by Luis, Maria
A college professor of mine once spent an entire lecture arguing against the theory of eyes being the windows to the soul. Eyes deceive, he’d said, camera strap slung over one shoulder, but pictures . . . pictures reveal to us a person’s truth and what they value the most.
Based on the limited number of subjects within Levi’s pictures, it’s safe to say her life revolves around her son and this tiny town she left behind so many years ago. And a dog that’s nowhere to be seen.
Tearing my gaze away from a younger-looking Levi, rocking a cute pixie cut, I look to the kitchen. It opens into the living room, the latter of which leads directly to a set of wall-to-wall French doors.
The view of Frenchman Bay is what ultimately sold me on the 70s abomination next door, but here in Levi’s house, it’s a view like nothing else. No trees obstruct the sight of glistening, sapphire water. A brick-paved patio greets the eye, as does a hot tub and matching white outdoor furniture.
Either Levi knows someone who knows someone, who, in turn, clued her in about this property, or she got absurdly lucky and reappeared in town at just the right time.
Something tells me it’s the latter.
She seems like the sort of person blessed with good fortune at every corner.
Without a glance in my direction, Levi drops off the pizza on the marble-topped island. Humming beneath her breath—or cursing my very existence, more likely—she folds the damp towel over the back of a bar stool and spares me a quick, searching glance when she reaches for one of the top cabinets. The hem of her Tweety shirt inches high on the curve of her belly, her bare nipples poking the fabric mercilessly.
Stop noticing her nipples.
Easier said than done.
Uncomfortably aware of the same heat flooding my body as when she took a nosedive into my crotch, I check out the rest of the kitchen.
Force myself to think of something else—anything else—besides the fullness of her tits.
Plates. Plates are safe.
I snag the two she’s pulled out from the cabinet and set them down on the island, side by side. “When’d you move in?”
“You don’t seem like the type to actually enjoy small talk.”
Surprised by her astuteness, I watch as she shuts a drawer with her hip, utensils in hand. “You read minds, too, when you’re not coaching ball?”
“I wish. If I did, then I wouldn’t have to ask why you’re here.” It’s not exactly a question but I wasn’t born yesterday. She’s using her coach voice on me. It’s a completely different pitch than the bubbly enthusiasm that kept my ass glued to that bar stool at the Golden Fleece. I may not have thought it a good idea to go home and fuck her, but her good humor and quick wit had made it hard to walk away.
She’d . . . Well, not captivated me. She’d something’ed me. Something. Jesus fuck. Even in my own head, I sound like a verbally incompetent jock.
Oblivious to my inner word conundrum, Levi tacks on, “There’s no reason for you to be here right now. We both know you could have easily brought up our . . . neighborly living arrangements at practice tomorrow instead of swinging by today.”
Is that what being neighbors is called nowadays? Neighborly living arrangements—uttered in such distaste?
When she hops up on the far bar stool, taking her plate with her, I read the boundary she’s drawn loud and clear. Two stools down from her it is then. I flick open the pizza box to reveal America’s most valued treasure. Greasy, cheesy deliciousness. Without waiting to see if Levi will make a move first, I rip out two slices and plop them down on her plate.
Then do the same with mine, except I opt for three.
You don’t get to be six-six and almost three-hundred pounds of solid muscle by eating rabbit food all day.
Aware that she’s waiting for a reply, I snag napkins for each of us from the glass dispenser to my right. “Let’s put it this way,” I murmur, handing her two napkins, “small talk serves its purpose.”
“But you hate it.”
I study her. The way the ends of her blond hair are starting to dry and curl. How her lips are flat and uncompromising, but her blue eyes are lit with barely leashed curiosity. “Maybe I wanted to come over and discuss what we’re gonna do about the damage to my truck.”
She pauses for only a moment, biting into the tip of the pizza slice and moaning like the damn thing is the answer to all her prayers. Or my prayers.
Women who prefer to be called by their surname shouldn’t be allowed to moan like that.
They shouldn’t, but not two seconds pass before she does it again.
Blue eyes squeezed shut. Head tipped back in bliss. Those unrestrained tits of hers swaying under the loose fit of her tank top.
Jesus.
I shift my weight on the bar stool, angling my hips away from her. Harden my voice and pray that she’s so into the pizza that she won’t notice how much my dick is into those breathy sighs of hers. “You don’t believe me.”
“Believe that you’re here to demand that I pay up?” She cracks one eye open to stare me down. “Not even a little bit.”
I fold my pizza in half, lengthwise like a paper airplane, and take a bite. Chew. Swallow. “Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe I’m here because your kid hit my truck, and a paint job is gonna run me almost a grand, if not more.”
A telltale blush warms her cheeks. “I am sorry about what happened. Really. Topher is just—”
“A teenager. We’ll work out.” Forearms propped up on the counter, I cock my head to the side when I catch her sucking her bottom lip between her teeth. She looks like a woman trying to hold the words in. I wave at her. “Go ahead. Spit it out.”
Startled, her gaze snaps up to meet mine. “Spit what out?”
“All those thoughts you’re trying to hold under lock and key right now. I can see the wheels spinning.”
The blush staining her cheeks, though still there, takes a back seat to the glint in her blue eyes. Never once averting her gaze from my face, she says, “I just can’t help but get the feeling that you’re here because the whole town is buzzing about your arrival and you want to hide out with someone who doesn’t get a lady boner just by breathing the same air as you.”
Pizza halfway to my mouth, I freeze. Twist my head to get a real good look at the woman scarfing down God’s best creation like it’s her only job. “Did you just say—”
“Lady boner?” Wiping her hands on a napkin, she jumps off the stool and ambles toward the fridge. “I mean, I guess I could phrase it differently. Tingling nub, maybe. Swollen clit, for sure.” She snags the stainless-steel handle then props open the door with her hip. Two seconds later, she’s holding a bottle of water in each hand, one of which she deposits in front of me. “Don’t tell me you’ve never revved up a woman enough to know what I’m talking about.”
Revved up a woman . . .
Jesus fuck.
“Or maybe all the women you’ve slept with are too scared to clue you in that you’re doing something wrong,” Levi continues, unscrewing the bottle cap and taking a hearty swig. When she pulls it away, a bead of water glistens on her upper lip. She sucks it off with little aplomb. Then meets my gaze head-on. “I mean, if you’re sleeping with a famous person, it’s probably best to just lie back and think of England, especially if it sucks. Don’t want to hurt their fragile egos.”
“You’re insane.”
Another sip of water as she rakes her gaze down over my chest. “It’s only an opinion, Coach.” Her lips quirk up in a smug grin. “Sorta like the one you had about London having a taste for nepotism? Just like that.”
Silence permeates the kitchen, and then the sound of laughter bulldozes the quiet into smithereens.
The sound of my laughter.
It sets my chest ablaze, and hell, but it feels crazy good to let go and give in. The pizza’s tip droops like a wilted flower as I rub the back of my wrist against my face, right under my eye. Pretty sure I haven’t laughed this hard in ages. Years, maybe.
“Probably goes without saying that opinions are like assholes, everyone’s—”
“Got one?” she finishes for me, reaching into the open pizza box for another slice. She nabs her plate and doesn’t even bother to sit down as she digs right in, standing not two feet away from me. “Funny, I said the same thing to Topher’s dad when we divorced. He said it was in his right to play around outside our marriage. I told him to shove his opinion up his ass and sign the papers.”
Fucking prick.
Disgust swirls in my gut at her revelation. Sinks into my bones and reminds me of what little I know of my biological parents through court records. I let the past linger for barely a moment before I push aside the sympathy rising to the forefront, courtesy of her unexpected show of vulnerability. In my experience, people open up only so they can maneuver you to their liking.
Jaw clenched tight, I ask, “Why are you telling me this?”
She swallows her bite before washing it down with water. “You hate small talk. Figured we could go straight to a heart-to-heart.”
“If you think we’re gonna start braiding each other’s hair now that you’ve opened up . . .”
“Dom—can I call you Dom?”
I reach for my water bottle. “If it works for you.”
“Dom, then.”
She leaves her empty plate on the bar and, hips swinging with confidence, closes the gap between us. With me on the stool and her standing, we’re finally eye to eye. Close enough for me to spot the flecks of gray in her dark blue eyes. Close enough for me to see that her upper lip is perfectly imperfect with the faintest hairline scar piercing the bow.
If my aura was a bubble, it’d burst from her intrusion.
Pop.
Just. Like. That.
“Being a coach is nothing like playing the game.” Her hand lands on the counter, off to the side of my abandoned plate. “You hate small talk? Better get used to it because parents are going to expect it. You don’t feel comfortable with displays of vulnerability? Guess what. Every kid on your team is going to come to you with a problem.” She gets in my face, her slender shoulders heaving with a heavy, frustrated breath. “Maybe you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be in high school. Emotions are all over the place. Those kids still don’t know what they want out of life. They’re fighting for this dream and they expect to be led by someone who gives a damn about whether or not they achieve it.”
She’s not the only one feeling frustrated. And that little test she just put me through? The small-talk ploy? The ‘give a little piece of herself because she wanted to see how I’d respond’—all so she can damn me for not giving the answer she wants to hear?
Fuck this.
My body sways forward, utilizing my size—even though I’m still seated—to intimidate. With my anger leashed like a rabid dog collared to a junk yard, I grit out, “You don’t know me, Levi. One night at a pub and a day of practice doesn’t give you nearly enough time to learn what I give a damn about.”
Her chin hikes up defiantly. “I know enough.”
“From what?” I laugh, the sound so much harsher than the one from a few minutes ago. This one sounds like me. Cynical. Bitter. My hand closes into a fist that I press to my thigh. “Tabloid magazines? Rumors in a league that you have no connections to?”
“Rick Clarke.”
Surprise jerks my head back. “Pittsburgh’s GM?”
An emotion I can’t even begin to define sweeps over her delicate features. “My ex-husband.”
My gaze flicks to her ring finger. It’s bare. Probably should have been bare from the start, if I’m going for honesty here. I may not have the best history with women—uncomplicated one-night stands have always been my preferred level of non-commitment—but even I find Rick Clarke’s inability to keep his dick out of women who aren’t his wife completely revolting.
I knew he was married—but to Levi?
The pizza suddenly sits like toxic lead in my stomach.
I can’t even recall seeing a picture of her with Clarke at any time over the years. Then again, I’m not too surprised. Pittsburgh’s GM has long kept his family out of the limelight, actively touting his reasoning as a matter of separating business from personal. One time, not long after I retired from the NFL, he even flew to Sports 24/7 for an exclusive, sit-down interview about the toll the game of football has on its families, and how the rush of the celebrity-like lifestyle does more damage than good.
I know I’m not the only one who chalked up Clarke’s silver-tongued speech about “putting family first” to be nothing but bullshit.
Clarke’s extramarital affairs weren’t a secret to anyone in the league, even to those of us who played for different teams. But knowing that he spouted all that nonsense while his wife was Levi? It’s a tough fucking pill to swallow.
Aspen Clarke, not Levi.
While it’s possible I’ve come across her married name before, it’s not as though I make it a habit to hang out with scumbags like her ex-husband.
One look at her face now reveals nothing. No sign of vulnerability for miles around.
Temper held in check, I lower my voice. “I’m nothing like your ex.”
Clarke and I exist on two different planes. The man might be a beneficial asset to the Steelers, but he lacks all human decency. The team keeps him around because he brings results. Women flock to him because he dotes on them with elaborate gifts and cars, all in exchange for getting his dick wet.
That Levi fell for his ploys, too, is a little disappointing.
“You are,” she counters with a shake of her head. “Maybe you don’t screw everything that moves. Maybe you’re better with your money than he’ll ever be. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re on the run, and that’s typical Rick behavior. You came to Maine because you want out of Hollywood, just like you came here because you didn’t want to deal with locals asking you questions. You don’t want small talk. You don’t want to listen to their stories or hear about how football has changed their lives, how meeting you might be something momentous for them.”
The vehemence in her tone stiffens my spine. “Aside from the fact that we work together”—and live next door to each other, apparently—“I don’t see how any of that affects you.”
“I divorced Rick, and he and I were married.” Her blue eyes zero in on me, and I’m almost surprised I don’t erupt into flames where I sit. “But you and me? We don’t have a single bond tying us together, and we sure as hell aren’t married. Don’t think I won’t hesitate to find a way to get rid of you if you can’t be the coach those boys deserve.”
Jesus, this woman.
Bubbly and happy one moment, ready to slit my neck in the next.
It’s enough to give a guy mental whiplash.
“Your lack of faith in me is almost inspiring,” I grind out, already shifting off my stool. Getting in her space. Forcing her to back up or risk a collision that she’ll never win.
She glares up at me, her hands curled into tight fists down by her sides. “I don’t see the point in stroking your ego when you have so many other people lining up to do the job.”
I drop my head, my mouth finding her ear amidst all that damp, curly blond hair. “Less than a week ago you were more than willing to stroke something else of mine.”
I hear her stifled growl, just before she turns her head to meet my gaze. Our noses bump and still neither of us jerks away. “Less than a week ago,” she mutters, her focus momentarily derailed by the proximity of my mouth, “I thought you were a random guy in a bar. Not my assistant.”
Assistant.
I bet she loves thinking of me like that. At her beck and call. Her subordinate. Bending over backward to tick off all the little check marks on her endless task list.
My finge
rs dart up, instinctively finding the thin strap of her tank top. Whereas she just smothered that growl of hers, the same can’t be said for the way she gasps now at the sensation of my rough fingers brushing her soft skin. I glide my thumb along the strap, moving north over the swell of her cleavage and the delicate jut of her collarbone. Her breath catches as I flick the strap down, exposing her shoulder entirely.
To torment her.
Or maybe to torment us both.
It would be so easy to coast my fingers over her pale flesh and follow behind with the imprint of my kiss on her skin. Even easier to back her up against the kitchen island, my body caging hers, as I swallow her anger with my mouth slanted over hers and my hands tangled in her untamed hair.
The old me would have no problems taking what I want; no thoughts to the potential consequences of my actions. What I wanted, I took. What I needed, I stole. And what I craved, I devoured.
Except that I’ve worked long and hard to see that the old me is dead.
The old me that maybe once looked a little like Rick Clarke.
Dammit.
Self-disgust puts me on the retreat. With a dismissive wave at the kitchen island, I mutter, “Keep the rest of the pizza for when Topher comes home.”
Cornering Levi was a power-play move on my part. A calculated reminder that she may be walking around with Head Coach printed on the back of her Wildcats polo but I’m no wimpy, pushover assistant. I won’t jump because she asked me to. I won’t roll over like a good dog simply because she barked out an order.
My attempt at regaining control backfired.
I’m the one dragging much-needed air into my lungs to extinguish the fog of unwanted lust. My fingers are curling in and stretching out, like I’m desperate to hear that soft gasp in my ear all over again. To say nothing of the state of my hard dick, which I do my best to hide by twisting my body away to face the hallway.
I’ve got to get the hell out of here.
One step toward freedom.
And yet another.
“DaSilva.”
DaSilva, not Dominic or even Dom.
I cut a sharp glance over my shoulder, only to see her fiddling with the strap of her tank. It’s exactly where I left it, hanging loosely down by her elbow and narrowly exposing more than just her cleavage. Shock kicks me square in the gut when I catch sight of the intense look on her face while she stares down at the fabric. Her expression is otherwise unreadable, but the slight tremble in her hands?
