Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015

by Melinda Curtis

  “Here’s the deal, ladies.” Vivian turned her attention back to them with a swish of long blond hair. “I want Jack to suffer,” Viv continued, tacking her gaze on Cora. “And you’re just the life coach I need to make that happen.”

  She knows.

  Cora’s heels felt too high. Jagged and off-kilter, years of self-defense training kicked in. Subtly, she widened her stance, preparing to block whatever Viv threw at her – a punch, a water bottle, designer footwear. There’d be a scene, recorded via multiple cell phones, and posted on multiple social media accounts. Amber would be upset. Blue would be disappointed. She should have turned down this assignment.

  When Viv didn’t take a swing, Cora said, “I like to make a man suffer as much as the next gal – ”

  “But that’s not what we’re here for.” Amber’s smile was as smooth as her words.

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of what you’re here for?” Viv’s disdainful attitude was aimed at Jack. Not Cora.

  No fangs were bared. No claws drawn. Viv was just one unhappy woman blowing off steam. Cora forced herself to smile, feeling as fake as a Coach bag for sale on a New York street corner. “I’ll call you Monday and we’ll work things out.”

  “She understands me.” Viv waved gracefully toward Cora. “Don’t call. Meet me at the Flash’s fitness facility Monday morning. Seven a.m. Bring your workout gear. You can tell me what you have planned, and I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.” She glanced back at Jack. Her expression closed up tight, except for a brief blink of longing.

  That look…

  It made Cora feel like the other woman. She needed a drink. For too many reasons.

  When Viv left them to mingle, Amber lowered her voice. “We’re being paid by Jack. We do what he wants.”

  Viv still loves Jack.

  Cora stroked Brutus’ soft fur. “Blue was right.” Pushing Viv to sign divorce papers was hopeless, because Viv had already wed her perfect man and she didn’t plan on letting him go. “But don’t worry. I know just the man for her.” Jack.

  “The face is back.” Amber studied Cora closely. “I’m having second thoughts about assigning you to Vivian. Are you sure you and Jack never – ”

  “Don’t take me off this account. I know exactly how to handle Viv.” Abstinence welled up inside Cora again. “You need to land the hockey account. Blue’s busy with his matchmaking reality show. And I’m working to bring more of Daddy’s little Rules into the world.” A drink was definitely called for.

  After her sister returned to her husband’s side, Cora drifted to the bar and ordered a long overdue shot of tequila. Exes. Siblings. Love-struck clients who refused to sign divorce documents. Cora’s body was a bundle of tension in need of an outlet – a strong buzz, a deep tissue massage, sex. “Impossible.”

  “Impossible is nothing.” A deep, rich voice with a swirling, Southern twang interrupted her thoughts. “We weren’t introduced earlier. I’m Trent Parker.”

  The NBA’s newest coach was sexier up close. His body bigger. His whiskey-brown eyes more intense. His presence was a double shot of vodka and Red Bull that made her heart race, her lips curl upward, and her body blaze to life in ways it shouldn’t. Because he was the Reverend and that jacket of his was so very hideous.

  “I’m Cora.” The rebellious streak notched up her smile to provocative. What was tee-totaling Coach Parker going to do? Call her bluff?

  Damned if he didn’t.

  That smile of his turned as crookedly mischievous as Archie’s. His eyes stroked and weighed and measured, like a lover trying to decide which part of her he’d consume first. Of their own accord, her nipples stood at attention, volunteering for the lead in a multi-course meal.

  Cora blinked. She had to be reading him wrong. Coach Parker didn’t cuss. He didn’t create scandals. He hadn’t breathed a bad word about his failed marriage. This was not the kind of man interested in hot sex with a stranger.

  In her effort to align her impressions with the man, she hesitated too long before reciprocating his handshake.

  His crooked, I’m-no-threat grin contradicted his take-no-prisoners grip. “Who’re you here with, Cora?”

  He was asking who she was sleeping with. Her being ringless and showing cleavage, the good Reverend thought Cora was a bimbo.

  It had been a bitch of an afternoon and was turning into a bitch of an evening. Cold anger flooded her veins, dousing the flames of desire.

  News Flash: Cora didn’t have big enough boobs to be a bimbo. And Trent Parker didn’t have big enough balls for her to let that go unpunished.

  Her smile hardened. “I’m here with all of them.”

  Chapter 4

  Trent’s mental file cabinet slammed shut, just as he’d been about to file Cora in a “Find Out Who’s Girlfriend She Is” folder.

  How could he not? She held a fluffy little dog with a rhinestone collar and she’d packaged herself in form-fitting fashion that accented her slender curves. Dark brown hair fell in soft waves across her shoulders, just as carelessly as it would across some lucky man’s pillow. One dark brown lock had settled teasingly across her breastbone, pointing to her cleavage. Her eyes were so dark they were almost black, with a depth a man could get lost in.

  She wouldn’t be a disappointment in bed. If anything, he’d be the one who’d struggle to keep up with her appetites. A challenge he hadn’t experienced in his marriage to Rachel, who favored darkness and the missionary position.

  Christ, he didn’t need Cora’s kind of trouble, especially if she was the team’s plaything.

  Which was hard to believe. Like Vivian Gordon, Cora seemed the type of woman who wouldn’t want to share or be shared. But hey, this was L.A. and the NBA, not the South and a strict Baptist college. In either case, he wasn’t the type of coach to allow a disturbance like her around his players – because by God, she disturbed every fiber of his being.

  In one week, he’d be cleaning the Flash of chaff, riff-raff, and distractions. Trent allowed himself another good look, annoyed when he couldn’t immediately drag his gaze away. The Reverend couldn’t pursue passionate flings.

  The bartender set a shot on the counter. She put the dog on the ground, if you could call that Rottweiler-snack a dog. The black bit of fluff sat in front of Trent, wagging his tail.

  “I suppose it says something that he likes you.” Her lips tilted up ever so slightly, even as her glance made its way leisurely down his body.

  She was toying with him.

  The heady, sudden, blood-rush of arousal – missing from his life for too long – shuttered the Reverend away and made Trent laugh. “You had me.” She very well could have him.

  “Southerners.” She tsked. “You should know never to assume a woman is with someone just because she’s wearing a low-cut blouse.”

  It wasn’t only the way she dressed that had him thinking she was someone’s sex toy. It was the way she held herself, the sexy vibe she presented that said, “Take me home. Now.”

  “Lesson learned, sugar.” He hadn’t called a woman sugar since college. He ordered tonic water.

  She arched a slender brow that said he wasn’t man enough to drink alcohol.

  He was man enough to picture her naked. Man enough to feel the magnetic tug of arousal at the mental image of her legs spread and her hands guiding him home.

  Be careful what you wish for, Reverend.

  Earlier, he’d longed to shed his good boy image, before common sense made him rethink things. Of all the beautiful women he’d met today, no one had this effect on him. He cleared his throat and bent painfully to pet her pooch. “I’m driving.”

  She nodded, shifting her weight on spiky zebra heels. “And the Reverend doesn’t drink.”

  “That, too.” He gazed longingly up the length of her shapely, bare legs, needing to stop looking at her if he ever wanted to battle back his hard-on.

  Cora gestured toward the players clustered around the pool. “You’ll be looking for a better
point guard, one who can work more consistently with Evan than Antoine.” Not a question. “And a meatier center. Everyone loves Ren, but he needs to put on thirty pounds of muscle.”

  Fifty was more like it.

  Cora wasn’t the first to offer unsolicited advice and she wouldn’t be the last. Arm-chair coaches were a job hazard. Trent didn’t discuss strategy with anyone but his boss and his inner circle. And not even Randy and his father knew what he and Jack had planned for the team – their own form of moneyball with 2-3 styles of play.

  The crotch of Trent’s pants was suddenly roomier. He stood, more determined than ever to file her away. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m from the Dooley Foundation.” Her tone took on a familiar note. The one high school parents had used during recruiting trips when trying to convince Trent their son didn’t have bad ankles or a history of concussions. “In addition to helping our clients discover happier, more productive lives, we help professional athletes establish a confident foundation for a higher level of play.”

  “You’re a Rule.” His package gave one last pulse of defeat.

  “You don’t have to sound like it’s the end of the world.” Her voice hardened. “We’re not a cult.”

  He wasn’t buying it. He’d spent too many years between the guideposts of his father’s religion (football), his college’s religion (Jesus), and his wife’s religion (her father’s lucrative televangelist corporation). Trent was living life within his own guideposts now. Or at least he planned to in a couple of months, when Randy and Archie had established their credibility.

  “Ahh.” Cora drained her shot glass. “The awkward pause indicating you disapprove.” She ordered another shot. “Unlike you, I’m a believer in the power of drink.”

  So was he. Rachel hadn’t let him drink in public and frowned upon him drinking at home. Everyone here expected Trent to abstain.

  “Coach Parker, great choice of assistant coach. Randy Farrell is going to be fantastic PR for us, with a storyline that mirrors your father’s BCS win.” Jack Gordon slapped Trent on the back. “Have you met everyone?” Jack’s gaze passed over Cora as if she was no one.

  Cora’s jaw thrust out. She picked up her dog, who was growling at Jack. And then she smiled sweetly at the Flash owner as if she hadn’t noticed the slight. “Trent’s met everyone, including the little people, like your admin, Nina, your assistant, Zach, and me.” Cora sidled closer to Trent, weaving her free arm through his. She smelled of warm vanilla, when he’d expected dark, seductive musk.

  While his brain struggled to surface past her scent, Cora looked up at him with a flash of S.O.S. in her eyes.

  Save me, those eyes said.

  Fuck me, he thought.

  By the thunderous look gathering on Jack’s face, Trent knew Cora had made an enemy in the Flash’s owner. The last thing Trent needed was to anger his new boss about something as trivial as this woman. And yet, he threw her a life preserver. “I was just asking Cora how the Rules of Attraction fit in with the team.”

  “And I was about to tell him that the pressures of the NBA can be hell on a man’s game.” She didn’t miss a beat. “Sometimes you have to look your opponent in the eye and say I choose to beat you, and I trust in the feeling of total domination. I’ll reinforce that with some smack talk, and I welcome the power that validation gives me.” She smiled as if she hadn’t just tossed a gauntlet on the ground.

  His boss didn’t pick it up. “Are you interested in the Rules, Parker?”

  Hell, no.

  Cora edged closer to Trent, pressing her breast against his arm. His dick decided a vote was in order. His dick was voting to do whatever it could to keep Cora by his side, Reverend, be damned.

  Before Trent could answer, Jack said, “Fine. Consider yourself a client of the Dooley Foundation. I’ll add you to our corporate account. I’m sure Amber will take good care of you.”

  “Amber is closing a deal with the Los Angeles Kings.” Cora’s voice was firm. Her smile didn’t waver. “And Blue is busy shooting his matchmaking reality show, which means I’m going to be handling the majority of the Flash assignments for the next few months, including your wife.”

  “God, help me.” Jack walked away, looking like death.

  Frustration pounded at Trent’s temples. He couldn’t get rid of Archie. He couldn’t get rid of Randy. But Cora? She was troublesome temptation. The Reverend wanted nothing to do with trouble or temptation. But sometimes to clear out the troublesome road bumps, you had to plow temptation out of the way.

  “We need to talk.” Grabbing Cora’s hand, Trent led her into the house, seeking privacy. He dodged the front office staff, avoided a lost-looking Randy, and finally found a bathroom. He closed them inside and locked the door. “What…was that?” Years of carefully controlling his words and now that he was free, he couldn’t bring himself to order a drink at the bar or say, “What the fuck?”

  Anger pinged through his veins. Anger at himself. Anger at the Reverend. Anger at her.

  Cora’s dog whined. She set him on the floor, giving Trent an inside view of her cleavage this time, packaged in black lace. Perhaps she’d unwittingly peek-a-boobed him. Perhaps not.

  His dick did a happy dance.

  Help me, baby Jesus.

  The murmur of voices and laughter down the hall made it seem as if they were alone.

  His dick would like to think so.

  Cora straightened, a rebellious look in her eyes. “I spent years living in someone else’s shadow and being invisible. Jack may not like me, but I won’t be ignored.”

  “You tricked me into becoming a client.” Nobody pulled Trent’s strings – an ironic statement given his dick felt the pull of her cleavage.

  She washed her hands in the sink, filling the small room with the flowery scent of soap. “You’re not the kind of man who gets tricked.”

  “Then what just happened?”

  She wiped her hands on a guest towel, every movement delicate. “You stepped into the cross-fire.”

  His body was on red alert. His muscles tense. His anger coiling to strike.

  In a closed-off corner of his mind, the Reverend cautioned him to calm down. “I’d think, as a member of the Dooley Foundation, that you’d recognize this isn’t the time or place to make waves. All you had to do was stand there silently and be invisible.” God knew, Trent had years of experience doing just that. Minister Bishop regularly ignored Trent.

  “And give Jack Gordon the satisfaction? No friggin’ way.”

  And then she did the damndest thing. Her hands landed on either side of his face and she tugged his lips to hers.

  ~*~

  Cora knew better than to kiss in anger. She always regretted it in spades.

  In the history of Cora’s spades, kissing Trent Parker had to rank in the top three.

  First was her loss of virginity to Robby Reevus in high school. She should have taken her mother’s advice and paid a professional. But Lucia just wouldn’t let up when Cora came home from a date with a hickey on her neck. Five seconds after Cora shut her bedroom door that night, she’d shinnied out the window, tracked down Robby, and experienced the most disappointing thirty seconds of her life.

  Second would have to be kissing mega-movie producer Cal Lazarus. She’d invited him to have sex in the men’s room of a trendy West Hollywood restaurant because Jack had turned her down. She’d wanted to show Jack, who was dining a few tables over, that he was replaceable. But the tables had been reversed. It was Cal who thought she couldn’t replace him.

  And now she was kissing a man who didn’t need trouble anymore than she did. A man who was wrapping his arms around Cora and pulling her close. A man who knew how to kiss with wicked intent. This man was the Reverend?

  Her fingertips teased the ruff of short, brown hair at his neck. His tongue stroked against hers, hot and urgent and demanding.

  She’d been angry – at her father, at Jack, at the world.

  Now she was turned on.
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  By a man who was one of her clients.

  In name only.

  It wasn’t like Trent wanted to be her client. What he wanted was clearly communicated by the hard-on pressed against her abdomen. What her body wanted was telegraphed to him by the arch of her back, sealing her hips against his.

  I’m corrupting the Reverend.

  Luck bicycled past, ringing its bell and laughing.

  This had disaster written all over it.

  “Slow down.” She pushed him away and tried to catch her breath, tried to remember that guys like Trent were only interested in women like her for one reason. “Clearly, I’ve had too much alcohol.”

  In a heartbeat, his gaze went from hot and needy to cool and contained. “Why is it I think two shots wouldn’t phase you?”

  Normally, they didn’t. She realized her hands were resting on Trent’s shoulders, on that ill-fitting jacket, and withdrew them. “I’m not a tease. I have temper issues.”

  “You control your temper by kissing men you just met? That’s hazardous to your reputation.” The condemnation in his voice contradicted the bulge in his zipper.

  “Hey, I didn’t frisk you for a condom, did I?” She took a step back, her nether regions still protesting a halt to the proceedings. “I’m not a sex addict. It’s just that you’re attractive, it’s been a crap day, and…Wow, I’m not making this any better, am I?”

  “No.” He put his hands behind his back and leaned against the door, still bulging impressively.

  Cora dragged her gaze away. Brutus sniffed Trent’s shoes, then licked the bargain-basement leather.

  Cora snapped to get the little dog’s attention and save Trent’s loafers, although it might be more of a blessing if Brutus ruined them. Someone needed to take this man shopping. “Let me start again. I’m Cora Rule from the Dooley Foundation. I’m working with you and the team to help you develop a more confident attitude when competing.”

  Trent’s mouth worked as if struggling not to say something.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “Hit me with it. You know you want to.”

  “Although I appreciate the time out, sugar, my confidence would be a helluva lot better if you could control your temper.”