Good Boyfriend: A Love Story (The Bad Nanny Trilogy Book 2)

by C. M. Stunich

  I take a deep breath and smile briefly at the men before glancing over at one of five large ultra HD screens that grace the corners of the room. There he is, Mr. Showboater himself, the guy everyone refers to as Big Dick. Like that's clever. Whatever happened to subtlety? Yes, his last name is Richards and well … I've heard from some of the team cheerleaders that the other part, the Big part, is actually true.

  Which kind of makes it even worse.

  That arrogant son of a bitch is so not screwing up my season, I think as I spin on my heel and reach for the handle of the door. I can practically feel my father's eyes boring into my back, can almost swear I can still hear his voice from last night.

  “People act like the world's changed in the last few centuries, Della. But it hasn't. There are only two ways to get ahead: marriage and money. Sometimes it takes the former to bring more of the latter.”

  Yeah. My dad wants me to go all Kate Winslet from Titanic and marry for money. Business hasn't been great and my father's afraid a fall from fortune is imminent.

  I don't have time to worry about that right now though. Football is sort of my thing, and the fact that my favorite team is now my actual team—okay, my dad's actual team—is just icing on the cake. And I'm not going to let Big Dick ruin it just because he has a monstrously sized penis.

  The sun beats down on the warm auburn glaze of my hair as I breeze down the cement aisles, fingers grazing the warm metal railings at my sides as I hit the steps two at a time. Dad doesn't know it, but I always make sure to purchase a front row ticket before the game, just in case I start to get claustrophobic.

  Glancing up at the cloudless California sky, all I can say is there's a hell of a lot more of it out here than in the cloistering confines of the so called skybox.

  I sigh and flick some hair from my face, pushing my silver Dior shades down to cover my blue eyes. Ten more steps down and the staircase curves into the inner portion of the stadium. To get to my specific seat, I'll have to hurry past the concession stand and show my ID badge to one of the security guards.

  Five minutes later, I'm settling onto the sun warmed surface, a cool breeze kissing my cheeks as I watch Rhoden Richards throw yet another touchdown pass. An unbidden smile takes over the red curves of my mouth as I smile and cheer, rising from my seat to pump my fist, wishing I had a flag or a pom-pom or something to wave.

  Ever since I was a little girl, I've been an Arcata Adder's fan, sitting glued to the flickering surface of the TV to watch them play. When I was eight and Dad finally made his fortune, I got to see my first game in person, a container of popcorn on my lap and a soda in my hand. It was heaven, pure heaven.

  I didn't think things could get any better … until my dad actually bought the team.

  I'm on the edge of my seat as I watch our quarterback, Rhoden Richards, jog across the green of the FieldTurf, sweat glistening on the corded muscles in his arms, shining on the hard-set line of his jaw, the generous curve of his lower lip. He might be a showboating a-hole, but I'm still human and the guy is hot.

  I lean back in my chair and get ready for the half-time show, enjoying the feel of the warm sun on my skin as I watch the players—mostly Rhoden Richards—move to the sidelines and talk amongst themselves, sip water. I keep watching them, waiting for them to head into the locker room, while I adjust the white jersey Armani tank top that my little sister forced me to wear today. She said it would impress Walter, make him think I was fun and sporty but also fashionable. And of course, like an idiot I listened to her. The top keeps riding up and the jersey feels cloistering and tight in the hot sun. I should've just worn my own clothes. Nothing against my sister, but she's a size zero and I'm … not.

  Oh well. It's not like there's anyone here that I'm trying to impress. Walter seems like a nice guy, but I'm pretty sure he isn't my guy. No, Walter is definitely my father's guy.

  I sit up and put my elbows on my knees, aware that a typical half-time is all of twelve minutes. But the guys are just standing there in their red, black and purple uniforms. On the other side of the arena, there's a sea of rippling color like the silver-blue of the Caribbean Sea.

  And then I see Rhoden Richards striding to the center of the field with a satisfied smirk plastered to his perfect lips. His coach—a friend of my father's, a man named Odell Hollis—joins him with a mic in hand and a little wave for the crowd. In an instant, his face is displayed on the Jumbotron screen on the far left of the field, white smile beaming as he introduces himself.

  “As y'all might be aware,” he begins, his southern accent thick and heavy and pleasant on the ears. My little sister thinks the coach is twice as hot as Rhoden Richards, despite the fact that he's the same age as our dad. I think she has some serious complexes she should work on in therapy. “October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.” There's a subdued cheer from the crowd, like they're solemn about the idea of cancer but happy to fight against it. “Instead of our usual half-time show, we've got something special for you today.”

  There's another pause and the cheering gets louder, like the whole crowd is in on a joke that I'm somehow missing. I've been crazy busy lately, so I haven't been keeping up with much more than the scores. Who has time to get into all the NFL gossip anyway? As far as I can tell, it's mostly about Big Dick and his numerous celebrity conquests and party scandals.

  “During each NFL game for the month of October, we'd like to offer you—” Coach Odell points out at the crowd and flashes that blindingly brilliant smile of his “—a chance to Win a Date with an NFL Player.”

  The crowd goes nuts, people rising to their feet and waving banners with Rhoden's name on them. Some of them even say Big Dick in outrageously large capital letters. I do my best not to roll my eyes and push my sunglasses up on top of my head.

  Hmm.

  How nuts is it that I missed something like this? My best friend, Ariana, is a huuuge Rhoden Richards fan, so I'm surprised she wasn't all over this. Then again, she's been a little busy planning her actual wedding to give much of a crap about football.

  I stare down at the field as Rhoden removes his helmet and shakes out a sweaty head full of perfectly mussy dark hair. His five o'clock shadow is refreshingly real, not all groomed and plucked up like Walter's. It highlights the generous shape of his mouth and that frustratingly enigmatic smile that promises everything and says nothing. It draws me in, forces me to scoot to the edge of my seat to watch.

  “One player from each team has volunteered for the honor of spending an entire day with a fan. It's your date, your choice,” he continues as he spins in a slow circle and the fans of the opposing team pretend to boo at him. Coach just keeps smiling. “You can hang out and play fantasy football,” the crowd snickers, “or ask our eligible bachelor over here out on a romantic candlelit dinner date.”

  Rhoden raises his muscular arms up and squeezes his black gloved hands into fists as the women—and some of the dudes—in the crowd start going insane.

  “I'm already looking forward to it,” Rhoden purrs as he leans into the mic, his deep voice gliding over my skin and bringing up goose bumps as he flashes that cocksure grin to the crowd. Even from here, I swear I can see the swoony darkness of his eyes. Ariana calls them her dark chocolate almonds and promises that if she ever meets Rhoden in person, she's going to gobble them up.

  I can't help myself; I roll my eyes.

  Coach laughs and pulls the mic back from his star player.

  “As you already know, just by being here today you have a chance to win. For extra chances, we've been selling raffle tickets online and in person at all the concession stands. One hundred percent of the proceeds will go to the Dr. Susan Love Research Foundation.” A massive wave of euphoria ripples over the crowd as people stand up and clap, and I feel a small twinge of guilt at missing out on this promotion. I mean, it's not like I actually want to go on a date with Rhoden, but it would've been nice to donate.

  I promise myself I'll pledge some money when I get home.

>   “The winner's name has been chosen at random,” Coach continues as one of the refs steps up to him in crisp black and white and passes over a red envelope. “And I've got it right here in my hand.”

  With a sigh, I lean back and brush some hair off my sticky forehead. For a second there, I almost regret leaving the air-conditioning of the skybox. Not to mention the food, the drink … the company.

  Never mind.

  I'm good down here.

  I watch as Coach Odell starts to open the envelope in his hand, the crackling sound of the paper echoing through the mic and into the stadium. Meanwhile, Rhoden Richards stands next to him in his skintight black football pants and pads, the tight firm shape of his butt almost criminal. The man is shaped like a god, all sculpted and chiseled muscular perfection. The uniform emphasizes the width of his shoulders, exaggerating an already prominent feature. And underneath it all, there's the tantalizing promise of his tattoos, like the ones on his upper arm and back. I can't see any of them now, but I know all about them—courtesy of Ariana and her addiction to Rhoden Richards' Instagram account.

  I raise my gaze to his face and the masculine cut of his chin. I feel an overwhelming urge to press my lips to the sharp right angle where his jawline meets his ear. It's impossible not to think that when he's standing there with a self-assured smile, his lips the only soft looking part of his whole body. The rest of the man is hard lines, hard muscles, maybe hard … other things.

  I smile and shake my head, leaning back to watch the action unfold before me as I resign myself to admiring Big Dick from afar. He's pretty to look at it, but based on all the stories I've heard, the man seems like a royal asshole.

  As he waits for Coach to finish opening and reading the envelope, Rhoden scans the crowd with that cocky smile of his, running his hand over his sweaty face. I've seen the man in interviews, heard the confidence in his voice, seen the way he practically pours himself into chairs. There's this swagger to him—on and off the field—that I think most people have a hard time resisting.

  Even me … and even if I refuse to admit it.

  “Alright,” Coach Odell begins, his smile getting wider as he looks up and glances around the packed stadium. All around me, I can hear the fans taking in a collective breath, can hear the whisper of clothing as people lean forward in anticipation. “Our winner …” A strange pause and a raised eyebrow as he scans the white card in his hand. “Our winner is Della Garland in seat 15C.”

  His gaze follows the swing of the camera as suddenly it becomes my shocked face up on the Jumbotron. My red lips parted in surprise, my sunglasses sliding off my forehead and bouncing against the cement at my feet.

  All around me, the crowd goes nuts, strangers clapping their hands on my shoulders and congratulating me for something I can't have won, shouldn't have won. If it'd been my sister sitting here, people would've recognized her as Reuben Garland's daughter, would've known she was the child of the man who owned the team.

  Instead, there's her older sister, a person not many would recognize, her last name a possible coincidence linking her to the team's owner.

  I'm still sitting there with the cameras zooming in on my face when Rhoden Richards looks up at me and somehow, even across the field from me, manages to catch my eye.

  Our gazes lock and I can feel my heart slamming against the inside of my rib cage.

  He winks at me and that cocky smile of his turns sensual, like an invitation.

  Like a promise.

  .

  A British Motorcycle Club President Falls for the Mayor's Daughter.

  DESCRIPTION

  Make nice with the President of the Alpha Wolves Motorcycle Club. ​

  Yeah right. ​

  It was what my job description called for–I just never realized exactly how nice I needed to be.

  I certainly never expected to find myself twisted up and tangled in the raw, dirty world of an outlaw motorcycle club … or in the sexy, tattooed hands of the man in charge. ​

  Royal McBride is a jerk–but a jerk with a swoon worthy accent, a big bike, and big … well, other things. ​

  I didn't think falling in love with him would threaten my life. His life. That we'd both risk losing everything we hold dear. ​

  The mayor's daughter … an outlaw MC president.

  It's a match made in heaven … a match tested in hell.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lyric

  What a broken, beautiful man.

  That's my first thought when I step onto the Alpha Wolves' compound, how beautiful their president is. Of course, if he knew what I was thinking I doubt he'd be pleased. Beautiful is for flowers or skirts or landscapes, not for men like Royal McBride. If I have to pick an adjective, I think dirty suits him a little better. Dirty. And brutal. And raw.

  I won't let him get to me.

  It crosses my mind that I'm not the first person to think that. Toni Gladstone, the woman who held my position not three months ago, she said that same thing out loud three days before she quit, announced it to the entire office.

  But he got to her anyway—in more ways than one if her flushed face and mussy hair were any indication of what happened during their first meeting. Deputy Mayor of Operations and Government Affairs. Poor Toni shed her title along with her skirt after only half a week of dealing with Royal and his Wolves.

  I won't make the same mistake.

  I straighten my own skirt—some bland, gray wool blend that I inherited from Toni along with her title—and make sure my hair is still in place, tucked back in an austere bun that's as unflattering as it is uncomfortable. But all of this blandness, this is my uniform against the world. It's a way to survive when nothing else seems to be going right. Blend in, disappear, assimilate.

  I take a deep breath and put a smile on my face.

  It's hard to keep it there with my eyes glued to Royal's wide, muscular back. I haven't even been introduced to the man, and I'm already falling apart. Sweat trickles down my spine and soaks into the cotton fabric of my white button-down while I try not to admire the curve of dark denim that cups the President's too perfect ass. Oh my God, I'm already floundering here.

  I take a deep breath and start forward, my heels loud against the pavement. I parked right in front of the clubhouse, so I know the whole MC is aware that I'm here. Still … nobody's acknowledging me. It's a scare tactic, I'm sure, but these men have a lot to learn if they think I'll scare easy. I might be five two and as average as you'll ever see, but I'm tough.

  “Mr. McBride?” I ask, approaching the cluster of men standing on the wet pavement, gray skies above and a row of gleaming motorcycles on our right.

  I pause about three feet from him—it's as close as I ever want to get. Even from here I can feel the heat rolling off him in waves, his strength, his charisma. It's frighteningly magnetic. I guess it's not just his six foot four frame or his hard muscles that keep him in control here.

  “Mr. McBride?” I ask again, raising my voice a notch. I can keep quiet when I need to, but a woman in politics also has to know how to speak up or she'll never be heard. A few of the guys glance my way, assessing, and then quickly flick their gazes back to their president.

  I feel my lips purse. It's not like I showed up here on a surprise visit. In fact, it was Royal himself who approached the mayor's office in an attempt to iron things out between the local government and the MC. I scheduled this meeting with Royal's secretary not four days ago. The bastard knew I was coming.

  Raindrops start to fall, fat and heavy, splattering against the pavement and the metal roofs on the warehouses on either side of the long drive. The wetness slides across Royal's rock hard muscles, making the colors in his tattoos seem brighter, moistening the eyes of the wolves crouching over his biceps until they look real, like they're staring right at me.

  I refocus my attention to his head of dark hair, my gaze directed up, up, up. The bastard's too tall for his own good. Still, I'm pretty sure I've go
t myself under control. It doesn't matter how handsome this guy is or how nice his body looks in that tight leather vest.

  I take a deep breath, meeting the eyes of the wolf's head patch on his back, framed on the top and bottom with another pair of patches. Alpha Wolves on the top and Trinidad, CA on the bottom. An MC and a 1% patch sit on either side. Intimidating, much?

  Well, it won't work on me.

  “Royal McBride.” I state his name with every ounce of authority I have—and it works. At the very least, it gets his attention.

  “Who the fuck …” Royal begins, turning slightly to glare at me, locking a pair of dark brown eyes on my face. His brows raise and the corner of his mouth twitches. Me, I come completely unhinged, heat flooding my body, filling up all the places I so very suddenly want this man to touch.

  Oh shit.

  Royal looks me up and down once, assessing, his gaze giving absolutely nothing away.

  “Well, I'll be damned,” he says, his voice holding the edge of an accent I can't quite place. He's trying so hard to hide it, but … “Is this pint-size little package from the mayor's office?” Royal tilts his head and lets his lips twist into a smile. I can already feel the flirtatious waves rolling off of him, the charm being turned full tilt onto my frowning face. I don't take it personally though; Royal isn't flirting with me, not really. This is a man who's used to getting his way with a smile and a wink, somebody who thinks that anyone without a penis wants him.

  Hell, it's probably true, but I won't let him see that.

  “Royal McBride, my name is Lyric Rentz, and I'm the Deputy Mayor of Government Operations and Affairs for the city of Trinidad.” I force my mouth into a smile and decide it's probably best to ignore the whole pint-size comment from the Alpha Wolves President. I extend my hand and pretend that I'm not studying that handsome face, the rugged cut of that jaw, the ruthless, wry humor that surrounds the man's impressive form.