by Tracy Wolff
At least until she notices his dreads. “You took the bows out.” Her lower lip quivers, and she just might be the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen.
Tanner gulps audibly. “I didn’t think they matched my shirt,” he says, shooting me a desperate look. “But if you have some green ribbon, you can put new bows in if you want.”
“Emerson?” Lucy turns around and bats her eyes at her soon-to-be stepmom. “Do we have any gween wibbon?”
“If you don’t, I’m happy to take you to the store to buy some,” I volunteer, barely holding in a chuckle as Tanner shoots me a death glare over Lucy’s head.
“Let me look, baby,” Emerson tells her as she starts tugging on one of Tanner’s dreads. “Why don’t you come help me, Shawn?”
“Me?” I shoot a puzzled look at Hunter, but he’s suddenly really, really interested in the game.
Something’s obviously up, but I figure it can’t be that bad if they’re sending Emerson in to do the dirty work.
“Sure,” I tell her, ignoring the pain in my back as I push to my feet. “It’ll give me time to steal you away from Hunter.”
He snorts. “Give it your best shot, pretty boy.”
“Game not so interesting now, huh?” I shoot over my shoulder as I follow his woman from the room.
“Everything okay?” I ask her as she leads me down the hall to the catch-all room. I think it’s eventually supposed to be her office, but right now it holds a bunch of odds and ends that don’t belong anywhere else. Including, it turns out, a box full of different colored ribbons.
“Funny,” she says as she digs through the colorful tangle. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
Warning bells go off in my head, and I start eyeing the door. Adrenaline may be my drug of choice, but I’ve watched Emerson use that perfectly reasonable tone on Hunter enough to know that I’m in danger—and I probably won’t know what hit me until after I’m already ass over teakettle on the ground.
“I’m good. Just hanging with your man, you know.”
“I’m glad he’s got friends like you and Tanner,” she says. “I know having you guys around has made Heather’s death a little easier for him.”
“Oh, well.” I clear my throat, not sure what to say to that. I’m more a doer than a talker at the best of times. I can bullshit with the best of them, but when things get real like this, I tend to forget how to string words together in any logical format. “It sucks that he and the kids had to go through that.”
She smiles sadly. “Yeah, it really does.”
An awkward silence stretches between us for a few seconds as she continues to search through the box of ribbons, but it’s broken when Emerson gives a triumphant, “Aha! I knew I had the right color in here.” She holds up a roll of ribbon pretty close to the exact color of Tanner’s shirt. And his eyes, now that I think about it.
“I’m sure he’ll be appreciative.” My tongue is firmly in cheek and from the wicked look she shoots me, I can tell she knows it. “Toss it to me and I’ll take it to Lucy.”
“I still have to cut it into pieces. Lucy’s not old enough for a grown-up scissors yet.”
“Oh, right. I didn’t think about that.” I start edging toward the door. It’s pretty obvious that Emerson has more to say, but it’s also pretty obvious that it’s not something I’m going to want to hear.
“So,” she says as she crosses to the craft table on the other side of the room and pulls out some kind of scissors with weird nicks in the blades. “Hunter tells me you went down to Mexico at the beginning of last month. How was it?”
And there it is. “It was pretty good.”
“Just pretty good?” she asks, her voice still mild as she measures a piece of ribbon between her two hands and then snips it off.
I don’t know how to answer that so I just shrug. And try not to notice how dry my throat suddenly feels.
“Hunter says you hurt your back cliff diving.” She holds out another piece of ribbon. Snip.
“I twisted it the wrong way on one of my last dives. It’s no big deal.”
“But it’s still bothering you?” Snip.
“A little…Hey, where is this going, anyway?” I ask, suddenly fed up with trying to dodge and weave between her questions.
After my mom died and I was pretty much alone in the world except for my grandmother, I would have done anything to have a group of friends who cared enough to poke around in my business. Now that I have those friends, though, it’s not nearly as much fun as I used to think it would be. At least not at times like these.
“Oh, sorry.” She flushes a little. “I didn’t mean to poke a sore spot, no pun intended. It’s just, I have this friend…”
Warning bells go from soft to five-alarm fire in the space of one sentence. “Uh, I’m not actually looking for anything right now, so…”
Emerson looks confused for a second, and then she throws back her head and laughs so hard that her red curls bounce all over the place. “Oh, no, you’re so not Sage’s type.”
My whole body goes rigid. “Sage?” I ask carefully.
“I don’t think you’ve met her yet. She’s my best friend from college. We got thrown together freshman year and have been BFFs ever since.”
“That’s cool.” I want to ask Emerson what her friend looks like or if this friend makes a habit of fucking strange men in bars, but I’m pretty sure either question would cross the line. Still I’m on high alert, my whole body tense as I try to figure out if her Sage is also my Sage.
It’s an unusual name, but not so strange that no other woman would have it.
“Anyway, Sage runs the best yoga studio in San Diego, and I was thinking, maybe doing some yoga would help your back. Some of her instructors are really good, and I think they could get you back into shape before the season starts.”
I’m irrationally disappointed at the mention of yoga. The woman I met at the bar the other night might be a lot of things, but a yoga instructor is definitely not one of them. She was totally bendable in all the best ways, but she was also much too unrelaxed for that. Now I do start easing toward the door. “I’m not really much of a yoga guy, you know?”
“Hunter said you would say that. But I really think Soul Studio can help you. Sage is really good at therapeutic yoga for injuries. It’s kind of her thing, actually. And if you’re afraid she’s going to be all weird and meditative, don’t be. She’s the most down-to-earth yoga teacher on the planet. She’s actually an accountant in real life. The studio is her mom’s thing, and she teaches a few classes there, does the books, that kind of thing.”
The word “accountant” sets off all the bells and whistles, because I can totally see my Sage as an accountant. That high-necked blouse. The way she nearly ran out of the bar after we were together. The way she sat in the middle of that ridiculous bachelorette party without so much as a dick straw to her name.
It’s enough to make me curious…and to make me fish a little. “An accountant, huh? So she doesn’t dress all weird and hippie-ish? No colored dread wraps or patchouli for her?”
“Dread wraps? God, no. Sage has super short brown hair and swears she’ll puke if she ever has to smell patchouli again.”
Ding ding ding. Now I’m more than curious. I’m intrigued, enough so that I wouldn’t mind taking an hour out to meet yoga accountant Sage and see if she’s also sexy bar Sage. And if she is, she can’t hold a chance encounter set up by her best friend against me, can she? Plus, if she’s at work, it’s not like she can run out of the building before we have a chance to talk, either. Sounds like a win-win to me.
“Okay.”
Emerson pauses, scissors halfway through a length of ribbon. “Okay?”
Shit. Maybe I gave in too fast. “Umm, my doctor mentioned yoga might be good for my back.” Which isn’t even a lie. “I’ve been
thinking about it, but didn’t really have an incentive to check one of the local studios out. But if you know someone…”
“I do. Sage is great, I promise!”
“All right, then. Do you want to give me her number or…”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll set it all up. Is tomorrow good? I think you should get started on this as soon as possible since training camp is coming up in a couple weeks.”
I can barely hide my grin as I say, “I can make tomorrow work. I mean, if you think Sage can.”
“I know she can! I’ll text her right now and figure out a time. What’s good for you?”
I think about my jam-packed schedule. Then I think about the fact that I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind since Saturday night. “Morning works. The earlier, the better.”
Chapter 8
Sage
“I’ve solved your problem.”
Emerson’s voice bubbles over the second I answer the phone. And I’m not going to lie—this level of enthusiasm is a little disconcerting, especially coming from Emerson. It’s been happening a lot more lately, and I’m thrilled that she’s so happy, but it’s still weird considering she’s been the droll, kickass one in this relationship from the very beginning.
“Which one?” I answer cautiously. “I have so many.”
“No, you don’t!” she says with a laugh.
“Sure feels like it right now.” I glance back at my laptop and the truly depressing numbers there. “So, which one specifically have you solved?”
“Your I-don’t-know-any-attractive-men problem!”
My brows shoot up. “I don’t remember having that problem.”
“Well, you do,” she tells me firmly. “And I’ve solved it!”
A whole new level of wariness invades me at the smugness in her voice, one that has the hair on the back of my neck standing straight up. “I don’t do blind dates. I’ve told you this a million times.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not a blind date!”
Her reassurance only makes me more concerned. “I don’t do dinner-party setups, either. I’m serious, Em. I’m not looking for a man.”
Even as I say the words, images of Shawn play through my head.
Shawn smiling at me from across the bar.
Shawn gently holding my elbow and asking if I’m all right.
Shawn on his knees in front of me, bringing me more pleasure than I’ve ever had.
A tingle starts deep inside me, but is immediately extinguished as I look back at my laptop—and the financial mess my mother has left me in.
“I don’t have time for a man,” I reiterate firmly. “And I’m not interested. Not right now.”
“Fine.” She sighs loudly.
“Fine?” I repeat, just to make sure we’re on the same page.
“Fine. Fine, fine, fine. I promise. No random meet-ups with men.” She pauses. “But I do need a favor, then.”
“A favor?” I think of everything I have to do today—which includes finding a way to pay Soul Studio’s instructors—and then give a sigh of my own. Because Emerson doesn’t ask for help often and there’s no way I’m going to turn her away now that she has.
“A friend of Hunter’s hurt his back cliff diving in Acapulco a few weeks ago. He’s been to the doctor, done some physical therapy for it, and it’s basically healed. But he’s still in pain—sometimes a lot of pain—and the doctor thinks yoga might help.”
That’s it? That’s the big favor? “Sure, send him over. I’ll have Autumn talk to him, see what we’re dealing with. She can get him in a couple classes that will help him out—”
“No!”
My eyebrows shoot up. “No?”
“No. I mean, I was thinking more along the lines of therapeutic yoga? One-on-one with you, since that’s kind of your thing?”
“You want me to give private classes to this guy?” I glance down at my desk, which is currently in a very unusual state of disarray. “I don’t really have time for that right now.” Still, in my head, I’m trying to shift things around. Trying to figure out when I can squeeze in an intro class, just to suss him out.
“I know. I know. You’re super busy. But if it gets out he’s doing yoga, then the team will find out. And if the team finds out, they’re going to want to know why since he’s not really a yoga kind of guy. Once they find out he violated his contract to go cliff diving…he’ll be in real trouble. They’ve already fined him numerous times in the last couple of years, and I’m afraid they’ll suspend him this time.”
“Then the idiot shouldn’t have been cliff diving. What kind of moron puts himself in a situation like that if he knows it could cost him his career?” I’m suddenly a lot less inclined to try to rearrange my schedule to accommodate this favor.
“The kind who’s got some pretty bad demons he’s running from.” I can all but see Emerson batting her eyes and wringing her hands as she brings out the pleading voice she only uses in extreme cases—like when she wants a taco at three a.m. and is too drunk to drive herself to Taco Bell to get one. It’s a ridiculously good look for her—one that gets her everything she wants. I should know. It’s how we met freshman year.
“You swear this isn’t some bizarre matchmaking attempt on your part?” Suspicion laces my voice, but we’ve been friends long enough that I know when to trust her—and when not to.
“No. I mean, don’t get me wrong. He’s really hot and if something happened between the two of you I would love it since he’s one of Hunter’s best friends. But he really does need help, and I trust you to be able to provide it.”
Well, it’s not like I can say no to all that sincerity, can I? “Fine. Let me check my schedule and see when I can meet—”
“Actually, he’s on his way. He should be there in a couple minutes.”
“On his—” I break off when a knock sounds on the studio’s locked front door. “You sent him over now? We don’t open for over an hour.”
“Exactly. If he comes during off-hours, there’s less chance anyone will see him there.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I close my laptop with a snap and head out of my office and down the hall to the door. “Exactly how famous is this guy?”
“He’s the best wide receiver in the league.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
Emerson sighs heavily. “I really don’t know how we’re friends.”
“At the moment, I can’t think of a single reason.” On my way to the front door, I duck into the studio I like to use and turn on the lights.
“It means there’s a lot of interest in him, especially after the Lightning won the Super Bowl last year. The press is always buzzing around him, just like they are with Hunter. So he really needs to keep a low profile.”
“Okay, okay. I’ve got it.” Even though I’m not sure that I do. The fame thing predisposes me not to like him—most famous guys I’ve met are total douches—but Hunter’s a good guy, and this guy is one of Hunter’s closest friends. I tell myself to keep an open mind as I make my way down the hallway.
“Thanks so much, Sage! You’re a lifesaver.”
“I know, I know.” I’m almost at the front door now. I can see him through the glass, but he’s got his back turned to me, like he’s looking out at the parking lot—or the beach that’s about a block beyond it. “You owe me.”
“I do! And I’ll gladly repay with the favor of your choice. But I’ll let you go now. Be sure to say hi to Shawn for me.”
“Shawn?” I ask, images of Saturday night suddenly flashing through my brain. Which is ridiculous, considering how many Shawns there must be in one square mile of San Diego. Still…“What does Shawn look like?”
But Emerson is already gone. And it doesn’t matter anyway.
Because the man at the door chooses that s
econd to turn around and OHMYGODYES it’s Shawn.
Bachelorette party Shawn.
Old-fashioned cocktail Shawn.
Make me come three times against the wall Shawn.
Our eyes meet through the glass and that’s when he does it. His lips turn up in that whole panty-melting smile that got me into so much trouble in the first place.
I freeze on the spot.
A better woman than I might be able to brazen her way through this. But a better woman than I probably wouldn’t have fallen hook, line and sinker for the smoldering look in those black magic eyes of his to begin with.
Which is why, when my instinct for self-preservation belatedly kicks in, I don’t even try to fight it. Instead, I just turn around and flee back toward the safety of my office.
Chapter 9
Shawn
Seriously? I just found Sage after three days of moping around about her and the first thing she does when she sees me is run in the opposite direction? Seriously? What. The. Hell?
Maybe I should just get back in my car and forget all about her—and yoga. After all, it’s not like she can make herself any clearer. She literally ran down that hallway, and away from me, like a pack of hellhounds were nipping at her heels.
And can I just say again? What. The. Hell? I’ve never had this reaction on a woman before and I’ve got to say, I really don’t like it.
I think back over what happened Saturday night, try to figure out if I somehow did something to freak her out enough to send her hightailing it back down that hallway. I mean, I had a great time with her, and she seemed to feel the same way—right up until I asked for her number. Which didn’t seem unreasonable considering what we spent half an hour doing in the back of that bar.
I thought she’d booked it out of there fast Saturday night, but her mad dash for her car was nothing compared to what she just pulled.
Again, I think about heading back to my car and walking away. But my back is hurting like hell after my early morning run and Emerson promises Sage can help. Plus, I want to talk to her at least once more, want to make sure I didn’t do anything to upset her. To be honest, I’m not used to women reacting to me like this and it kind of freaks me out. Makes me worry that I somehow did something to hurt her.