Huddle with Me Tonight (Kimani Romance)

by Farrah Rochon

  “Yet you’re trying them out?”

  “I didn’t say the recipes were bad, but you’ve got to admit the names are silly.”

  “Just remember that Torrian Smallwood is a huge name in this town,” Angie warned before disconnecting.

  After changing into a light sweater and jeans, she picked up the book and flipped through a few more pages. She jotted down the ingredients for Point-After Potato Soup, Sideline Sweet Corn Casserole, and the Field Goal French Dip Sandwich.

  Paige rolled her eyes again, and knew this wouldn’t be the last time. The recipe names weren’t even clever, they were just plain stupid. Hopefully whoever had given the star wide receiver these recipes—Paige had no doubt that someone else had developed and tested them; she couldn’t imagine the Sabers player in the kitchen—had done a better job than whoever came up with the recipe titles.

  Setting her computer to hibernate mode, she tucked her list of ingredients in her purse and headed out the door.

  Chapter 2

  Paige rounded the corner of Mancini’s Grocery and spotted the owner in his usual spot, just outside the door, a green apron tied around his waist and a broom in his hand.

  “How’s it going, Bruno?”

  “Just fine, Ms. Turner,” he answered, giving the sidewalk in front of the store’s entrance a sweep, then extending his hand to help her up the single step. “Got a special treat in the store today: celebrities,” Bruno said.

  “Really? You finally got Jerry Seinfeld into your store?”

  “Not yet.” Bruno shook his head. “A couple of Sa—”

  A large woman with a teased hairdo stomped out of the store. “Bruno Mancini, this artichoke is not fresh,” she barked.

  Paige gave Bruno an apologetic shrug as she left him to handle the irate shopper. She unfolded her canvas grocery bag and went straight for the produce section. She wasn’t sure about the artichoke in question, but as far as Paige was concerned Bruno stocked the freshest produce for miles. It was one of the reasons she walked six blocks out of her way to shop here.

  Paige squeezed a Roma tomato and placed it in her bag. She heard the slight commotion before she looked up and saw it reflected in the mirrored wall behind the tomato display.

  Paige’s eyes widened. “Oh, good God.”

  Torrian Smallwood and Theo Stokes. They were there. Right there.

  And here she was, looking like a rag doll.

  Torrian finished signing an autograph and left his teammate, stepping into the produce section. Paige pulled her Running Princess cap farther down until the bill nearly touched her brow. She tucked her canvas bag in close and tried to surreptitiously walk away.

  No such luck.

  She ran smack into a solid wall of muscle instead. Her grocery bag fell to the floor.

  “Oh, excuse me,” Paige said, glancing up. The sight caused an instant zing to shoot down her spine. He was twelve hundred and eighty times more gorgeous in person than he was on her tiny fifteen-inch television screen. He’d have to get rid of that shirt for her to determine if the real-life Torrian could top the picture on the cover of his book, though.

  He wore a cap. Pulled low across his forehead.

  “Excuse me,” he said, his voice as smooth as butter.

  Paige stooped to the floor to retrieve her bag. Torrian crouched beside her. “Let me help you with that.”

  “It’s okay, I’ve got it.”

  They reached for the tomato at the same time, their fingers touching. Electricity raced through her blood, traveling like lightning to the spot where his slightly rough fingers connected with hers. He looked from their hands to her face and that same electrical current shot across the span of air between them.

  Paige pulled her hand away first, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from his. They slowly rose from their crouch together; their twin gazes never wavering.

  “Here you go.” Torrian held the tomato out to her. “Wait.” He pulled it back before Paige could grab hold of it. “This one’s a bit bruised.” He picked another tomato from the display. “Here we are. This one’s perfect.”

  “Um…thank you,” Paige said, reaching for the tomato.

  He pulled it just out of her reach and extended his right hand instead. “I’m Torrian, by the way.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Paige answered, staring at his extended hand. Something in her brain told her not to touch it. Temptation came in so many forms, and six-plus feet of decadent chocolate male was definitely temptation at its worst.

  Or best.

  “I guess my attempt at going incognito has utterly failed,” he said, the corner of his mouth tipping up in a smile. The effect was devastating to her good sense. Despite her brain’s warning, Paige captured the hand he offered.

  “I’m….” The review of his book she’d just posted jumped to the forefront of her mind. He’d find out who she was soon enough.

  A different churning started in Paige’s gut. One she wasn’t used to. Regret.

  “I’m Olivia,” she said, offering her given name, which she hadn’t gone by in years. Her mother was the only person who still called her Olivia.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Olivia,” he said, finally handing her the tomato. “In fact, it may just be the best thing that’s happened to me all day.”

  Oh yeah, he was good. Like many of his New York Sabers teammates, Torrian Smallwood had a reputation of only having to crook his finger to bring ladies flocking to his side. He didn’t have to use a finger, Paige thought. One shot of that smile was enough.

  He wouldn’t be smiling if he knew about her review.

  “Thanks for helping,” Paige said. She tried to walk past him, but he caught her elbow. Paige looked down to where he gripped her arm, then back up into his mesmerizing hazel eyes.

  He let her go, as if he hadn’t realized he’d been holding on to her. “Can I treat you to a cup of coffee?” he asked. “You know, to make up for running into you.” That grin lit up his eyes again, and Paige knew if she didn’t get away soon she would be lost.

  “I’m sorry. I have to go,” she said.

  “Hey, Wood, you done?” Theo Stokes called.

  “Almost,” Torrian said. He returned his attention to Paige. “Come on, Olivia. Let me be a gentleman and buy you coffee.”

  Paige was a hot second from falling under the spell of that sexy voice.

  “Really. I have to go,” she said. Tossing the tomato back with the others, she shot out of Mancini’s like a rocket.

  “Boo yah!” Cedric Reeves slapped the domino on the table in Torrian’s rec room with a loud smack. “Deal with that.” The third-year running back leaned back in his chair, a huge grin on his face.

  Torrian looked over at Theo, and they both shook their heads, matching rueful smiles tugging at their lips. The fourth member of their quartet, Jared Dawson, shot Cedric a barrage of curses that had them all laughing.

  “We need to start laying some funds on these games so I can really get serious with you clowns,” Cedric said.

  Jared raised his hands. “Once money hits the table, I back the hell up.”

  “Ah, man, the league can’t say anything about you betting on a friendly game of dominoes,” Cedric said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Jared shook his head. “I’m not taking any chances.”

  Torrian didn’t blame him. The cornerback and punt returner had nearly been kicked out of the league because of his gambling issues.

  “The whole point to this is relaxing after the game. It’s not about money,” Torrian reminded Cedric.

  Their Sunday afternoon tradition began three years ago, during Cedric’s rookie season, when his tendency to speak before thinking nearly got his butt kicked by the Sabers entire offensive line. Theo had been the one to suggest they find another place to hang out after home games, away from the rest of the team. Torrian’s well-equipped man cave, with its high-def flat screen, pool table and card/dominoes table, turned out to be the perfect spot.

  “Can we ple
ase get back to playing dominoes,” Theo suggested.

  Jared went for the last slice of pizza. “Damn, Wood, I sure miss your sister cooking for us,” he said, calling Torrian by the nickname most of his teammates used.

  Torrian had suffered the obligatory ribbing over his last name. It had been especially brutal in the testosterone-suffused NFL locker rooms, but he never let it bother him. He’d had enough compliments from past girlfriends to offset any of the “small wood” jokes.

  Cedric gestured toward the TV. “Turn it up. They’re talking about today’s game.”

  Dominoes were forgotten as all eyes focused on the seventy-two-inch LCD flat panel television mounted to the wall.

  “It looks like Torrian Smallwood has shaken off the sting of last year’s devastating loss to Green Bay in the NFC Championship game,” the blond sportscaster said. “His game-winning touchdown in the final seconds of today’s showdown against Arizona helped to extend the team’s winning streak to six and one on the season. Now, let’s see if Mr. Smallwood’s luck on the field will extend to his newest venture as author and restauranteur.”

  “Luck?” Torrian’s head reared back. “Somebody needs to tell baby girl that’s not luck; it’s natural-born talent.”

  “I don’t care what you call it, as long as you keep it up,” Theo said from the opposite side of the table. “My finger is tired of being naked. I’ve got to get me a Super Bowl ring before I retire.”

  A fistful of popcorn went sailing past Theo’s head. “Aw, man, cut that out. You’re not going anywhere,” Cedric said.

  “I think he’s bluffing, too,” Torrian said. He looked over at Cedric. “You better pick up that popcorn before you leave.”

  “I will, Wood, damn,” Cedric grumbled. He nodded toward Theo. “Straight up, Theo, you really thinking about retiring?”

  “Heck, yeah,” the twelve-year-veteran middle linebacker answered. “If I don’t hang my shoulder pads up soon, both my knees will be shot to hell. Remember, I’m not as young as you boys. My body’s been taking hits for a long time.”

  Torrian sat back in his chair, toying with his dominoes. He and Theo had talked about his eventual retirement, and Torrian knew the real story. Theo had his sights set on a commentator job with a new cable sports network that was starting up next year.

  “What’s happening on the entertainment scene, Karen?” came the news anchor’s overly excited voice.

  Jared nodded to the screen. “Sports is over. Change it to the San Diego/Seattle game.”

  Torrian grabbed the remote and was poised to flip the channel when he heard, “Speaking of the Sabers star wide receiver, it looks like Torrian Smallwood’s luck did run out, at least as far as his book is concerned.” The news anchor’s voice was saccharine sweet as she continued. “The lady with her finger on the pulse of New York’s entertainment scene, Paige Turner, had a less-than-favorable review of the Sabers player’s upcoming book. She found the writing elementary, and the recipes a joke. Viewers can read the rest of what Ms. Turner had to say by logging on to Big Apple Weekly dot com.”

  The only sound in the room was the crunch of the potato chip Cedric had just stuffed in his mouth.

  Torrian turned to face his teammates. “Who the hell is Paige Turner?”

  Cedric looked at him as if he were from another planet. “You don’t know Paige Turner? Man, I hardly even read and I know who Paige Turner is.”

  “Hardly read?” Jared asked.

  “Shut up,” Cedric shot back.

  “You want to stop the nonsense and tell me just who this Paige Turner is and why she’s important enough for the evening news to care what she thinks about my book?”

  Theo waved him off. “Don’t sweat it, man. People are going to scoop up that book because of who you are, no matter what.”

  “I don’t know, Wood.” Cedric shook his head. “Paige Turner holds some power when it comes to what’s happening around the city.”

  A couple of the popcorn kernels that had hit Theo made their way back across the table as he flung them at Cedric’s head.

  “Are you really going to listen to a man who probably hasn’t read a book since elementary school?” Theo asked.

  Cedric came back with a reply, but Torrian had tuned out their bickering. He was more concerned with this Paige Turner person, and just how influential she was with New Yorkers.

  Torrian had no doubt his book would sell. He had fans across the country. But his prime objective was making the restaurant a success for Deirdre, and he had purposely intertwined the restaurant and book. If the book garnered any negative attention, it could possibly spill over to the restaurant.

  This was his sister’s dream. He wasn’t about to let some critic mess things up.

  “I need to check out something upstairs,” Torrian said, dropping his dominoes and pushing away from the table.

  “Oh, come on, man!”

  “We’re in the middle of a game!”

  “I’ll be right back,” Torrian called. “Order another pizza.”

  He climbed the stairs that led from his professionally decorated basement/recreation room to the main floor of the four-story brownstone he owned in New York’s low-key Murray Hill neighborhood. His living space occupied the basement and first two floors. He’d had the third floor converted into a two-bedroom apartment for Deirdre and Dante, and the entire fourth floor held a state-of-the-art workout facility.

  Torrian entered his office, logged on to the Internet and typed Big Apple Weekly into the search engine. It took him to the magazine’s home page. The cover of his book was front and center. Torrian clicked on it.

  “Hey, Wood, what you up to?”

  Torrian turned, finding Theo just inside the door. “Nothing,” he said.

  “Yeah, right,” Theo laughed. His teammate hitched his head toward the computer. “That’s home girl? Dang, Cedric wasn’t lying.”

  “What?” Torrian turned his attention back to the screen.

  And froze.

  It was her. Olivia.

  And she looked even better than she had at the grocery store he and Theo had stepped into on their way to Theo’s apartment yesterday. She had light brown eyes, a short, Halle Berry-before-the-X-Men-movies haircut, and a smile like somebody with a secret to tell.

  “That can’t be her,” Torrian whispered under his breath. But it was. The headshot smiling back at him was the same woman who’d occupied his mind for the past twenty-four hours. Other than today’s game, he hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything for longer than a few minutes before those thoughts were trampled out of his mind by images of her.

  “What’d she say about the book?” Theo asked.

  Torrian clicked on her picture. It opened up another page. Page Turners with Paige Turner ran across the top, in a flowing red script.

  Hugging the left side of the screen was a full body shot of her in a self-assured pose, her arms crossed over her chest and a confident, yet soft, smile gracing her lips. Those light brown eyes were so vivid that they nearly popped off the screen. It was a big difference from the beauty in jeans and a baseball cap, though both had taken his breath away as effectively as a linebacker’s shoulder to his solar plexus.

  Disbelief and disappointment pummeled his chest, then was instantly replaced by the kind of resentment he’d not felt toward a woman in a long time. Who’d given Olivia…Paige…whatever her name was, the right to trash his book?

  “Ah, she’s got a blog,” Theo said.

  Torrian flashed Theo a sardonic glare. “I don’t do blogs. The only thing I use the Internet for is answering fan e-mails and surfing ESPN.com.”

  His teammate pushed Torrian’s hand away from the computer mouse. “You need to keep up with the times, Wood. I’m thinking about starting up a blog myself.” Theo scrolled down the page. Torrian caught a glimpse of his book cover.

  “Hold on. Go back up.”

  Theo slowly scrolled up the page.

  The Fire Starter’s Book Leaves Me
Cold, was in bold letters.

  Theo started reading the paragraph under the heading out loud. “Fans of the New York Sabers should be relieved that Torrian Smallwood plays ball better than he tells a story.”

  “I can read,” Torrian shot at him. He continued reading to himself.

  Being a huge Sabers fan, I wanted to love this book, but in deference to my promise to remain honest with my readers, the most I can give Torrian Smallwood’s book is two out of five coffee cups, and one of those cups is strictly for the drool factor of the wide receiver’s picture on the front cover. For those who enjoy a little beefcake in the kitchen, Mr. Smallwood’s book cover definitely delivers.

  However, that’s all it delivers. If you’re expecting engaging writing, look elsewhere. While I feel for Torrian Smallwood’s plight, losing his parents at the age of fifteen and being raised by his older sister, I just don’t get what makes his story unique. Half the players in the National Football League defied the odds to land where they are now. Does Torrian Smallwood deserve a space on your coveted bookshelves because of his slightly interesting life? This reader doesn’t think so.

  As for the cookbook aspect of this “literary doubleheader,” I was actually impressed with some of the recipes. When followed to the letter, there are a few very tasty dishes. Their titles, however, leave much to be desired. I can only assume the publisher’s goal was to charm readers with the footballesque theme, but whoever chose the unimaginative recipe names should be bused to the very end of the creative writing chain. The recipe titles managed to land Mr. Smallwood’s book in the ridiculous category.

  Straightening from where he’d been leaning over Torrian’s shoulder, Theo let out a low whistle. “Dawg, she chewed you up and spit you out.”

  Torrian sat back in his chair, torn between being hurt and being royally pissed off. He’d told his agent those recipe titles were stupid. But for her to call his life only slightly interesting? That chafed his skin like a bad rash.

  “What difference does it make what she thinks about my book?” Torrian flicked a nonchalant wave at the screen. Although, to him, it did matter.