To Win Her Heart (Players)

by Mackenzie Crowne

  Shit! The stupid spoon was useless. All it did was spin the block around in a maddening circle. She tossed it aside and searched through the drawers until she found a long, two-prong fork. It delivered better results, but not by much. She managed to pry only about a quarter of the pound loose in slightly smaller chunks.

  Biting her lip, she spun to stare at his closed bedroom door. How long would he be in the shower? Long enough to dump this batch and start over? That would work if he had another package of pasta. Of course he’d have spare pasta. He was a guy, after all, and a bachelor. They lived on the stuff. She dropped the fork to the counter and began rifling through cabinets. Three minutes later, she slumped in defeat.

  Why hadn’t she thought to buy some fully cooked frozen meatballs? Tim ate them at least three times a week and swore by them. Along with the garlic bread, they would make delicious meatball subs.

  “Oh, dear Lord. The bread.”

  Ripping the hand towel from her waist, she opened the oven door. Thick, black smoke billowed out in a toxic flume that rose to float just below the ceiling. Fanning at the cloud, she folded the towel in half and used it to yank out the baking sheet. She coughed and glared at the two charred logs, then scrambled to switch hands when the heat from the tray seeped through the towel.

  “Hot. Hot. Hot!” Her gaze darted about in search of a hot pad. “Oh, come on!” What kitchen didn’t have hot pads, or oven mitts for that matter? Aurora’s had a whole stack of them.

  “How’s it coming?”

  She spun around to face Max—just as the smoke detector came to life with an eardrum-piercing squeal. He winced and immediately stalked toward the front door. She hesitated for a moment, then dropped the tray of blackened bread on the island. If it scorched the granite, she’d buy him a new slab. She slapped both hands over her ears.

  * * * *

  Max opened the control panel beside the front door and disengaged the smoke detectors. Blessed quiet returned to the condo. He turned around and found Jessi standing behind the island. Fanning at the smoke floating around her like an angry plume, she twisted her full lips into a pained smile and indicated two halves of burned bread with a graceful flourish of her hand.

  “Dinner is served.”

  He bit back a laugh and, shaking his head, he crossed to the island. “I see you prefer things well done.”

  She crossed her arms. “Undercooked food can be dangerous. I’ve never had it, but I’ve heard botulism is a bitch.”

  He grinned and, to his surprise, she did, too. She dropped her arms and glanced around his ransacked kitchen. Her gaze paused on the pot of pasta. She gave it the evil eye, then sighed.

  “Well, this is a disaster. Who knew preparing a simple spaghetti dinner required a culinary degree?”

  He opened the lower cabinet door beside the oven. “Cooking is an acquired art. You just need a lesson or two.”

  “Good idea.” Her gaze rolled up toward the ceiling where the layer of smoke still lingered. “But I think those lessons should be done at the fire department.” She lowered her gaze and arched a self-deprecating brow. “Just to be on the safe side.”

  He bent to retrieve a pair of oven mitts from a hook on the inside of the door and straightened.

  “So that’s where you hid them.” She glared at his hands as he slipped the mitts on to move the pasta pot to the sink.

  He chuckled, dumped the entire mess into the basin, and set the pot aside. With a flip of a switch, the disposal chewed through the half dozen bulky lumps. She appeared at his side and stared down at the bubbling pot of red sauce.

  Turning her head, she gave him a hopeful look. “Is it salvageable?”

  Bending at the waist, he sniffed at the pot’s contents. The bitter tang of scalded tomatoes stung his nostrils. He straightened and met her gaze. “I think it’s a goner.”

  Her eyes squeezed shut in an adorable wince, and she stomped her foot. “Epic fail.”

  A laugh rumbled in his chest. “There’s still the salad.”

  She turned to glare at the pile of mushrooms beside the salad bowl. “If the lettuce hasn’t wilted from the fumes.”

  The bottle of wine on the counter caught his eye. He picked it up and read the label. She may not have a clue what she was doing in the kitchen, but she had the eye of a sommelier. “And we have wine.”

  “Thank God.”

  Grinning, he uncorked the wine and poured them both a glass. He tipped his rim to hers. “To the chef.”

  “Funny.” Her eyes sparkled with laughter over the rim of her glass.

  While he got rid of the remaining evidence from her failed attempt at an Italian dinner, she sat at the island and finished chopping the salad. He pulled a cooked chicken breast and a small bottle from the fridge and set them beside her elbow.

  She looked up. “What am I supposed to do with those?”

  “Chop the chicken into strips and throw them in. Add a little homemade dressing and you’ve got a meal.”

  She looked doubtful but did as directed. When the improvised meal was ready, she shot him a hesitant look, then pulled a book of matches from her back pocket and lit the candle. She sat back on her stool.

  Fork in hand, he arched a brow. “When all else fails, go for ambiance?”

  The blush spreading over her cheeks surprised and charmed him. She avoided his gaze. “Something like that.” With perfect table manners, she placed a napkin over her lap, then forked up a bite of salad. The moment her lips closed around the tines she hummed in appreciation. Her eyes widened, and she blew any hint of decorum by talking as she chewed. “Oh my God. This is so good!”

  Her unpretentious pleasure made him smile as he dug into his plate.

  “Where did you learn to cook?”

  He looked up and laughed. “It’s a salad, Jessi. No cooking involved.”

  “You know what I mean.” She waved her fork, then stabbed another bite. “You’re a bachelor. Aren’t you supposed to exist on cold pizza and take out?”

  “I still eat my share of both, but I didn’t always have the funds for restaurant meals. Cooking at home was cheaper.” He could have bitten off his tongue when her eyes went all soft and compassionate. His past wasn’t something he planned to have on the menu. He shoved the conversation in a more lighthearted direction. “If I didn’t want to die of botulism, I needed to learn how to cook.”

  The diversion worked. She rolled her eyes. “Smartass.”

  He bared his teeth in a grin. “What about you? I’ve been to plenty of Tucker family meals where everyone seems to gather in the kitchen, and your aunt Maryanne is a great cook. Why haven’t you learned?”

  She swallowed a bite. “I’m not a complete novice in the kitchen. I make a mean deviled egg, and I’m a wiz at frosting a cake, but mostly the family keeps me away from the stove.”

  “I can’t say I blame them.”

  Her fork stilled midair, and she surprised him when she laughed.

  “Me either.” She shifted her shoulders in a shrug. “My schedule doesn’t allow me to attend as many of the family’s gatherings as I’d like. When I do show up, someone is always dragging me off to catch up. Learning to cook simply hasn’t been a priority, not when Aurora has domain over the kitchen at home, and on the road, everything is catered.”

  “Then we’ll have to remedy that.”

  She sat up straight. “You’ll teach me to cook?”

  “Why not? You’ll be here for a while. Why waste the opportunity?” And spending time in the kitchen might keep his mind from constantly veering off toward the activities they could explore in his bedroom.

  “I think I’d like that, but….”

  He cocked his head when she hesitated. “But?”

  “I was hoping you’d give me some lessons in self-defense.”

  Oh, fuck no. Up close and personal while they sweated through wrestling moves would be a bad idea. “Why would you want to train in self-defense?”
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br />   “Because this,” she jerked her fork back and forth between them, “is just a temporary solution to my ultimate goal. At some point, I’ll be out on my own for real, right? When I am, my father will be less inclined to worry about me if he knows I can kick ass and take names.”

  She had a point. Sort of. He shook his head. “You’re confusing self-defense with fight training. The point of self-defense is to hold your own long enough to get away, not take out a potential attacker.”

  “Can’t I do both?”

  He couldn’t help but smile. “What do you weigh, ninety pounds? The average high school punk would flatten you without breaking a sweat.”

  “Not if you taught me how to stop him.” She angled her chin in that stubborn way he’d always found amusing. “And I weigh one hundred three, if you must know.”

  He picked up his wine as he laughed. “Face it, Squirt, about the only ass you’d be big enough to kick would belong to a preschooler.”

  “Fine, then.” Her chest heaved in an annoyed huff that only made him laugh harder. “Teach me to hold my own. Like you said, we have plenty of time to waste.”

  * * * *

  Portable keyboard on her lap, Jessi looked up as the door to Max’s bedroom opened. As if startled to find her parked on his living room couch, he hesitated, the olive skin of his bare chest gleaming in the low light above a pair of black, drawstring pants.

  She waited for him to spin around and hightail it back into his room. Although she’d been sure she’d made some headway earlier, despite nearly burning down his kitchen, it was clear seducing Max was going to be even harder than she thought. Stubborn as he was sexy, he simply refused to cooperate with her agenda.

  While she’d pictured a romantic evening on the couch in front of the fire, he had other plans. The moment the kitchen was put back in order after their meal, he couldn’t get away from her fast enough. He’d disappeared downstairs to work out, leaving her to twiddle her thumbs.

  Obviously, she was going to have to bring her A game if she was going to break through his barriers. Too bad she didn’t have one.

  The moment stretched as they stared at one another, and she cursed herself for not thinking ahead. First thing tomorrow she was going out and buying some sexy sleep wear. Leggings and a Betty Boop T-shirt didn’t exactly scream, “take me, big boy,” and Max Grayson was going to take her, even if she had to tackle him to get him to do it.

  She tugged the earbuds from her ears. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

  “No. Thirsty.” On bare feet, he padded to the kitchen. “What are you doing up?”

  She shrugged a shoulder and followed his progress with her eyes. “Couldn’t sleep.”

  He selected a water bottle from the fridge and turned to eye the clock on the stove before his gaze fell on the music sheet by her hip. “It’s three AM. Will the lyrics make sense in the morning?”

  A smile teased her lips. “No lyrics yet. I had a tune running through my head that wouldn’t let go.” A big fat lie, but she wasn’t about to admit she suffered from insomnia on top of all of her other neuroses.

  He nodded and strolled closer. “I meant to ask. How’d things go in the studio today?”

  “Great, actually. We finished the CD, which made Spence happy.” Or should have. She frowned. “That reminds me. The awards show tomorrow night is black tie. You’ll need to wear a tux.”

  He grunted and sipped at his water.

  “If you don’t have one, I’ll make a call. Will you have a few minutes in the morning to stop in and have it fitted?”

  He lowered the bottle from his mouth. “I’ve got it covered.”

  “Really, it’s no problem. My assistant is a wonder at last minute details.”

  “I own a tux.”

  “Oh, good.” She blinked. “Wait. You do?”

  “Surprised?” His smile suddenly went sharp. “I may be a street rat at heart, but I also hold two cage fighting titles. You’d be amazed at the number of elites who like to go slumming if there’s a champion involved. Of course, they insist the riff raff get dressed up first.”

  His mocking tone stung and she stiffened. This wasn’t the first time he’d demeaned himself in an effort to point out the differences in their social standing, and it pissed her off. Geez, did he think this was Victorian England or something?

  She gathered her things and stood. “That’s not fair, Max. I don’t give a shit how you grew up and you know it. And I wasn’t talking down at you. I was just surprised. Not everyone owns their own formal wear.”

  She started to step by him, but he stopped her by gripping her arm. “Wait.”

  Tingles of heat shot up to her shoulder as he loosened his hold, his fingers moving over the bare skin of her arm in a gentle caress. His somber gray gaze bored into hers.

  “Sorry. Sore spot.”

  She lifted her chin against the pleasurable chill pebbling her skin. “Obviously. Why is that?”

  His hand dropped away, and she immediately missed the connection.

  He sighed and with the expulsion of breath, it seemed some of his tension faded. “Long story.”

  She turned to face him squarely. “I’d like to hear it.”

  A crooked smile quirked one corner of his lips. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? I can’t sleep, and it appears you can’t either.” Her gaze roamed down his gorgeous body and up again. She resisted the urge to lick her lips and offered him an innocent smile. “You’re a fine looking man, Max. I bet you were an adorable boy.”

  He arched a wry brow, but there was humor in his eyes as he shook his head. “Adorable wasn’t on the list of terms people used to describe me when I was a kid.”

  “What was?”

  “Difficult, delinquent, and my all-time favorite, destined for a life in the federal correctional system.”

  Her smile slid away, and he blinked as if he hadn’t meant to say what he had. He rolled his shoulders as he screwed the cap back onto his water bottle.

  “Forget it, Squirt. When little girls can’t sleep, the last thing they need is a horror story.”

  She opened her mouth to point out that whoever had said those things about him had obviously been proven wrong, but he was already walking away.

  He spoke over his shoulder before closing his bedroom door. “Get some rest. You don’t want to look tired for the cameras tomorrow.”

  Chapter 9

  “Jesus, what a circus.” Max stared through the tinted windows as the limo rolled to a stop in front of the theater, the same theater where he’d first seen Jessi and all but fell into her soul-deep blue eyes.

  She and Spence were among the nominees tonight, but as the winners of last year’s “Song of the Year,” they were also expected to perform. Despite himself, Max was looking forward to it. It had been years since he’d watched her on stage, though not from a lack of opportunity. After that first time, when he felt as if her voice had pierced the walls of seclusion he’d erected around his heart, he’d found one excuse or another not to attend whenever the duo were in town for a tour date.

  Last night, when she’d briefly slid through the partitions separating his past life from the current, she’d proven her uncanny ability to breach his fortifications hadn’t waned with time. In fact, the phenomenon had grown stronger. Other than to Gracie, whom he’d given a sterilized version of his childhood over the years, he’d never voiced such details to another person. Yet, twice in two days, he’d found himself sharing memories with Jessi he’d never spoken aloud.

  It was as if her very presence had jiggled the lock on his soul, and if he wasn’t careful, sooner or later, the darkness hidden there would be revealed.

  “Hell of a way to make a living, isn’t it?” Beside him, Jessi heaved a shaky sigh as she stared past his shoulder. The sidewalk teemed with people, split down the middle by a blood red strip of carpet leading to the building’s elaborate front doors. “Time to earn my keep.” />
  Dan rounded the trunk and opened the door. Max stepped out and the multitude of flashbulbs nearly blinded him. He lifted his hand to shield his vision, but it was impossible to miss the crowd of press jammed against the velvet stanchions lining the red carpet. The short hairs on the back of his neck prickled against the collar of his tux as he turned to offer a hand to assist Jessi from the limo’s low-slung seat.

  Her wide smile appeared forced, as if she withheld from her public the genuine pleasure he was used to seeing. Still, her curved lips were better than the nerves stretching her mouth thin for the last fifteen minutes as Dan had wound the car through the busy streets of New York. Stage jitters, she’d explained when he’d asked if she was all right.

  She tucked her arm through his and stepped forward on the carpet, reminding him they had a deception to sell. Mindful of his role, that of an attentive lover, he dipped his head closer when she leaned into him. Cameras clicked as her breath bathed his ear with her whisper.

  “Picture them in clown noses. It’s what I do.”

  A startled laugh rumbled in his throat, and he made a conscious effort to loosen his stiff shoulders. Shifting his head, he whispered back, “I thought you were supposed to picture the crowd naked.”

  She paused, bringing him to a stop. Lifting on the toes of her three-inch heels, she pressed her cheek to his. “Chet Bertrum from the Country Bugle. He’s at two o’clock. No way I’m picturing him naked. I’ll stick with clown noses.” She brushed his lips in a quick kiss before turning back to wave at the press.

  As they passed by Chet, Max stifled a wince. Sweat glistened on the portly reporter’s bald head as he called out to Jessi. She greeted him with a flirty, fingertip wave, then turned her face up to Max and fluttered her lashes. He twisted his lips to contain his laughter as they were escorted inside the theater.

  A twenty-something woman with brown, shoulder-length hair and large, dark eyes met them as they handed their coats to a uniformed theater attendant. Alicia, as Jessi introduced her, was her assistant. Efficient and calm, she led them toward backstage as she filled Jessi in on what was happening.