For a moment, he considered having what his friend Henry would call a “posh wank,” but the idea of jerking off to thoughts of his sweet and sexy jogger wasn’t enough. He wanted the real deal and, for now at least, that wasn’t a possibility. Which left only one option—a cold shower.
Brody threw back the duvet. He was awake, although thankfully at a more appropriate hour than they day before, in a city that had just cut him a check that was one hell of a warm welcome. And although he’d been there for a little over a week, he’d hardly had a chance to explore his new hometown. Not in the daylight anyway. In fact, aside from his run through the park, the only views he’d had of Chicago were either from the inside of nightclubs or through the dark tinted windows of an SUV. It was high time he discovered what the Windy City had to offer.
The ink on Brody’s new contract had barely dried before his publicist had begun bombarding him with information about his new city. Her comprehensive emails had covered everything from which hotel he should stay in while looking for a more permanent home to which restaurants were the places to “see and be seen.” It was the latter that Brody opened as he pushed through the doors of his hotel and into the late morning sun. At the top of the list for lunch was a place called Tavern on Rush.
“The burger is to die for,” she’d typed. “But you’re not just there for the food, so be sure to sit outside. Ask Benny to put you at the corner table.”
Jesus, even eating a burger was a strategic move. Although once he was there, he had to admit, it was a pretty spectacular burger. Brody was strict about his diet during the season but made a mental note to hit Tavern a few more times before the start of training camp.
He’d just polished off the last of it when he spotted a girl in skintight yoga pants sashaying down the sidewalk. As she grew closer, Brody slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, his hungry gaze following her as she passed. She had a rolled-up mat sticking out of her bag, and her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail that was nearly as tight as her ass. Damn, Brody thought, what he wouldn’t give to wrap that hair around his fist as he plowed into that sweet—
The shrill sound of his cell phone cut through his fantasy, not to mention drawing the attention of the diners on either side of him. Fucking hell, he needed to remember to change the ringtone. On the upside, if the corner table hadn’t garnered him enough visibility, “Oops, I Did It Again” certainly had.
He dug the phone out of the pocket of his jeans and glanced at the screen. Speak of the devil, he thought as he tapped the green button.
“Morning, Mags,” he said, calling her by the nickname he knew made her flawless French skin crawl. But fair was fair. She was calling to ruin his day; least he could do was return the favor. Although truth be told, she should have expected it by now. He suspected deep down she loved their banter. They had it down to a science. He’d tease her, she’d bust his balls—all while he paid her a hefty retainer, no less. But in the end, they were a team, and the affection and respect ran both ways. They just had their own unique way of showing it.
“What are you doing?” she asked. Her voice was like something out of a black-and-white film, the kind where the sultry spy let the poor guy have a taste, only to stick a pistol in his ribs a moment later.
“Eating a burger. As instructed.”
“When did I tell you to eat a burger?”
Brody could only imagine how high her perfectly shaped brows rose on that one. “In your email. And before you get your granny panties in a bunch…” He grinned. “I’m sitting outside, at the corner table. Even posed for a few selfies with fans.” As annoying as he found the entire notion of people snapping funny-faced photos to send to their friends on an hourly basis, the whole selfie-taking phenomenon had certainly helped to lighten the blow when he had to decline signing memorabilia. He never declined a request from a kid, but adults were a different story. And while some were upset by the policy, others understood the fact that autographed memorabilia was an industry unto itself and that the rights to a signed jersey were something negotiated with contracts, not requested on a sidewalk. Most were happy to have a handshake and to exchange a few words, and the rest snapped enough pictures to fill their social media for weeks.
“I do not wear granny panties,” Marguerite practically growled. Although with her accent, it somehow managed to still sound high-class.
“Are you more of a silk knickers gal, or is lace your thing?” Brody asked. He was having too much fun getting a rise out of her to change the subject just yet. “Personally, I don’t know how you ladies tolerate lace thongs. Not that I’m complaining. But if my jockstrap was made of that shit, I’d be scratching my balls the entire game.”
“Are you done?” she asked. He swore he could hear her red nails tapping on the desk.
He chuckled. “I’m only getting started.”
“Well, save it for the imbeciles. You know, we wouldn’t be in this mess if you would date normal girls.”
A woman in a short black dress more appropriate for clubs than midday lunch passed by Brody’s table. His eyes roamed over the smooth, bare skin of legs that seemed to go on forever. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mags.”
“Let me put it to you in terms you can understand. No one will believe you’re going to grant franchise status to one of the show’s sweet young women when your dating roster looks like a casting call for porn.”
Hearing Marguerite use the term “franchise status” was almost amusing enough to take the sting out of the rest of it.
“I’ve never dated a porn star.” Brody popped a fry into his mouth. “Amateur star of the make-your-own variety? Sure. But never the real deal.”
“Bad boy is one thing, my dear Brody. But they need to believe there’s at least a chance at redemption.” The temporary softening didn’t last long. “And don’t speak with your mouth full. It’s rude, not to mention disgusting.”
Brody groaned. “How long do I have?”
“How long?”
“Until I start serving my sentence?”
Marguerite ignored his attempt at levity and instead launched straight into her spiel. Brody wasn’t surprised. The woman seemed to conduct her entire life as though she was holding a press briefing, succinct and to the point and leaving no doubt as to who was in charge. Brody couldn’t help but wonder if that was how she was in the sack as well. Touch me there. Stick it here. You may grunt, but not too loudly. While funny, the thought was enough to squash the semi Miss Short Black Dress had given him.
“They are going to shoot all the location dates before training camp, then premiere the show right before the first game as a live event. After that, each Monday night will be a live dinner date edited together with flashbacks of the preshot footage.”
The whole season was going to be about this crap. “And let me guess, I vote them off the island during halftime of the next game.” His tone was laced with sarcasm, but a small part of him feared he might have actually hit the nail on the head.
“This isn’t Survivor,” she said.
Shame, Brody thought, because then this would at least be mildly entertaining. Put the girls on an island and see who can survive the longest without a hair straightener or mascara. “You know what I mean,” he said. “When do I give them the rose, or whatever this show does?”
“That’s the beauty of this. There aren’t any eliminations, which means you’re never the bad guy. All of them are in the running until the very end. The producers will be shooting lots of scenes with just the girls, claws drawn no doubt, but you’ll come out without a scratch.”
Before Brody could ask, Marguerite answered his next question. “At the end of the season, there will be another live show where you’ll reveal the winner.”
A guttural sound vibrated through Brody’s chest. There was no end to the amount of shit his new teammates were going to give him for this.
“This is good PR. Just…” She let out an exasperated sigh. “Try to stay ou
t of trouble until then.”
So much for enjoying the off-season in Chicago. Between Marguerite and Marty, it was like he was back in high school with a curfew, for Christ’s sake. Only now, his concern wasn’t that his dad would find out and take away the keys to the pickup, but that the press would find out and take away his keys to the kingdom. At least he could still play golf and hang out with the boys. All dicks, no chicks. Great.
“I’ll have my assistant email the full schedule as soon as the studio confirms the dates and times.” With that, she was gone. No doubt on to kill the buzz of some other poor client. Sultry voice, pistol in the ribs.
Brody jammed his phone back into the pocket of his jeans and tucked a few bills into the padded leather folder the waitress had placed on the table, being sure to leave her a hefty tip. Not just because her smile was sweet and she’d refilled his iced tea without him asking. And not because Marguerite had warned him about looking like a cheapskate and earning the reputation, not to mention similar nickname, of a certain Chicago-based NBA star. While all those were valid reasons, Brody was a generous tipper because he respected a hard day’s work. Growing up, his father had worked long hours on the ranch, and during a few particularly lean years, his mom had worked as a waitress at the local diner. That’s not to say that Brody didn’t work hard at his job as well. Playing a professional sport was a beating most bodies were spared. But not everyone could be as fortunate when it came to return on time invested, something he’d vowed on draft day never to forget.
He pushed back from his chair and stood. With his hands on his hips, Brody surveyed the triangle formed by three of the city’s most well-known streets. All around him, Chicagoans rushed to their next appointment or meeting, and there he stood without a damn thing to do. The freedom should have been exhilarating, but instead he found it unnerving. There had to be something he could do to pass a Monday afternoon. The Magnificent Mile was only a block away, but hell if he wanted to deal with tourists all wandering aimlessly while window-shopping at Tiffany or Cartier.
As if on cue, a bus rolled by with a billboard stretched along one side. It was an advertisement for the new Grant Pediatric Hospital. Brody yanked his phone back out, intending to call Coleman Grant, but at the last minute changed his mind. According to the small map displayed in his contacts, Grant Industries was just across the river. Forget calling, it was high time he paid his old friend a visit.
Chapter Three
Rebecca burst through the doors of her brother’s office. One of the perks of being his favorite—granted, she was also his only—sibling was the fact that she had carte blanche when it came to access. Something he might have regretted the time she’d surprised him by booking an impromptu massage. Her intent had been to try to get him to relax a bit, but the look on his face when he’d returned from his meeting to find a masseuse standing beside a sheet-draped table surrounded by candles and incense was anything but calm.
“I can’t just drop everything and take off my clothes,” he’d said. Although thanks to his wife’s habit of oversharing, Rebecca knew that wasn’t always the case. And besides, if he was going to insist on finding sneaky ways to funnel money her way, she was going to find sneaky ways to pay it back to him. Still, when it came to her brother’s evolution, Rebecca was discovering that slow and steady was the only way to win the race. And fortunately for her, his expression as he stood facing her was far from grumpy. In fact, he looked downright pleased with himself. That is until his gaze fell to the two TJ Maxx shopping bags she held in her hands.
“Brought you a little something to make your office…a little more something.” She glanced around at the white carpet, white couches, and white walls. The boy had a serious issue with color. Even his desk was devoid of palette, the glass top merely allowing a better view of his white leather chair. The only thing that broke up the monotone was the images of various news and financial reports that flickered across the cluster of flat screens mounted on the far wall. Talk about boring!
Cole opened his mouth for what she knew would be a protest, but Rebecca cut him off. “And no, they’re not from a flea market.” She’d learned her lesson on that one the hard way. Seemed her super-uptight brother had an issue with used items, even if they were vintage and fabulous and unlike anything he’d find in a Gold Coast boutique. It wasn’t like she’d brought him hand-me-down clothes. Although to be fair, she’d scored an amazing vintage gown at a swap a few weeks prior that had a label to rival any on Oak Street.
She set the bags on the floor and reached inside for the two brightly colored toss pillows she’d found over the weekend during an afternoon of what she liked to call adventure shopping. “Thought your sofas could use a pop of color.” She strode across the room to the two white sofas that sat facing each other in front of the wall of LCDs. “Relax, Cole. They’re pillows,” she said as she placed and plumped one in each corner. “It’s not like I brought beaded curtains or a giant beanbag chair.”
A muscle in Cole’s jaw twitched, but he somehow managed a smile. “Thank you. They will go perfectly with the new Jackson Pollack I ordered.”
Rebecca’s eyes grew wide. “You bought a Jackson Pollack?” She knew her brother didn’t joke—and certainly not about something that would cost more than a house—but still, she found the whole thing quite unbelievable.
He smirked when he saw her expression. “Not a fan?”
“Sure.” Rebecca laughed and shook her head. “In a museum.”
Cole blinked. “You and Olivia have been on me about the lack of color in my life.”
“And that’s how you decided to make the place a bit homier?”
Her brother frowned. If Rebecca hadn’t known better, she would have sworn he was a tad wounded. “For the next year, yes. Then I’ve made arrangements to loan it to the Art Institute.”
She glanced around the spacious room. “You spend at least a third of your life here, Cole, and nothing about this space says a word about you.”
“Of course it does. It says I’m a man of means who means business.” He grinned, and the uptight, in-control CEO was back. “Establishes an upper hand from the moment a visitor walks through the door.”
“There’s not a single picture of you and Olivia. Not even your wedding photo.”
“Right, because nothing says power quite like a photo with a woman dressed as a cross between Priscilla Presley and Elvira,” he said, referencing the ensemble he’d tricked Olivia into wearing at their impromptu Vegas ceremony.
Rebecca rolled her eyes. “I don’t mean that one. The real one you had at the Ramseys’ farm.”
“Family—you, Olivia—means the world to me,” he said. Rebecca had heard similar proclamations from her brother before, but there was something different this time, an unfamiliar tone in his voice that she couldn’t quite place. His eyes had gone all soft, and the hard lines of his perpetually clenched jaw gave way to a look that was so happy, it actually made Grumpy look more like Dopey. Holy hell, was it possible he and Olivia were…
Cole cleared his throat. “I don’t need to display pictures for colleagues to know that,” he said, reining in Rebecca’s imagination. No matter, she’d tuck that little nugget away until she had time to do a bit more reconnaissance.
“Hungry?” he asked, waving a hand toward a small table in the corner of his office where the floor-to-ceiling windows met in a sweeping view of the river. On a clear day, which thankfully it was, you could see all the way to the bright-blue waters of Lake Michigan. There wasn’t much about her brother’s lifestyle that interested Rebecca, but there was no denying the appeal of having all that sparkling water just outside your window. She wondered if he appreciated it or if he sometimes stood and let his mind fly him over the maze of streets to the serene vista in the distance, floating above the mayhem on a cloud of tranquility.
She turned back to find her brother watching her with an almost ever-present crease between his brows. Yeah, she thought, probably not so much on the floati
ng tranquility.
“As you can see,” he said, a touch of pride in his voice. “I kept my word on the no-tablecloth edict.”
Indeed, he had. The glass-top table was devoid of linens, but it did have china plates covered with sterling silver domes. She shuddered to think what culinary delights waited beneath.
“I’m not eating tofu salad.” She’d spent over a year with hardly any appetite. Now that it had returned, she wasn’t going to waste it on tasteless meals.
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Cole’s lips as he lifted one of the domes to reveal what appeared to be a very messy sandwich wrapped up in white paper and placed on a plate next to a mountain of hand-cut fries.
Rebecca’s eyes grew wide. “Is that…”
“Al’s Beef?” Cole nodded. “With mozzarella and hot peppers. Dipped, of course.”
Just the way she liked it. Her mouth watered. “This is…unexpected.”
Cole shrugged. “I figure if I can’t fatten you up the healthy way, I’ll try this route.”
“I don’t need fattening, Cole.”
“You lost so much weight when you were—”
“Hey!” She held up her hand. “What did I say about that kind of talk?” For a while, it had seemed as though every conversation she had with her brother was about her health. How was the blood work? When is the next scan? Her illness had dominated her life, but those days were behind her now, and the last thing she wanted to do was give that blasted disease any more of her time.
“Sit,” he said.
“You really need to do something about that bossy attitude.”
“And you really need to do something about your lack of technology.” He pulled out one of the chairs for her then lifted her leather tote bag from her shoulder. “This thing weighs a ton. How do you even manage?” he asked, raising it up and down as though he were at a carnival about to make a guess on the weight.
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