“All right, future wifey, you ready to play pretend?”
She straightens my tie and meets my eyes with a fiercely charged look of confidence I’ve never seen on her before. “Are you?”
FIVE — Frankie
I’ve never really thought of myself as a particularly sexy woman. Growing up, I was constantly called a tomboy or one of the guys. Now I’m standing here in a pair of six hundred-dollar wedges and a Dolce & Gabbana sundress that cost who knows how much. (Erica had me swiping Leo’s platinum card so wildly, I lost track. Oops!) I feel out of place, uncertain in the heels and nervous that my boobs are too exposed, weighed down by heavy makeup and freshly dyed hair.
Something about him, though, the way he looks at me. That goddamn athlete charm. Why do they all have this uncanny ability to throw you one captivating look and suddenly make you feel like you’re the sexiest thing they’ve ever seen? I know firsthand from my college football-playing ex that it’s how they get you where they want you, and they want you in bed.
At this point, though, I’ll take the confidence boost. God knows I’m going to need it standing in front of a press conference in the Riders’ stadium. Especially if I’m trying to sell myself as Leo Sterling’s supportive and loving, if totally fake, bride-to-be.
“Remember.” Ryan Kingsley puts one of his clammy hands on each of our shoulders. “You two are madly in love.” He turns to me. “You know about the strip club. You’re fine with it. You forgive him and love him and support him no matter what. You’ll never leave his side.”
Something in his tone seems to mock the very concept of love, as if it’s all just pretend. Maybe it is.
I push thoughts of love and heartbreak away and remind myself that this is a job. A necessary evil that’s going to get me a hell of a lot closer to reaching my goals. I hold my chin up, press my shoulders back, and try not to melt as the warmth of Leo’s strong arm wraps around my shoulders. I look up at him, and his smile sends a fleet of butterflies swirling through my stomach.
The lights burn my eyes when we walk into the press room, and I curse the man named Jimmy Choo as my ankles shake like a newborn colt’s in these crazy wedges. I lift my gaze to find an overwhelming array of cameras and microphones, suspended from booms and cords, gliding around above us, flashing in my face.
“You look beautiful. Don’t stress, kiddo.” Leo holds me steady, and I dream about my body melting into his strong, comforting embrace. But I stand tall, toying with the sweet plastic ring on my finger, trying not to pretend, for just one split second, that he is really mine.
SIX — Leo
Here we fucking go. Cameras, lights, microphones, big-mouthed reporters examining my every move, waiting for a headline-worthy fault to blow wildly out of proportion. Despite what people may think about my occasional cocky attitude and playful arrogance, this is actually the part of being a pro athlete that I hate the most. The field? That’s home. When the crowd blurs and the noise disappears and it’s just me, my team, and my opponents? That’s my job, and it’s the greatest thing on earth. But this sucking up to the media and maintaining some imaginary status as a public figure…this stresses me out.
Frankie and I walk arm in arm up to the podium. I glance at her and notice her wince with every blinding flash. She is holding her head high, but I feel her leaning into me for support. She could lean more, if she wanted to. She could fall into my arms in a sexy heap of white lace and soft skin and that would be just fine.
The air in the press room is icy, but adrenaline courses through me and keeps my body numb as we reach the podium. I nod and put on what I hope is my most-mature, least-douchebag-y smile. Before I can even open my mouth to make a statement, questions start firing.
“Mr. Sterling! Is it true you are conspiring against your own team with members of your biggest rivals?”
The fuck? How does me going to a buddy’s bachelor party mean I’m conspiring against my team?
I lean into the mic and resent the fact that Ryan’s moronic alliteration plays in the back of my mind. Be sweet, be sorry, be sincere. That man belongs in an asylum.
“No, uh, that is definitely not true,” I say through a pained laugh. Shit! Why am I laughing? Everything is frozen, and I have no fucking clue what to say. What an absurd question. I clear my throat and feel a tight squeeze on my bicep. In a panic, I turn to Frankie. She leans up and kisses me on the cheek, sending extremely untimely sparks through me. What the hell is she doing?
Right as her lips pull away from my face, she whispers into my ear through a clenched smile, “Loyal to your friends.”
I turn back to the mic and, miraculously, eloquent words start to tumble out of my mouth. “Dominic Cassano may be the quarterback of our rival team, but he is also my lifelong friend. I consider loyalty to be a really important value, and keeping up that friendship is a huge deal to me. We played ball together at Clemson, won the national championship twice, and made some invaluable memories. Marriage is a serious and…” I turn and smile lovingly at my pretend fiancée. Fuck, yes, I’m really selling this. “An incredible commitment, and I was doing nothing but celebrating this big moment in the life of one of my best friends. I can assure you, there was no conspiring.”
Relief washes over me like a tidal wave. She really saved my ass on that one.
“Mr. Sterling!” An overly aggressive woman dressed like Hillary Clinton pushes past reporters and cameramen, thrusting her microphone in my direction. “Mr. Sterling, who is the mystery woman standing next to you? Is it true that you are engaged?”
Thank fuck, easy question. I wrap my arm around Frankie’s shoulders and force an obnoxiously pussified giggle. “The cat’s out of the bag, I suppose.” Jesus Christ, when did I become a forty-year-old dad who wears cargo shorts and says things like the cat’s out of the bag? Whatever. The more wholesome and pathetic I seem, the more likely people are to believe I decided to settle down and commit at twenty-eight, disgustingly too young.
I pull her close. “This is Frankie Monroe, aka Mrs. Leo Sterling-to-be. We’re so stoked to finally tell the world that we’re engaged.”
She flips her hair behind her shoulders and beams at me. She’s a great actress. If I ever do decide to get married, maybe when I’m, like, fifty, I hope that woman looks at me the way Frankie is pretending to right now.
“Ms. Monroe! Ms. Monroe!” A chorus of voices shout out pleas for her attention. They can’t ask her questions, can they?
The room becomes quiet, and one reporter frantically yells out a question. “Ms. Monroe, how do you feel about the fact that your recent fiancé was getting a lap dance from a stripper just a few weeks ago? Do you feel that was unfaithful?”
This is fucking ridiculous. My eyes rapidly scan the room, and just as I start praying to a God I’m not sure I believe in, I feel her warm skin against my hand, nudging me a couple of inches to the side, and suddenly her sexy pink lips are dangerously close to the microphone.
“Actually, no, not at all.” Frankie’s voice is steady and confident, but still so sweet. “Forget the fact that my fiancé’s personal nightlife is entirely nobody’s business but his, I knew exactly where he was that night. I encouraged him to go. Lifelong friendships are so important to me, and I know how excited he is that Dom and Rebecca tied the knot. Unfaithful? No. It’s a strip club! Hell, I would have joined them if I didn’t have plans of my own that night.” She chuckles and winks at me, and I try to pick my jaw up off the floor. That undeniably sexy tomboy thing has me weak in the knees. Could she be any cooler?
With her in command of the podium, I feel extremely chill. If she wants to do the talking, I can easily just stand here and look pretty. I’m finding it kinda difficult to pry my eyes off of her, but who cares? We’re supposed to be in love, right?
Like a total dumbass, I get lost in her pouty lips and inviting cleavage as she’s leaning over to reach the mic. I snap out of it and face the crowd just in time to hear the next question.
“Ms. Monroe
, why have you and Leo been hiding your relationship for so long?”
Frankie laces her arm through mine. “Our lives are personal. The spotlight of media and press can put a huge strain on a relationship, and we didn’t want to fall victim to that.”
The reporter follows up. “Does it bother you that Mr. Sterling didn’t want to open up to the public about having a serious girlfriend?”
“No, sir, it doesn’t. But I’ll tell you what does bother me. When my future husband, one of the best receivers in the NFL, missed a wide-open touchdown pass in the fourth quarter of last week’s scrimmage because he was too preoccupied worrying about public opinion and what the news was saying about him and his personal life.”
She watches our scrimmage games? And remembers specific plays and passes I missed?
“Leo is dedicated to football,” Frankie continues. “As I hope you would all want him to be. The privacy of our relationship was a mutual decision to avoid distractions and intrusiveness.”
How the hell does she know about that play? Shit, this girl really is a die-hard Riders fan.
Another question flies her way, and she glances over at me with a silly smile, almost like she’s actually kind of enjoying this?
“Can we see the ring?” someone shouts out. Oh shit. Can’t wait to see how she worms her way out of this one. This girl’s almost a better bullshitter than I am, and that’s definitely saying something. At this point, any shred of worry I had is gone, and I’m mostly just amused by her, feeling excited to hear what ridiculously flawless sentence is going to pour out of her mouth next.
“The ring that Leo gave me is absolutely priceless.” She is about to hold up the little toy Super Bowl ring, and suddenly my dad’s voice slams into my brain. That ring is too special. It can’t be made into some kind of public joke.
I grab the base of the mic and chime in. “Oh, trust me, it has a price, and there were quite a few zeros on the end of it.” I laugh and grab Frankie’s left hand behind the podium, slipping the plastic ring off her finger and into my pocket. “Sadly, it’s at the jeweler being resized right now. Someone’s fingers are just too tiny and perfect.”
Sighs and awwws emanate from the crowd.
Frankie is clearly confused, but plays along.
The press conference ends in a blur, and we shuffle off of the little stage and back into the prep room. Frankie swings the door open and bounces in with a hilarious amount of confidence, considering it is a men’s locker room. She plops down on a bench and begins to untie the strappy high-heel things as if she’s mad at them, groaning over her foot pain through a bubbly laugh.
Before I can find the words to tell her how fucking dope she was back there, Ryan waltzes in with a dry forehead and unstained pits. Always a good sign.
He points to Frankie. “You saved his ass. You saved all our asses.” He shifts his gaze to me. “You better kiss the fucking ground she walks on, Sterling, because you just went from hated, sleazy playboy to the poster child of monogamy in fifteen minutes flat.” Ryan lets out an almost maniacal laugh—I swear he could be a Disney villain—and walks out of the locker room, pressing his phone to his ear.
I turn to Frankie. “You are…”
“Brilliant? Amazing? So persuasive it’s almost a little scary?” She tosses the bizarre shoes onto the floor and kicks her bare feet up on the bench in front of her.
“I owe you, like for real.” I sit down next to her, and she instantly drops her delicate and perfect little feet into my lap.
“Massage these, and we’ll be even.”
I laugh and, without hesitation, begin to knead her sore arches. I don’t usually give foot massages unless I know I’m getting laid, but fuck, she deserves it. Not to mention that the idea of making her feel some sort of pleasure isn’t exactly unappealing.
“Being sexy is torture,” she whines, totally relaxed on the locker room bench, rubbing her temples with her fingers. My eyes drift to the lacy white sundress, the way the hem has slid up her thighs, only a few silky inches from her panties. I let myself admire her sexy thighs and wonder what kind of perfection sits between them—and can’t help but smile as I remember that this body is attached to a brain that cares so deeply about scrimmage games.
I better be careful.
SEVEN — Frankie
I take a deep breath and relax into the grimy bench, relishing the giddy cloud of success that fills the locker room. My feet are killing me from those medieval torture devices disguised as shoes, and it’s only now occurring to me that this thousand-dollar sundress might not be machine washable. I push away the feeling that I’m wearing a costume, pretending to be someone else, and shift my focus to the commanding yet gentle hands that hold my aching feet. I notice his muscular forearms, the way his pale blue button-down hugs his chest and biceps.
He eyes my legs for a long second, but I pretend not to notice. I wish he would move his fingers up. Lightly touch higher and higher until those hands are exactly where they belong.
Stop it, Frankie! He’s just a sexy, cocky athlete. Who’s touching me and looking at me and…seeing me. I can’t let these pretend feelings get to my head. He’s just being nice, that’s all.
Afraid the goose bumps he sends swirling across my skin with every touch might be noticeable, I pull my legs back and stand up.
“Well, good fucking job, kiddo. I don’t know what else to say. You completely blew my mind back there.” Leo stands, still so dangerously close to me. I have to stop myself from making an only partially sarcastic remark about something else I’d like to blow and opt for the oh-so-platonic high five.
I slide my feet, still tingling from his touch, back into the strappy wedges and follow Leo’s lead out of the locker room. He puts his hand on the swinging door and pauses, turning to me.
“Turn wife mode back on. They’re all gonna be out there with cameras.”
“They follow us to the car? Christ.” I lace my fingers through his.
“That was it, babe. You’ve enjoyed your last moments of true privacy for the foreseeable future. Welcome to my world, Frankie Monroe.”
With that, he swings the door wide open and tightens his grip on my hand. The South Florida summer sunshine bakes into my skin, and lines of recording equipment and cameras beep and flash on either side of us. I gently lift my free hand and wave, unable to hold back a laugh at the ridiculousness of the whole situation.
“I feel like the damn Queen of England!” I shout to Leo over the noise.
“Yeah? Well, you look a lot better.”
Those deep sexy brown eyes are fixated on me, and I nearly trip in the stupid Jimmy things as the intensity of his gaze sends shivers down my spine.
The sun sends a blinding reflection on Leo’s jet-black Mercedes convertible, which cost easily a hundred and fifty grand. The cameras’ prying lenses follow us as we approach the car.
He leans in next to me, his perfect mouth just inches from my ear. “Now we gotta really sell it.”
I nod at our intertwined hands. “We are selling it.”
“No way.” He slips his fingers out of mine as we reach the car. Suddenly, both of his hands are on my waist as he pulls me directly in front of him, lifting my hips slightly and pressing his body into mine, gently pinning me against the car.
Before I have a chance to react, his lips are touching mine. Soft and sweet, but still with enough force to make it impossible to think or breathe or do anything but kiss him back. He tastes like mint and sunshine and…sex.
Clinging to his biceps, I hear a soft whimper escape from my throat, and that just seems to make him press a little harder. Sliding a hand under my hair, he angles my head, deepens the kiss, and glides his tongue along my teeth.
In the distance, I hear noise from our audience, a hoot, a holler, but blood is thumping in my head as it rushes to collide with the hormones that have come out to play. Hard.
He lets out something that falls between a groan and a soft laugh, the rumble from his chest mak
ing my toes curl in the miserable sandals. But I don’t feel the pain. I don’t feel anything but a weird floaty sensation and a hot thread of arousal curling through my body. And…the sweet, surprising pressure as he grows harder against me. Everything tightens and tenses and aches for more. More of his mouth, his hands, his—
Leo reluctantly pulls his mouth away and presses his forehead against mine. “They’re loving this.” He seems so collected and levelheaded, but what I feel pushing into me implies that the gripping attraction is at least a little two-sided, right?
“We have to sell it just a little bit more,” I mumble, before enough blood comes back into my brain to stop the desperate words from slipping out.
He tightens his grip around my waist, and I feel his thumbs on my hip bones, drawing waves of goose bumps all the way up my thighs. “Whatever you say, kid.” He bites his lip and kisses me again, harder this time. The heat of his body burns against my chest, hotter than the scorching black car behind me.
Sense and logic finally slam into my brain, and I slide out of his commanding grasp. Quickly walking to the passenger’s side of the car, I clutch the overpriced brown bag and whip the door open.
Leo climbs into the driver’s seat and glances at me. “I could have done that for you.”
“Done what?” I snap, my head still swirling with adrenaline and hormones.
“The car door,” he says slowly, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Oh. Well.” I collect myself, crossing my legs and brushing imaginary dirt off of the front of my dress. “I’ll have to get used to all this chivalry.”
Leo chuckles as he puts his right hand on the passenger’s seat headrest, turning around to back the car out.
“You excited to see your new home, honey?”
I run my fingers across the elaborate leather stitching on the inside of the car door. If this is his car, I can’t even imagine what the house is going to be like.
Wild Ride (South Florida Riders Book 1) Page 3
