by Virna DePaul
Camille gazed at him, silent. Then she reached up and covered his hand with hers. His heart beat faster, and he was about to lean forward and kiss her when she stepped back. His hand dropped and she said in an exasperated tone, “Heath, you still don’t know how to talk to women. But if you really want to apologize for ten years ago, how about this? Sign an autograph for my daughter? Because at least you’re her favorite player.”
He winced at the emphasis she placed on her words. So she wasn’t going to forgive him. Yet. Never let it be said that Heath Dawson ever backed down from a fight. Not when it was about something—or someone—important, anyway.
“Sure, Watergirl. I’ll sign an autograph for your daughter. And I’ll give you anything else you want, too. All you have to do is ask.”
Chapter 3
“Do you want a pirate party or a tea party?” Camille asked Emma on the phone later that night.
“Both!” Emma said.
Camille hesitated, mostly because it would involve buying two types of decorations, and Camille always preferred to save a little money if possible. But her baby only turned eight once. “How about we have tea and cake and you can dress up in your prettiest dress and also wear an eye-patch. How about that?”
“Will Heath be there? Since you met him and you’re friends now, right?”
“We’re not really friends,” Camille said, “and he’s a busy man, Emma.”
“But you’ll at least ask, won’t you? I swear that’s the only gift I want.”
“I’m sorry, Emma, it just wouldn’t be appropriate.”
Emma sighed. “Okay, then can you get me a parrot to wear on my shoulder? I know pirates always have parrots.”
“Maybe a stuffed one.”
After some more negotiation with Emma about what she could and couldn’t have at her party—no real parrots, no real swords, but she could wear a hook for a hand if she wanted—Camille bid her daughter goodnight and hung up. Then she called Sheila, who answered her phone with, “So is Heath as hot as he was in high school?”
Camille laughed, once again thankful that she and Sheila had remained friends since graduating high school. The other woman was a rock when Camille needed one, but she always ensured Camille didn’t get stuck in her head or take things too seriously for long. “Yes, and no,” she finally replied.
“No?”
“He’s hotter. Back then he was just a kid. Now he’s a…man. But it doesn’t matter: I’m not going out with him.”
“Whoever said anything about going out or dating? You can get into those tight football pants of his and see if what everyone says about him is true. You’re a single mom, Camille—not dead. You should ask him out.”
“And hope that he comes with a gift receipt in case I want to exchange him later?”
“Why not? He’s familiar with the concept.”
“You’re terrible. You know I’m not the type to get into any guy’s pants, tight or otherwise. I have Emma to think of, and my career, and—”
“And world peace and your wardrobe and every senior citizen—yeah, I get it. You can’t do it. Jesus wouldn’t approve.”
“This isn’t about being good. You know that. Heath just isn’t my type.”
“So John wasn’t your type? Or Terrance? Or Peter? Or Daniel? All of these guys just ‘weren’t your type?’”
Camille squirmed a little. She really didn’t want to have this conversation, but she also knew how relentless Sheila could be. Camille had dated very little since her divorce from Rich, only sleeping with a total of one guy. Sex had never been a big deal to her—with Rich it had been okay, not great—and she’d never found a guy who could inspire the kind of butterflies she imagined went along with great sex. Sometimes Camille wondered if she were broken, when she lay alone in bed, wondering how she ended up almost 30 and single with a young daughter. The Camille who’d been so set on snapping photos at that football game in high school had had bigger dreams for herself; the Camille now had taken the lemons she’d been handed and made the best lemonade she could.
Camille could never regret Emma: her daughter was the light of her life and gave her more joy than she thought possible. But that didn’t stop her from wishing she’d waited to have kids, wishing she’d made Rich wear that condom, wishing that her life had gone a little differently than it had.
And Camille knew she often used Emma as an excuse to avoid relationships. Emma didn’t need a steady stream of random men coming and going from her life, Camille reasoned, and as a result, she’d never even introduced any of the men she’d briefly dated to her daughter.
“You know it’s not that simple,” Camille replied quietly. “I have Emma to think of.”
“Of course you do, and you know I would never suggest that you jeopardize your relationship with her. That being said, you deserve some fun every once in a while.”
Camille hadn’t thought about having fun in a long time—until she’d seen Heath. Heath’s quick smile, the way he looked at her like he’d like to eat her up, the way his eyes flashed. How muscular and tan he was, such a difference from when they were in high school, and yet he was still that cocky kid, too. Arrogance and confidence dripping from every pore, Heath was the type of guy who Camille both hated and loved. No guy had ever talked to her the way that Heath had, and she’d reveled in the sexual innuendo of his conversation.
Would he act the same way on Sunday? Would he mention anything about the kiss he’d won? Just imagining those things made her body heat.
She’d watch as he played hard, running and jumping and yelling at his teammates. He’d transform into a masterful player, but when there was a break in the action, he’d walk off the field, taking off his helmet, sweat dripping from his brow, and he’d smile at her. Call her Watergirl in that deep growl, his eyes darkening as he took her in. Later, she’d follow him into the locker room—miraculously empty of anyone else—and she’d watch him strip, his beautiful body bared to her. Her eyes would wander from his broad shoulders, to the delineation of his pectorals, and down to his six-pack flexing. And when her gaze fell to his cock, hot and hard and lengthening, she wouldn’t be able to look away.
“Like what you see, Watergirl?” he’d say. “How about instead of just looking, you come over here and touch me?”
“Hey, your boyfriend’s on TV! Channel Seven. Check it out.”
Camille jerked out of her fantasy, hesitated, then grabbed her remote and turned the TV to Channel Seven. On the screen, a reporter was interviewing Heath. He was in a suit and tie instead of a uniform, and it looked like the interview was being conducted in a studio.
“…certain women will be dying to purchase the calendar to support this worthy charity. I certainly will.”
“Thank you, Renee. Like I said, I’ve been impressed with the photographer so far.”
“So how are you planning on celebrating if you win Sunday’s game?” the woman asked him.
Heath seemed to think for a moment before grinning that grin of his. “Well, I’ll just say this: a pretty woman out there still has to pay up on a bet. And I’m looking forward to collecting.”
Chapter 4
Feeling the sweat dripping down his face, Heath grabbed a nearby towel.
“Wanna go again, Dawson?” Heath’s trainer Mac asked. “Or have I worn you out today already?”
“I would, but I have somewhere to be.” He slapped Mac on the shoulder as he slung his sweaty towel around his neck. “I’ll see you next week, same time?”
“As always.” Mac turned to another of the players he worked with, barking out that he needed to do fifty squats, not twenty-five. He had a tendency to be a bit of a bruiser, but he kept the team fit and ready to play. You couldn't slack when you were in the NFL: either you were the best, or you were nothing.
After showering and getting dressed, Heath headed home to have lunch with his grandfather. On the way, he noticed a distinctive Bootleggers’ bus parked at a high-end country club. Intrigued, he pulled into
the parking lot, wondering why members of team would be here of all places and more importantly why he hadn’t been told about it. But then he realized it was the cheerleaders’ bus, and damn, if luck wasn’t on his side, because he saw another vehicle parked next to it: the same red Ford Focus Camille had gotten into after the photoshoot at the beach yesterday.
He grinned. He’d thought of her almost non-stop since then; in particular, he’d thought of the kiss his prickly watergirl owed him. He knew she wasn’t going to make it easy for him, but that would make claiming his prize all-the-more special. And claim his prize he would. Because try as she might to pretend otherwise, Camille felt the same spark between them that he did.
Heath didn’t have a membership to the country club, but one look at him, and the staff knew who he was. “Mr. Dawson!” the front-desk girl exclaimed, flushing excitedly. “Are you here for the photoshoot?”
He smiled. “I am. Can you point me in the right direction?”
“I’ll take you there myself. Do you need anything? A drink? We have a full buffet—”
“I’m fine, but it’s much appreciated.” He winked at the girl, and she was so flustered he feared she might lead him in the opposite direction of where he wanted to go.
Soon, however, they arrived at the pool outside, and after more inquiries about anything he might need, the girl left him to assess the scene. The cheerleaders were all in their blue Bootlegger bikinis: currently, a handful of them were splashing in the pool as Camille stood on deck taking photos.
She had her hair in a braid today, neatly pinned into a bun at the nape of her neck, and her top was surprisingly form-fitting for her. He could see her breasts peeking out from the V-neck, and he groaned inwardly. The sun beat down overhead, and he was hoping that his watergirl had put on enough sunscreen this time. She was so fair—all that creamy skin—and his heart pounded just thinking about it. How could only thinking about this woman’s skin send him into such a frenzy?
“Heath!” a voice squealed, and Genevieve bounded up to him. She pushed her designer sunglasses up on her head. “What are you doing here? Are you going to be taking pictures with us?”
“Nope, I’m just visiting.” Camille had turned to look at him but quickly looked away, and the easy way she dismissed him, without so much as blinking, made annoyance shoot through him. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, but she acted like she could care less whether he was around or not. Only he wasn’t going to let her ignore him so easily.
“Y’all look like a man’s fantasy come true,” he told Genevieve loudly.
Genevieve simpered. “You’re such a flirt,” she said with batted eyelashes. “You sure you don’t wanna get in the pool with us?” She reached up and stroked his chest, pressing her breasts against him.
Now Camille was staring at them, a furrow of displeasure between her brows. Finally, a genuine reaction from her, and though it irked him that it came at the cost of having Genevieve all over him (though to be fair, it wasn’t that much of a sacrifice), he’d take what he could get. Staring straight at Camille, he slapped the woman pushed up against him on the ass and said, “Get back in that pool and let me enjoy myself, woman.”
Genevieve giggled and instantly ran off, looking over her shoulder at him as she did so. Camille turned away to continue taking photos, but not before Heath saw displeasure and jealousy flitter across her face.
Despite what he’d told her before, the truth was Camille wasn’t really his type—he’d always preferred his women tall, blond, leggy and easy—but something in her called to him, even after all these years. All of these women in barely-there bikinis, and it was the woman fully dressed who drove him wild? He’d laugh if he weren’t so frustrated.
Before too long, the shoot was already over. He must’ve arrived right at the tail-end of things.
The cheerleaders continued to hang around the pool, sipping drinks and chatting, while Camille moved to pack up her things, placing items inside her bag with jerky, agitated movements. Guilt assailed Heath, but then annoyance surged, too. Why should he feel guilty about flirting with another woman when she’d made it clear she didn’t want anything from him? Where Camille was concerned, he already had enough guilt to deal with. Maybe it was time to stop playing games and just lay things on the line. Let her know he was interested in spending time with only one woman right now: her. Granted, not for anything serious. But he’d asked Ruby, and Camille would be covering two of their upcoming games before she left.
They could have a lot of fun together in a week.
He strode up to her. “Have a good shoot?” he asked.
She glanced at him, her mouth curling down. “Fine, although you coming and distracting them didn’t help me much.”
He almost sighed, thinking he was gonna get the prickly watergirl today, no matter what he said. When she slung her bag over her shoulder and began walking away, he raced to catch up to her. He blocked her exit, forcing her to look at him.
“I want to take you on a date,” he said.
“A date?” She stared at him. Then she shook her head. “No thanks.”
“Okay, then forget about a date. I have the rest of the day off. How about you take me to wherever you’re staying and we get right to the good stuff, starting with me making up for what an asshole I was ten years ago. I promise you won’t be mad at me afterward.”
“You’re so arrogant, you know that?” Her arms were crossed, and Heath felt like she had shielded herself off from him completely. A barrier he couldn’t begin to bring down, surrounding her until he could barely see her anymore.
“So I’ve been told. But I was kidding, Watergirl. Well, mostly kidding. It’s tearing me up that you’re still mad at me.”
“Commit the crime, you pay the time,” she said loftily.
“Can I pay the time another way? What would it take for you to forgive me? Another embarrassing photo? I can talk to Kyle Young. Set something up, Crotch Buddy style, just for you.”
He could tell she was actually considering it…and finding pleasure in doing so. Finally, however, she just snorted. “Right. Like the added press from a shot like that would damage either one of your careers or reputations. The image of two of the hottest NFL players in anything remotely resembling a sexual position would probably spark more swooning than snickering.”
Heath grinned. “I’m flattered you think Kyle and I are two of the hottest players, but be honest, you think I’m hotter, right?”
She just raised a disdainful eyebrow.
Heath laughed then shook his head ruefully. “You know what, you should know you’re getting back at me even without another embarrassing crotch shot, Pollert. Because from the moment I saw you yesterday, you’re all I’ve been able to think about. All I want. I want this watergirl who doesn’t want me and I don’t know what I’m going to do about it.”
Camille looked taken aback by his words. Her face flushed, and he could see that she was trembling a little. Aware of the fact there were eyes on them, Heath didn’t touch her—but God how he wanted to.
“See you Sunday night in South Carolina, Watergirl. If you change your mind about a date before then, let me know.”
Chapter 5
Sunday night, Heath and his fellow Bootleggers were smack dab in the middle of the team’s first pre-season game. His head should have been completely focused on beating the other team, but he was finding it harder than ever to focus on the job. If Heath didn’t know any better, he’d think the opposing team had sent his favorite waterboy to stand on the sidelines and take photos just to distract him.
He couldn’t help but wonder what she was taking photos of each time he passed her by—in all fairness, her camera seemed focused on him a little more than the other players—and more than once he gave her a wave. She’d merely roll her eyes and continue doing her job, but he found himself wanting to rile her. Ruffle those pristine feathers that she’d created to hide herself after all of these years.
Today, she wore
simple black slacks and a pastel pink blouse, her hair pulled back into a neat bun. She wore little makeup, if she wore any at all. She didn’t have cleavage spilling out all over the place, or bright red lipstick staining her lips, or any of the usual tells that he could use to know if a woman wanted his attention. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Camille wanted him to ignore her completely.
Too bad that was the last thing on his mind.
“Hey, Watergirl, gonna get me wet?” he called to her as he passed her during a break in the first quarter.
“No thanks, Dawson. Get back to the game.” She kept snapping photos, walking around the Bootleggers’ side of the field.
“You sure? How’s about you come quench my thirst?” To his amusement, a flush crawled up her cheeks. She wanted to act like she didn’t care about what he was saying, but her body wouldn’t let her lie to him.
She brushed a few tendrils of hair from her forehead before her gaze landed on him. “Are you always this obnoxious with photographers, or am I special?”
“Oh, you’re very special, baby.” He came closer to her, until they weren’t even an arm’s length apart. “And I’d love to show you how special I can be with you.”
Her hands shook a little, and the blush on her cheeks had spread to her chest, just a peek of it visible above her blouse. She licked her lips, her voice breathy as she replied, “Once again: no thanks.” She pointed over his head, but he wouldn’t be distracted. “And you probably should pay attention to your job and let me do mine.”
“Watergirl, you don’t need to worry about me. I got it all under control.” He was already hard, but when her glance swept over him, he only grew that much harder. He wanted to take her into his arms, kiss her until she moaned against him, her body pliant and warm—