Bad Boy's Cinderella: A Sports Romance

by Raleigh Blake

  “Fine,” I bit out. “I could do with the peace anyway.”

  The gross boyfriend took the opportunity to lean into my space and leer, “Hey, just because you haven’t gotten laid in a—”

  “Out!”

  Mandy hadn’t lived in the apartment long enough to have properly unpacked, so it only took her and her boyfriend thirty minutes to load up their car and storm out, slamming doors and giving me death glares and demanding a refund on the rent paid upfront.

  Which, shit. I hadn’t considered the rent in my fit of anger, and now not only would I leave myself short after depositing the refund back into Mandy’s account, it also meant I’d be leaving someone else short, too. And his needs were far greater than my own.

  Of course, he chose that moment to call me, just as I was drowning myself in a miserable glass of cheap wine in my silent kitchen, staring at the remains of the cake and wondering how the hell I was going to pull another one out of thin air in the next, oh…two hours.

  Answering the phone with a sigh of resignation, I listened to the automated voice asking me if I would accept the call from an inmate, and then tried to hitch a smile onto my face when the comforting deep timbre of my father’s voice filtered over the line.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “How’s my princess?”

  “Fine,” I lied. “Are you okay? You still getting on all right in there?” He’d had six okay-ish months in prison, with about another eight still to go, and so far he’d managed to avoid any major trouble. Apart from a few bruises that he sported way in the beginning, for which he never gave me an explanation.

  “Yeah, sweetie. Everything’s good.” His tone was heavier this week, as if the drag of prison life was weighing him down, but he wouldn’t let me know that. Always protecting me, even when he really could do with some of my strength. “Looking forward to seeing you soon, though.”

  I screwed up my face, wincing, and mumbled, “Listen, Dad, I don’t know if I’m gonna make it up there this month.” He said nothing, the line freezing, and I plowed on: “I need to find another roommate before rent’s due, and in the mean time I’ve got to pile on as many clients as possible in case I have to cover things by myself for a while. You know?”

  “I get it, Kylie,” he said, and the understanding in his tone almost made me want to cry. Even now, when he was in the worst place, he still put my needs first. “What happened to April?”

  “She got married, remember? Moved out. I got another roommate for a while, but it didn’t work out.”

  “That’s a tough break, kid. Don’t work yourself too hard now.”

  He’d always been like this, ever since I was a child, stacks of homework and my eyes itching with tiredness. “Pack it in for the night,” he’d tell me, stroking a hand over my hair, and the same thing years later, cooking for a hundred people at an event, my face sweaty and my legs aching and his calming voice telling me to drink some water, sit for a while, take a break. Always looking out for me. And here I was, now, letting him down.

  I sighed and bit the bullet. “Look, about your commissary account this month…”

  “I know,” he said instantly. “You don’t have to say it. I’ll be fine, okay? Don’t worry about me. I got a few things I can trade.”

  God. The thought of him giving up the few items he got to call his own in there, all because I couldn’t get my act together enough to pull in some spare cash for him.

  Right now, in this moment, I felt like the worst daughter in the world.

  “I’ll get the rent covered as soon as I can, I promise,” I said, throat tight. I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes, trying to draw the soft sound of my dad’s breathing right in to my very soul. “Get you some more funds.”

  “Don’t say any more about it. We’re all good.” He paused a moment, and then said in an overly chirpy tone clearly designed to disguise the strain in his assurances, “So look, I got another few minutes here. Tell me what’s going on. You met any good guys recently?”

  I responded with my first instinct: “No.” The obvious answer. The answer I’d given him for so long now that it was pretty much habit by this point.

  But as I said it this time, as the word fell from my lips, a familiar face flashed before my eyes. The charming, smiling face of the man holding onto a beautiful red dress.

  I cleared my throat, face heating up.

  “Nope. No guy.”

  Chapter Four

  Kylie

  I ended up being thirty minutes late with a cake barely baked, and I surreptitiously shoved it into the client’s oven for a while longer while I prepared the rest of the spread, instructing the two contracted assistants the client had provided for me, both of whom turned out to be temping students who didn’t have a clue what was going on. All in all, it wasn’t my finest event, and I didn’t even argue when the client wanted to slice off twenty percent of the final bill to “cover the embarrassment” of the chaotic evening.

  It put me in a funk for a couple of days, which wasn’t helped much by my latest roommate ad picking up little traction. Last time I’d found someone almost immediately—and granted, that person had been Mandy, but she might’ve been a perfectly pleasant roommate had it not been for that gross boyfriend of hers. This time, I was getting no bites at all, and upcoming bills loomed over me like great shadows of anxiety.

  I needed a roommate to cover half the rent and bills, because I needed my spare cash for my father. No roommate meant my father suffered, and for every day that passed, I felt more and more guilty about my hasty decision to throw out Mandy and her boyfriend. I’d even sent her a text, an olive branch, but I’d heard nothing back.

  If only I hadn’t been so selfish. If only I hadn’t put myself first. God. I could’ve put up with the asshole boyfriend for a few months—it might’ve driven me insane, sure, but I would’ve survived it, and my dad would’ve had access to the things he needed.

  Now I was broke, and my dad had nothing, and no one was answering my ad.

  In the stress of it all, I’d almost convinced myself that Reade would bail on me this weekend. That he’d made his offer in a wild moment of impulse and since talked himself into realizing what a stupid idea it was. Because, honestly, what would a man like Reade Lennox want in me?

  I was so convinced of it that, come Saturday afternoon, I’d already poured myself into a pair of ratty old pajamas and stocked up on Ben & Jerry’s for whatever movie I’d end up collapsing in front of later that evening.

  It was a shock, therefore, when a knock sounded at my door, and on the other side of it I found a skinny college kid in a ripped tee and jeans holding a large blue box—the exact shade of the dress boutique’s signage. He also had a motorcycle helmet in his hand. The guy must’ve been a delivery driver or an intern for the football team.

  My heart gave one very intense, sudden throb.

  “A package for Ms. Weatherby?” the guy said.

  I swallowed and nodded. “Thank you.”

  He gave the box to me, then—incredibly—the helmet, and departed without a word, and I took it into my bedroom, put it on the bed and stepped back, staring at it. I had no clue what the helmet was about, so I set it aside for now. All my thoughts were on that telltale box. If I opened that box and found a red dress within it, then I was very definitely going on a date with Reade Lennox tonight.

  The thought left me vaguely dizzy, because the whole idea of this had been abstract until now, something ridiculous at the back of my mind because he didn’t mean it, he couldn’t mean it. Things like this didn’t happen to me. I was nobody’s Cinderella.

  I opened the box.

  The dress was inside it. Red, silky, beautiful… My breath caught as I ran my fingers over it, the beads sewn into the hem sparkling against the light, mesmerizing me as I thought of him—not of this dress, which I’d loved and coveted for weeks. I thought of him, and a giddiness rose up in me so powerfully that I couldn’t help but giggle.

  There w
as a card tucked down the side of the dress, plain white and simple: Pick you up at 8. Bring the helmet. –Reade

  It was already six-thirty and I hadn’t showered since Thursday. Oh God.

  Abruptly, with the floor lurching beneath my feet, this was all so very real. I was about to go on a date with an NFL player. A San Francisco Dragons quarterback. It might only be some silly birthday party, but I would still be on the arm of a man who graced the media daily, who’d been named one of the city’s most eligible bachelors by more than one reporter—a man who had a look about him that made my inner thighs go warm and tingly at the thought of seeing him again in a little over an hour. And sure, my alarms were going off in my head, about the rumors of his temper, about all the girls he was photographed with… But surely I could give him just this one chance. Right?

  And when that hour passed, when I paced the length of my living room in anticipation, waiting for that knock on my door, I almost considered sending him a text to back out.

  This was too much for me. My life was complicated enough without adding a high-pressured dating situation to it. It wasn’t like dating some random banker or barista or the Uber driver who’d flirted with me last week. This was Reade Lennox, and he had the eyes of the nation focused on him. If I joined him, walked side by side with him, then I’d be in that spotlight, too. I would be in tomorrow’s tabloid.

  I wasn’t the kind of girl made to flash a smile on the front page of the national news.

  I twiddled my fingers together, restlessly fidgeting, then stopped in front of the mirror hung on the wall beside my book case. Checked my hair again for the tenth time, the line of my lipstick, the flow of this beautiful dress… “Oh God, what are you doing?” I muttered to my reflection, and then sucked in a sharp breath when two confident taps on my front door echoed from the hall.

  Eight o’clock. Right on time.

  I stared at myself a moment longer, straightened my shoulders, and headed over to the door while pretending my heart wasn’t trying to crash through my rib cage.

  He looked…well, he looked breathtaking. I’d seen him in a suit at April and Breck’s wedding, but this was different. He wasn’t wearing a suit jacket, and he’d rolled the sleeves of his white shirt up his forearms, revealing muscled golden skin and the glint of a silver watch. His collar, unbuttoned and tieless, exposed the smooth dip of his clavicle and the slope of his throat as his Adam’s apple bobbed thickly while he gazed back at me, as his eyes traveled the length of me from head to toe and back again, leaving me feeling raw and exposed, laid open for his view. A leather jacket was slung over his shoulder.

  “It looks better on you than I remembered,” he said, and I breathed out a laugh.

  “I can’t believe you bought this for me. Just so I would go to some dumb party with you.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Dumb party?” But there was cocky amusement in his tone, so I didn’t rise to the baited confrontation. Instead I smoothed my hands down my hips, catching him as he watched me do it, the temperature in this hall rising suddenly and I cleared my throat, a tiny cough to break whatever heaviness was settling into the air between us. Because he didn’t stop looking at me, and he was so very gorgeous, and I could see the exact shape of his pecs beneath the shirt and…

  I took a breath. “Won’t I be a little overdressed?”

  “You look perfect,” he said after a beat, holding out his arm. “Shall we?” And then: “Don’t forget your helmet.”

  He gave me another cocky grin while I tried to hide the shock of realization, why the helmet was sent to me along with the dress. We were going to ride to this party on his motorcycle. I should’ve guessed, but I was so nervous about the whole thing that I forgot about the helmet the minute I opened the box and saw the dress. I let him lead me outside the building, to the bike awaiting us, with his own helmet swung casually over the handlebars.

  I couldn’t help but snort a laugh. “I’ve never been on a bike.” Long and black, gleaming in the moonlight, waiting to whisk me off into the night with a man so far out of my league that I couldn’t quite wrap my head around what was happening here.

  “You sound disappointed,” he said.

  I shook my head in simple answer, and he opened his mouth as if to ask something but changed his mind, and a few moments later I was wrapping my hands around his waist, trying desperately not to fall off his shiny Harley, riding off to some unknown destination.

  I could feel the heat of his body, hear every whisper of his leather jacket as he jostled with the bike’s movements…

  When we pulled up in front of the building, my heart sank down to my gut. “Oh God,” I said, looking through the window at the Nova Hotel. “Now I feel underdressed.” It was the kind of hotel that had VIP memberships, waiting lists stretching on for months, gold leaf laid into the steps, and clusters of valets wearing uniforms made from imported material.

  I’d passed this place a thousand times but never stepped inside it, never even dreamed of stepping inside it. It didn’t belong to the world I inhabited.

  “Like I said, you look perfect,” Reade said, low and breezy, and when I turned worried eyes to him, he added quietly, “I can’t stop looking at you.” It was like a confession only for my ears, something private and intimate, and I didn’t know how to respond. Thank you seemed so colossally understated that the words froze on my tongue.

  His expression was clearly amused at whatever reaction he saw on my face, at my complete lack of response, and he pressed a fingertip beneath my chin. “Close this,” he said, and I realized my mouth was hanging open stupidly. Mildly embarrassed, I snapped it shut. “Smile for me,” he added. So bossy. I made an effort to paint some resemblance of a smile on my face. “Beautiful.” He flashed me a disarming grin. “Let’s go.”

  Reade shrugged off his leather jacket and pulled out a carefully folded tux and a tie from his bike seat, before offering his arm to me again. Together we ascended the steps that led up to the entrance of the Nova Hotel, and it was all I could do to keep control of my breathing.

  I felt, absurdly, like a farm girl in a Disney movie, heading to the ball with the prince.

  Inside was a vision of dark velvet cushions and shining golden finishes, glittering lights catching on crystal and dark, lush draperies. Reade led me through the entry hall, my heels click-clacking against the marble floor, and through a large set of double doors opposite, behind which I could hear the stifled thrum of music.

  It wasn’t some dumb birthday party. No one stood around swigging from beer cans or red cups. There was no sign of a pair of jeans or a denim skirt. I was met with a vision of cocktail dresses and champagne flutes, perfectly blow-dried hair and gleaming white teeth, enough jewelry to sink anyone to the bottom of the Pacific.

  I was at a high-end party full of some of the city’s richest and most famous, and as Reade led me through the room, I had to remember how to put one foot in front of the other.

  He was stopped every four steps or so, greeting guests, shaking hands, kissing cheeks. He introduced me each time as his friend or his date and I smiled along, let numerous people give me kisses on my cheeks, complimented a dozen dresses. I didn’t meet any of his family, and it wasn’t until we had a quiet few moments at the back of the room that I took the opportunity to ask, “Where’s your sister?”

  “Not here yet,” he said, deftly smoothing a hand down my back and making me shiver. “She’s a fan of fashionable lateness. In fact,” he added, craning his head over the crowd, “none of my family seems to be here yet. Wanna dance?” He looked down at me pointedly, and I swallowed.

  “Um…”

  “Come on,” he said, and yeah, okay. I let him sweep me out to the middle of the dance floor, trying to pretend I couldn’t feel the eyes of a dozen millionaires watching my every step.

  “So,” he said, once I found my footing and tried to act as if his hands on me weren’t slowly heating up my skin. “You didn’t return my calls.”

  I was mildly
distracted by the firmness of his shoulder under my touch, but I startled to alertness at his statement. I’d hoped, futilely, that this subject wouldn’t come up this evening. “I didn’t know what you wanted from me,” I half-lied. True, I didn’t know if I could trust him, what his intentions were—still didn’t, in fact. His reputation was infamous. But mostly, I didn’t see how we could fit our lives together, and I didn’t have time or space—or energy, even—for a casual fling. But I didn’t want to tell him that, not in this situation, so I settled on the half-truth, and hoped it was enough.

  “How would you find out if you didn’t call me back?”

  His lowered tone made me shiver, and I looked up at him. “Are you disappointed?”

  “Bitterly,” he said without hesitation, no hint of smugness on his face. I drew in a shaky breath.

  “Well I’m here now,” I said, and his hand on my back drifted lower.

  “And turning every eye in the room,” he rumbled. “I’m feeling a little…possessive.” With a boldness that punched the air from my lungs, he gripped my hip and pulled me tight to his body, closing the gap between us and making my head spin.

  In a twist of my subconscious, the words and his actions made me feel more wanted than I had for a long time, my blood burning hot through my veins, rushing in my ears and curling my toes. But I felt I had to put up some kind of cursory protest, so I said, “I’m not your property,” through a tight throat, even as I curled my hand around the back of his neck, fingers brushing through his hair.

  “No,” he said. “You’re my date. And that makes me the only man allowed to touch you tonight.”

  I swallowed. “I didn’t say you could touch me,” I managed, and he gave me a slow, filthy smirk as he palmed the curve at the top of my ass.

  “You’re not stopping me either.”

  “You’re very forward.”

  “You find me exciting.”

  I quirked an eyebrow. “Arrogant.”

  “Can I tell you a secret?” he asked, and on my nod, he leaned into me and ghosted his nose along my jaw, making my eyes flutter shut. Then he reached my ear, traced his lips against my earlobe in the barest of teasing touches, and whispered, “I’m fucking crazy about you.”