by Melissa Blue
Had he been smiling? “And now you must know about Alyssa?”
“Oh, and he's blessed me with the woman's name.”
Blaine shook his head and chuckled. “You'd like Alyssa if you ever met her. But you won't. Because you're giving Harriet shit when you should be recovering.”
His mother's blue eyes twinkled. “So that's how you're going to work it? If I behave and act like a good patient, you'll give me grandbabies?”
He rolled his shoulders and let the weight of the question roll off him. “I'll give you a hoard if you let Harriet clean the kitchen.” He knew that was a stretch and it would never happen.
Yeah. It didn't take a rocket scientist to get why he was initially intrigued by Alyssa—she was a chef and gave him sass—but everything else about her was unique, and interesting and his phone practically burned a hole in his pocket. He wanted to text her so she wouldn't think he'd fucked her and left.
Him. Blaine Davis.
Letting that thought sink in forced him to his feet. “Calling it a night.”
“Uh-huh.”
“See you in the morning.”
His mother edged forward. “Did you get her number?”
“I love you, Mother, good night.” He moved fast toward the hallway.
“Women like it when you call them,” she said to his retreating back. “But I guess now it's all texting.”
His mother was giving him dating advice. He needed her to get better. He needed to get the hell out of the rut that made him consider her words. The women he dated went for unavailable and damn near unattainable men—men like him.
One night with Alyssa couldn't have changed him.
But by the time he'd ventured down two long hallways to his room, had stripped to his boxers, his phone was in his hand as he settled into his bed.
He considered his options: 1. Let the one night stand as perfect. 2. Play it cool and text her the next morning. 3. Text her so he could see if she was smitten too.
The last reason had merit. She was interesting and even though they'd fucked until they'd bordered on dehydrated, he wanted more. He needed to know if she felt the same.
The decision was made. He typed in a message.
B: U asleep?
Took five minutes for a reply to vibrate his phone. A headless picture of her wearing socks, tights and a long-sleeved shirt came through.
The message read: Naked, ready and waiting.
B: So hard now.
B: Bet you didn't notice your socks were missing.
A: OMG, did you really take them?
B: No.
A: Lemme check. Hold on.
He grinned and waited for her next response.
A: The left sock is missing. What are U doing to it?
He hadn't taken it but he liked that she was willing to joke with him.
B: Unspeakable things.
A: Take it out to dinner at least. Show it a good time. But if it decides to stay with the leather seats in your car, don't feel rejected. Those seats had something going for them.
B: Goddamn seats. Should have known.
A: You should have.
B: lol Night.
A: G-n.
He put his phone on his forehead. He didn't know what he was doing, but he'd texted her, flirted with her and he'd do it again because she seemed smitten too.
But fuck. He had a flight to catch after the game. A game he had to prepare for starting in a few hours. He wouldn't make his way back home for another three weeks.
His stomach tried to climb its way up his throat at the thought. Alyssa was a woman who held his interest that he'd fucked and liked. Eventually the newness would wear off. He'd be back to his old self. He had to wait whatever this was out.
His phone buzzed and he snatched it up to read her message.
CHAPTER SEVEN
11/1
A: Do you even know what city you are in?
B: Nope, but I remember a shitton of blue cornfields when we drove to the hotel.
A: You know what you could do, right?
B: Express Mail you some blue corn. Such a chef.
A: I resemble that remark.
11/2
A: OMG. You actually sent me the corn. How sweet.
B: No. Not sweet. I expect sexual favors or at least lewd pictures.
B: lol Nice toenail polish.
11/5
B: Gatorade is a food group.
A: I don't pray for people's souls often, but today I'm going to make an exception for you.
11/6
B: Texting is hard when you use full sentences.
A: But don't you feel like an accomplished adult?
B: Send me another dirty pic and maybe.
B: lol Unwashed broccoli. So turned on.
11/7
A: Sexy isn't it? My orthodontic and arch-support shoes bring all the boys to the yard, and they're like, it's better than yours...
B: I've been sitting here trying to think of a response. As you would say, lawd cheesus.
11/12
B: Hey. Just wanted to say that. Thinking about you. Plus, I got the notification you received your panties. Told you I owed you a pair.
A: You almost had me fooled. Sweet text then boom. You want a pic of me modeling panties, don't you?
B: I wouldn't say no.
B: But, yeah. I do miss your laugh.
A: You can be sweet. I like that.
A: I'm only thinking about your leather seats a little bit now.
B: Snort.
11/13
B: I worry. The media are vultures. And phones can be hacked.
B: I wouldn't want that for you.
A: They wouldn't understand your foot fetish at all.
A: And see. UR sweet.
B: Lies.
11/15
A: Got the socks. Thanks.
B: The lady told me they were warm and fuzzy. Glad you like them.
A: They are the new leather seats.
B: Goddamn socks.
11/18
A: UR telling me I can't be your text girlfriend? I thought we were going places.
B: I send you socks and you send me pictures of your feet. I'm rusty but I think that's just GF.
A: I'm imagining you hyperventilating over saying the g word.
B: Texting u from the afterlife.
A: lmao If you can take a selfie pretending to look dead, you're not dead.
B: Girlfriends...so picky.
11/21
A: U okay? Called and no answer. I saw the hit you took. They carried you off the field. Worried.
B: Just turned my phone on. Left it in the locker. Voicemail when I called. But I'm fine. Promise. I'm cleared to play the next game.
B: You watched?
A: I wanted to see why Gatorade was a food group.
A: Sure UR ok?
B: My bell is a little rung, but I'm fine. No need to worry. I promise.
11/22
B: A pic of your bare feet? You are worried, and you know how your arches turn me on. Lol
B: But, really, I'm fine today. Like I was yesterday. Promise, babe.
11/23
B: Get in the car. Don't ask questions.
A: Car?
B: I sent it to pick you up from work. B there in five mins.
A: What?
B: 2 days is too long 2 C U. Get in the car. No ???
A: I have work tomorrow night.
B: So do I. That's why private jets exist. Get. In. The. Car.
A: Bossy.
B: The plane has leather seats.
A: C U soon.
B: I shouldn't be amused.
B: Get. In. The. Car.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The driver offered his arm to help her climb out of the SUV. Her hand tightened when a swarm of paps near the hotel's entrance looked at her. Within seconds they relaxed their snap-picture ready stance. Likely that had everything to do with seeing her casual outfit.
No surprise they were huddled
outside. The hotel was filled to the brim with Blaine's team, and other football professionals. A picture of a women dressed in scantily clad clothes probably fueled someone's gas tank for a month.
Alyssa had taken a quick shower and threw on a plain shirt and well-worn denims. Nerves made her drink more than one glass of wine offered on the flight, but outside of that she didn't appear news or even scandal-worthy.
“This way,” the driver said. He offered a warm smile that brightened his brown eyes. “Don't make eye contact with them,” he said in a lower register.
She smiled back. “Thank you.”
The inside of the hotel was as elegant as the outside. Sedate tones, marble floors and staff that was seen not heard. The driver handed her off to a waiting bellboy. His smile was warm too. They skipped the main elevator to a private one. He pressed the button for her—only two were on the panel—and he left her alone.
Alyssa pressed a hand to her stomach. After three weeks of texts and phone calls, they wouldn't just be in the same time zone, but breathing the same air—within touching distance.
What was she doing? She'd hopped on a plane to see him for a couple of hours. Who did that?
Hell, how much did that cost?
How often had he'd done it?
The last question didn't have time to settle before the doors slid open, and there Blaine stood. He hadn't bothered with a shirt after a shower. He'd thrown on basketball shorts and still had a towel around his shoulders.
He broke out the dimples, and she almost swooned, but she couldn't. She had to play it cool or she'd embarrass herself. “Alfred didn't ride up with me.”
“He wasn't supposed to.” He strode forward. “How was your flight?”
Water still clung to his chest and she tried, really hard, to not notice the way droplets rode down his abs. “Good. Everyone was nice. No one asked questions.”
At that, he stilled a few feet in front of her and tilted his head. “Did you ask any?”
“I did not.” She may not have liked the answer, which was a clear sign she shouldn't be there with him. Her head told her that in a multitude of ways.
He moved forward again. She held her breath then forced it out.
He said, “But you look like you want to now.” His palms brushed her cheeks and he tilted her head up. “Let's kiss first.”
“You're being bossy again.”
“I haven't seen you in what feels like forever.”
She wanted to remind him they had, in theory, recently met, but his lips were on hers. Time didn't matter. His mouth was as soft as she remembered. His taste crisp, drugging.
This man was why, more often than not, she'd stayed up with her phone glued to her hand. No. He was the reason her phone stayed in her hand all day. She'd laughed, she'd flirted and had a smile on her face more often than not. Her world had become his, and his kiss sealed the deal.
She lifted on the tips of her toes and speared her fingers into the hairs at his nape. The strands were damp and curly. Heat built in her chest. Maybe a frustrated moan, because she wanted to climb him, curl into him to make up for lost time.
He caressed her cheeks with his thumbs then pulled away. His lids were low and the gray in his eyes seemed to have turned opaque. “I've missed you.”
“How?” The question fell out before she could stop it.
“Is that your first question? Maybe we should order dinner. I wanted to wait until you made it.”
She rested her hand on his stomach. Why not? It was there and practically begging to be caressed. “Didn't you have practice? You must be starving.”
“I am. Menus are over here by the nightstand.”
“Is the food any good?”
“Serviceable. Stay away from the seafood. It'll only piss you off.”
He dropped his hands away and strolled over to the nightstand. She met him halfway and scanned the menu. “I'm not a snob, but I'd stay away from the Italian dishes. Some of these pairings...”
He laughed. “Noted. What do you want?”
She picked a chicken salad and a side order of seasoned fries. He snatched up the phone on the nightstand and ordered everything else for himself that wasn't Italian or seafood.
The suite had everything any small apartment would, so she relaxed on the couch while he finished up the call. She tried to ignore the sudden discomfort wanting to dig in. But despite their many, many conversations, she knew next to nothing about Blaine.
She didn't know if she should find out more. What were they doing with each other? She was a chef and he traveled the country playing football and getting paid an obscene amount of money.
Maybe he could see every unasked question on her face because when he sat beside her, he only took her hand, skating his thumb over the ridges and lines.
“So this is the part where you do your CIA thing,” he murmured.
“What?” she said and couldn't help but laugh.
“Where were you born? What were you doing last Saturday at 9:05 p.m. I sweat and answer. And at some point I reply in a way that concludes the interrogation.”
“I wasn't,” she lied. “I'm...curious.”
“The French Quarter,” he said.
Her brows slashed down. “What?”
“That's where I was at 9:05 p.m. last Saturday.” He shrugged before leaning back on the couch cushions. The dark gray fabric seemed to welcome him in. “The opposing team took us out for a night on the town. Southern hospitality is real. You'd love it there. The food is so good.”
Her shoulders lowered. That easily he'd made her feel comfortable. “I know enough about football and you to hurt myself. So what happened after Michigan State?”
“Personal or professional?”
She pursed her lips. She'd watched him play, riveted by him on the TV screen. If she hadn't seen his last name blazed across the back of his uniform, she wouldn't have thought it was the same man. The man on the field was focused, serious and his every tense emotion was displayed. He'd only smiled once before that last sack had given him a concussion.
“I do not doubt for one second you've fought for everything you wanted in your career. I also won't pretend I know everything you talk about. I know about drafts, not necessarily how they work. I know about getting traded but not the details. I know when I saw you on the field, your intensity kind of took my breath away.”
He lifted his hand then clutched hers into his. Another second passed and he pressed his mouth to her knuckles. Her heart skipped at the caress.
“Then you know enough about my work.” He pinned her with his gaze. “About me, do you know enough?”
“I don't know.” She squeezed his hand. “What are we?”
“I decided to flirt with an eagle-eyed chef who wanted to chop my nuts. And now I think I'm in a relationship with her. I’m pretty sure I am since I called her my girlfriend. Or at least that's what my mother told me, but she's biased. She wants grandkids any way she can get them.”
“Your mother?” Did he know he dropped the word grandkids into the conversation without blinking? “You have a good relationship with her?”
He flashed her an amused smile. “Not a mama's boy and I don't hate my mother, therefore women.” His expression turned somber. He drew a finger down hers. “She was diagnosed with diabetes. She lost two of her fingers. She lives with me and that means she's all up in my life right now.”
The way he said both with a blush and a small smile, made her want to smile back. “You love her.”
“She's been my biggest cheerleader. My dad wasn't around. She got me to every game. Made sure I stayed on the right path.”
“And yet you still...”
He pressed a finger to her mouth. “We were being nice to each other. Don't finish that sentence.”
She smiled against the digit. “But how sweet. How are you dealing with it?”
“Well enough. I don't care about...I worry. She's healing slowly, and I can't always be there. I don't know what she's going to
do. She's been a pastry chef all her life and now...I don't know. And I don't know what to do for her.”
“Sweet.”
“Do you still like it?”
“I love it.” She tilted her head, offering him her mouth.
He took her lips with his. A knock at the door interrupted them. The food had arrived. Instead of setting up at the table, he directed them to put the buffet of food on the coffee table near the couch. He tugged the glass contraption closer and then grinned at her.
“I'll share, but if I start making nom-nom noises, watch out for your hand.”
“I have my eye on your baked potato,” she said. “Fair warning.”
The dimples came out and she tried not to melt. “All right,” he said. “I won't impale you with my fork if I see you going for it.”
They ate and caught up with trivial stuff. Charlotte was slowly losing her mind with wedding details, and Alyssa was on her fourth menu from appetizers to small treats the attendants would take home to round out the meal. He told her stories from his childhood and teens—both about the game and personal anecdotes.
It was exactly like their texts and phone calls over the past few weeks, but she got to see his face, his mannerisms. Smitten was such an easy word to use and, yet, it had so much weight. The overwhelming infatuation felt like an affliction when he cut the baked potato in half and set it aside on a plate for her.
Sure, he could flirt in a way that turned a girl's head, but he was thoughtful. Only the reality of their lives—her a chef and him a football player—could encroach on the fantasy of riding on a jet to see a man who simply missed her. He'd done all that knowing he'd only see her for a few hours, tops.
Once again her head was telling her to not get trapped by emotions. He'd promised to be her rebound guy. Hell, his whole selling point was to help her get over her last relationship—not that he'd be her’s forever.
We're in a relationship.
But were they?
He sighed. “Looks like no matter what I say, we have to do the easy way again.”