’ve been working on it for a few years now in the offseason. I figure it should be done in about . . . I don’t know . . . twenty or thirty years.” He chuckled.
“Sounds like you work fast.”
He steered me down the hall toward the restaurant and leaned into me as he spoke. His voice was raspy. “Actually, I like to take my time.” The timbre of his voice made my toes curl in my sensible shoes.
A part of me suddenly wished I hadn’t dressed up like a schoolmarm.
We settled into our table at the beautiful Silver Ivy restaurant, and a waitress came over to take our drink order. She batted her long eyelashes at Brody and gave me the once-over, no doubt jealous of my outfit. “What can I do for you this evening, Mr. Easton?”
Really? Yuck.
“Hey, Siselee.” He looked at me. “Do you like red wine?”
“I consider it one of the five major food groups.”
He ordered a bottle of wine I’d never heard of. The waitress opened it tableside, poured me a glass and set the bottle in the bucket beside the table.
“Aren’t you having any?” The question was directed at Brody, but Siselee answered before he could.
“He only drinks on Tuesday nights.” She lifted her chin, proud of herself for knowing the answer.
“Training,” Brody offered as means of explanation.
We relaxed into easy conversation, our natural flow leading to sports. Arguing over the greats of all time, we sampled each other’s dinners without a lull in our banter. The topic of conversation eventually moved to Brody’s new wide receiver.
“I throw, he catches. We don’t need to be buddies.”
“You need to have trust in each other. My dad always said his receiver was like his wife—he needed a partner he could trust to make the right decisions.”
“I have to trust his abilities. Not his morality.”
“So is that what the issue is? His morals?”
Brody leaned back in his seat and folded his arms. “Is this an interview? This shit going to be on the air tomorrow?”
“No. Sorry. Habit. I grew up arguing about football. I actually sort of like doing it, if I’m being honest.”
“Guess I do, too. What else do you like doing?”
“I don’t have much spare time these days, really. Between the traveling and all the research and stats I have to keep up with, there’s not much time for anything but work and sleep lately. I haven’t had a day off in two months.”
“What would you be doing if you were off for a day?”
“Hmm. I love museums and bike riding. But if I had a full day off, I’d probably spend it in bed, watching movies.”
“What kind of movies?”
“B horror flicks. The gorier, the better.”
“Really?”
“Really.” I tipped my glass of wine toward him before bringing it to my lips. “What about you? What would you do with a day of no practice or games?” I knew from growing up with a quarterback dad that a day like that was a rarity during football season. Even on “recovery” days after a game, quarterbacks had films to watch from the last game to prepare for the next one.
“I’d be in bed, too.”
“What would you be watching?”
“Your face while I sink inside of you.”
I was in the middle of a long sip of my wine and choked. At least the sputtering and coughing gave me an excuse for my face turning beet red.
“You okay?”
It took me a minute, and my voice was a little hoarse when I spoke, but I finally regained my composure. “Why do you say things like that?”
He shrugged. “Because it’s true. If I could do anything I wanted on a day off, I’d do . . . you.”
“You have a dirty mouth.”
“This dirty mouth wants to do dirty things to you.”
I had that feeling of teetering on the top of a roller coaster, about to go down a steep hill . . . only that anxious and excited feeling wasn’t in my stomach, it was in my panties. And they were growing damp.
Brody lifted the wine bottle from the bucket and refilled my glass. “Tell me something embarrassing about you.”
“Embarrassing?”
“Yeah. Maybe it will help me stop thinking about doing dirty things to you.”
“Hmm…let me think.”
He leaned in. “Hurry. You’re sorta hot when you think.”
Shaking my head, I shared the first embarrassing story I could think of, even though it was an old one. “When I was sixteen, I told my parents I was going to sleep at my friend’s house, but I really went camping with a big group of people. We bought beer and sat around a campfire all night drinking. At some point, after we’d all had too much to drink, we decided to roast marshmallows. I was about as experienced with camping as I was drinking, which is to say I was drunk and didn’t belong near a fire. We collected sticks and popped marshmallows on the end. My stick was only about six inches long.”
Brody interrupted, grinning. “My stick’s bigger.”
I rolled my eyes, but continued with my story. “Anyway. I was sitting way too close to the fire with my short stick trying to brown my marshmallow, and my hair caught on fire. I was lucky I didn’t get burned badly, but it singed the entire half of my head. I had to walk around with my head shaved for my entire sophomore year. And I was grounded for a month.”
We both had a good laugh at my expense.
“You know the funniest part of that story?” Brody asked.
“What?”
“I still want to do dirty things to you.”
The waitress came to the table and cleared our plates. Brody asked for a few minutes to decide on dessert, which gave me a much-needed minute to regroup. I folded my hands in front of me on the table. “So this is it? This is my courtship? A dinner, which you basically made me come to in order to get an interview for my job, and now I’m supposed to have sex with you?”
“By the tone of your voice, I guess I shouldn’t answer yes to that question?”
The waitress returned before I could respond. “Would you like dessert?”
Brody pointed to the menu. “Bring us one of everything, please.”
She justifiably looked confused. “You want one of every dessert?”
He looked at me. “That’s right. She needs more courtship. Bring us one of everything.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“See,” he said when Siselee had gone. “I’m entertaining, too. I’m making you laugh. And you think I’m hot. This is a great courtship. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Excuse me? I never said I thought you were hot.”
“You don’t have to. I feel it. It’s in the air when we’re near each other. You’re as attracted to me as I am to you.”
“You’re nuts.”
“Admit it.”
“Honestly, it wouldn’t even matter if I did—“
“You do—“
“Whatever. I don’t do casual sex.”
“Why not?”
“Because sex has to be more than just . . . sex.”
“Why?” His eyebrows drew down. He really didn’t comprehend my answer.
“I need an emotional connection with the person to have sex with them.”
“You mean like a relationship?”
“Yes. A relationship. I’m not talking about marriage. But dating. Getting to know each other outside of the bedroom.”
He blew out a rush of air. “I can’t do that. I need to keep things simple.”
I forced a smile, hating that I felt a little disappointed. “See, we’re better as friends.”
“I don’t have any girl friends. Well, ones that I haven’t, you know.”
“Well, then this will be a first for you.”
“I guess it will be.” He extended his hand to me to shake on our newfound friendship, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he leaned in, keeping my hand wrapped in his when he spoke. “I’m disappointed. I was really looking forward to seeing your clothes on my bedroom floor.”
“Even these clothes?” I arched an eyebrow.
The waitress wheeled our dessert cart over, forcing us apart. I hated to admit it, but I missed his touch when he let go of my hand. All those sweets would be filling in for something else.
Things returned to normal after that. Well, normal for us. We argued some more. He said some more inappropriate things, and we ate one bite each from thirteen different desserts. I was glad I had on my fancy new elastic-waist pants.
“I’m stuffed.” I leaned back in my chair.
“You can sure eat for a little thing.”
“That’s not something you should ever point out to a woman.”
“I can if she’s only a friend, right?”
Neither of us made an attempt to end the evening, and it wasn’t until we were the only people left in the restaurant that I realized how late it was. “Wow. We’ve been sitting here for almost four hours.”
“Doesn’t seem like it.”
“I know. Tonight wasn’t anything like I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t expect to get to know you, really.”
“You expected me to be just a pretty face, didn’t you?”
I laughed off his comment, but that sort of was what I had expected. An evening of sexual references and talking shop about football. Don’t get me wrong, we had plenty of that, but there was also more. I couldn’t remember the last time a first date had went that well. Shit. This isn’t a date.
An hour later, we pulled up at my building. He parked, turned off the car and came around to open my door. “No doorman?”
“He leaves at eleven.”
“I’m walking you inside.”
The lobby was quiet and, as usual, only one elevator in my high-rise complex was working. I pushed the button, mentally debating if I should invite him up or not.
No. Inviting him up would be misleading.
But I really don’t want him to leave.
“So . . . I’ll call your agent to set up the interview for this weekend.”
“Call me. Not my agent.”
“Okay.”
The elevator dinged, and I suddenly felt awkward. “Do you want to come up for some coffee?”
He shook his head slowly.
“Okay, then. Well. Thank you for dinner.” I stepped into the elevator.
“You’re welcome.”
The impatient doors began to close. Brody stopped them, holding them open as he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. His mouth lingered, and he leaned in a little farther to whisper in my ear. “I don’t trust myself alone with you. I need a little space between us, or our friendship isn’t going to end well.”
He leaned back, and we stared at each other for a moment. My heart was racing, my pulse was beating like I’d just run a marathon, and every hair on the back of my neck was standing up from the electricity running between us.
He lifted the arm that was holding the door, and as it closed he said, “Sweet dreams, friend.”
I knew they would be. Because I was certain who would be starring in them that evening.
Chapter 8
Delilah
“Guess you put out last night?” Indie spun herself around in my ergonomically correct swivel chair. I dropped my bags on the floor and glanced at the beautiful arrangement of flowers sitting in the middle of my desk.
“Where did those come from?”
She lifted the small florist’s card in her hand. “Cityscape Florists. Delivered them just before you walked in.”
“I need to run to the ladies’ room. Why don’t you make yourself at home? Oh, wait. You already have.” I stashed my purse in a drawer, tossed my cell on the desk and eyed the brown paper bag that I assumed contained the breakfast Indie had brought us. “I hope it’s something greasy . . . I need it this morning.”
When I returned to my office, Indie was talking on my cell phone. “Here she comes now. The flowers are beautiful, by the way.” She extended my cell with a cheeky grin.
“Hello.”
“Morning.” Brody’s voice was laced with morning huskiness. “What kind of flowers were delivered?”
I looked at the arrangement. “Roses. They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
“Unoriginal.”
“Pardon?”
“What asswipe sends a woman like you ordinary roses?”
“You mean . . . they’re not from you?”
“No. And the guy who sent them had his secretary send that crap and didn’t give it any thought. Probably has an account at the florist and a standard order. Guy’s a dick.”
“You don’t even know who they’re from. I don’t even know who they’re from. Yet you know he’s a dick?”
“I do.”
“Because the flowers are roses?”
“Yep. Dick. I’m sure of it.”
I chuckled. “Your assessment is amusing. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind when I actually get to read the card and find out who the sweet gesture is from.”
“Sweet gesture.” He guffawed. “That’s not what you really want, and you know it.”
After eight hours of tossing and turning in my bed last night, I was beginning to think he was right. As much as I hated to admit it, I’d thought about Brody an awful lot after he left last night. Replaying our conversation over and over about why I c
ouldn’t have sex without a relationship, I’d begun to doubt myself. Maybe there was nothing wrong with having sex with a man I was attracted to. Why did I need to tie in some sort of commitment to enjoy the physical benefits of a sexual relationship? I was twenty-six years old—there was nothing wrong with sex just being about sex if that was what I wanted.
“Did you call for a reason other than to tell me what I want, Mr. Easton?”
He groaned.
“What?”
“I like the way ‘Mr. Easton’ sounds coming from your mouth.” He groaned again.
“What?”
“Now I’m thinking of your mouth.”
I laughed. “You’re not very good at this friend thing, are you?”
“Told you that you’d be the first. It’s harder than I thought.”
“I bet it is.”
“Are you flirting back with me, friend?”
“You have my head spinning. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m not even sure what you called for yet.”
“Shit. Okay. Yeah. Right. I want the interview done in my hotel suite.”
“Your hotel suite?”
“Don’t sound so worried. You’ll have a crew with you. I can’t attack you in front of them.”
“That’s true.”
“I’ll have to wait until they leave.”
I was still standing next to my desk, so I hitched a thumb at Indie to tell her to get out of my chair. “What day?”
“Saturday. Late afternoon. Our game is home on Sunday, so we have practice until two.”
“How about five?”
“Works for me.”
“Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you doing this. My boss is going to be thrilled. And he’s pretty much always miserable, so that’s saying something.”
“Glad I can help.”
“I’ll messenger over advance questions by tomorrow night.”
“Actually, why don’t you bring them, and we can do a dry run.”
“At your hotel?”
“Afraid you can’t control yourself?”
“Of course not.” Maybe.
“Seven. I’ll order dinner up.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and Delilah?”
“Yes?”
“You can leave your grandmother’s clothes at home. It’s not going to stop me from wanting to fuck you up against the wall.”