by Luis, Maria
The paper towel drags down over my profile, skimming my hairline where the worst of the bronzer mishap is. “It’s makeup. Water . . . water alone won’t remove it.”
“I added soap.”
Three words that somehow gut me where I stand. He keeps the distance between us, our chests not even coming remotely close to touching. Neither do our feet. And yet, it feels as though we’re tethered together as one anyhow. I breathe in and he expels the breath for me, ruffling my baby hairs that never take to my natural curl. His fingers graze my skin, and mine twitch of their own volition.
His touch remains gentle but his eyes . . .
Cynicism stares back at me, so much so that I can’t help but wonder how he remains standing from the weight of it. Even after my divorce, I’ve retained a certain level of hope. Inner peace. Perhaps it’s the mom in me—as lost as I’ve felt over the years, I’ve always had Topher as my due north. Letting my baby boy see my turmoil has never, ever been an option. No matter how bad things got with Rick.
“You’re mad at me.”
He doesn’t dispute my claim.
Dark eyes meet mine, then skip away.
I try again, wishing he would actually look at me and keep on looking. “I’m sorry for being late. I asked my sister to pick Topher up from Kevin’s house. Kevin from the team, I mean. Mistake number one, and that’s on me. She forgot him and when he called, I was getting ready and now this—” I wave a hand at my face, careful of his working fingers. “I feel like I’m having an amateur moment when that’s so far from the truth.”
“Bet you got a lot of practice with socializing after being Rick’s wife.”
I almost snort out loud. “One would think.”
“What do you think?”
“I think Rick likes having young women as arm candy. He likes it when the relationship is new and exciting, and there’s nothing he enjoys more than waltzing into a party with a woman who turns heads and stops other men in their tracks.” I had stopped men, too, but not because of my looks. In the beginning, Rick loved to brag about me playing football to anyone who would listen. In the beginning, it felt less like I was a freak-show case he paraded around and more like I was the mother of his child who he felt remarkably proud of.
Unfortunately, beginnings never last forever.
Staring at the shallow dimple in Dominic’s chin, I continue, “Once I wasn’t as young anymore, and my body not nearly the same as it had been before giving birth to Topher, he drew the curtain closed on socializing hour. For me, at least. He never stopped going out.”
Dominic’s voice emerges as pure gravel when he orders: “Close your eyes for me.”
My lids flutter shut on command. The rough pads of his fingers curl under my chin, lifting it up, as he carefully drags the paper towel over the most sensitive part of my face. Did Rick ever touch me so gently? So carefully? It hurts to answer the question, even to myself: No. Not even in those early days of our marriage, when everything smelled like roses and looked like unicorns, and he was still enamored with the idea of being with a woman who had fans fawning over her. Then the fans quieted the longer I was out of the game, and he grew to hate everything that made me me: my short hair and my lack of curves and my brash opinions.
“For the record, I’m not mad at you for being late. Annoyed? Yeah. Did I feel out of my comfort zone? Yeah, I’m man enough to admit it.”
Something in Dominic’s tone sends a shiver skittering down my spine. If he feels the tremor, he doesn’t bring it up.
I swallow past the lump in my throat, my eyes still closed. “The calendar.”
I sense the shift in his breathing. It comes a little faster, a little heavier, as it falls across my temple. “Like you, I took this job for a fresh start. You’re back here because you divorced Rick and want a bite of the familiar. I’m here because I’m tired of pretending to be someone I’m not.”
“Who’s that?” The light behind my lids turns darker—a bruised purple—like Dominic has stepped directly in front of me and cut off my access to the rest of the bathroom.
The hand cupping the back of my head slips south, to where my neck and shoulder meet. Squeezes once. In warning? Lust?
“Gonna have to take a pass on answering. I’m not looking to be that vulnerable.”
“I call bullshit.”
His thumb traces my collarbone, exposed by my lace top. “Maybe it’s not.”
“Maybe you cornered me in this bathroom because you were actually worried about me.” I saw his text asking if Topher and I were okay. Heard the concern through his written words, even if he’ll never voice them out loud. Perhaps it’s the fact that I can’t see him that revs up my boldness, but I decide to call him out on the tangible tension radiating between us. He can pretend all he wants, but there’s no way I’m the only one feeling this—this heat that just won’t quit. “Could it be that you’re regretting your decision to not . . . take me home the night we met?”
The gentle tracing stops.
As does my heart.
I blink open my eyes, unwilling to forego the opportunity to study his expression.
Stillness.
It’s the only word that comes to mind looking up at him now. He’s as still, as unmoving, as a glass pond.
Then I meet his gaze, and I feel as though I’ve been launched into a pit of flickering flames. Heat scorches my skin, tugging my knees together. My sex clenches—and though I try to remain perfectly still and wait out his response, my hips give the smallest roll. Needy. Wanting. The paper towel isn’t as damp as it was at first touch, but I still seek it out with an almost keening desperation to ease the fire flaming to life beneath my skin.
I want Dominic—I admit it.
I wanted him that first night we met here at the Golden Fleece and, standing here now with my body caged between his and the mirror, I want him even more.
With the damp paper towel acting as a barrier, he smooths his thumb over my upper lip, directly over the hairline scar that gives my smile a crooked flare. He drops his heated gaze to my mouth, to the slope of my neck, then traces the same well-traveled path back up again. To my disappointment, he curls his hand into a fist—the one that’s been teasing me with caresses that make me want to nip his thumb playfully—and plants it on the mirror above my head. As though dug up from the rubble of the pits of hell itself, he growls, “I don’t eat where I shit.”
Do not be disappointed. He’s thinking clearly and you’re thinking with your . . .
My vagina. There, I said it. I’ve been thinking with what’s in my panties. Oh, God, I’m turning into Willow.
I draw in a sharp breath. Then, just to needle him, and to get under his skin the way he’s done to me, I tease, “Appropriate analogy, given where we are.”
He doesn’t laugh, not that I expected him to, but his mouth softens.
Success.
I push him again, just to see if he’ll break. “I know we’re all about opinions around here”—I peek up at him, hoping he’ll recall the conversation we had at my house, but no, this joke doesn’t make the cut—“but I think what you need is a night of fun. An orgasm would probably do it for you.”
“Levi.”
“Okay, no orgasms. Your loss.” Another blinding smile. I’m not above hoping he doesn’t notice that I’m still struggling to regain my composure. I want to feel his fingers caressing my face again. I want to know if, had I said nothing at all, he would have taken it one step further. Boob touching. Man, he’s got good-size hands, too. It’d be a perfect fit. Focus. Focus. “Mini-golf?”
Aha! A twitch of the lips, like he thinks I’m crazy.
He’s probably right.
“Great,” I murmur, “because I have the best cure for your brooding ailment. In case you’re wondering about what ailment I’m referring to . . .”
“I’m not.”
“You’re no fun.”
A real grin this time. Good Lord, he needs to warn a woman before unleashing that bad b
oy on humankind. Dangerously sexy. It’s all I can do not to grasp the collar of his dress shirt and beg him to reconsider—even though I won’t ever do that. I spent years begging Rick for scraps of attention. If I learned no other lesson from my marriage, it’s that begging gets you nothing. Not affection, not your freedom, and certainly not a divorce.
“I believe that’s why you’re offering me a cure,” Dominic replies, his voice still low, still growly, but not nearly as angry, “because I’m in need of some fun.”
He still hasn’t pocketed that smile of his, nor has he removed his arm from above my head. I’m entirely surrounded. By his heat, his masculine scent, by that smile that shines a little too bright and renders me mute.
Aware that my response is slow on the uptake, I laugh awkwardly. “You’re right.” Sorry, don’t mind me. I was just momentarily struck dumb by your smile. Squeezing my eyes shut, I recapture my equilibrium. “Sunday, 1 p.m. You and Topher are going mini-golfing together.”
I duck under his muscular arm before he can reject the offer.
“With Topher?” he asks my back, the curiosity evident in his voice.
I glance over my shoulder to stare at him. “My baby boy’s my secret weapon. There’s not a single day that he doesn’t make me almost pee myself laughing. If there’s anyone out there in the world that can make you ditch the pissed-off vibes, it’ll be him. Plus, how bad of a time can it possibly be? You’ll probably beat his score with your hands tied behind your back.”
“Levi, I don’t have—”
“You dragged me into a men’s bathroom, Dominic.”
He shifts his weight, then spirals the paper towel into the wastebasket.
A perfect shot.
Shocker.
“I did you a favor.”
I lift a brow. “Sure, but not until after you let me walk around like that for thirty minutes and didn’t say a word.”
The grin he gives me then makes me want to flick it right off his face, sexiness be damned. “Consider it karma for standing me up.”
“There’s something seriously wrong with you.”
“You’re not the first person to think so, Coach.” He says the nickname with emphasis, as though trying to redraw the lines between us. I wonder if it makes him feel any more in control than he did two seconds ago, when his fingers were brazenly caressing my face.
His long legs cross the distance over to me, his hand already reaching for the door above my head. Before he leaves, though, he pauses at my side. Lingers for a second too long to make me think he’s wanting a casual hug goodnight, especially when we still have to go back and mingle with the parents who have come out to talk to us tonight.
Still, I wait him out.
Force him to open up and say something. Anything.
Then, “Don’t ever offer me up again like I’m some sort of bargaining chip, Levi. And I’m not talking about the calendar—I’m a coach, just like you. I want what’s best for the boys, just like you. Don’t use me as a way to get the results you want, even if it’s only parents showing up for a meeting. If you do . . .” He lets the warning dangle like a ticking time bomb between us.
“I’m sorry for that,” I say with full sincerity.
He nods shortly.
Before he can make his exit, I give him a piece of his own medicine: “Don’t ever touch me like you did tonight unless you plan to do something about it.” At the sharp twist of his head in my direction, I angle my chin defiantly and give voice to the words that have lain dormant within me for far too long. “I’m not a toy. Not anyone else’s and definitely not yours.”
I stick my hand out.
He hesitates for only a moment before agreeing to the verbal deal by shaking my hand.
Later that night, back at home, I scrub my hands in hot water. It’s either get rid of the brand of his touch or savor it all night like an idiot with a new crush. And after falling for Rick so swiftly—before watching my life implode in front of my eyes—I refuse to make the same mistake again.
Fool me once, shame on you.
Fool me twice . . . yeah, well, we all know how the saying goes.
Shame on me.
14
Dominic
I wake to the sound of fists pounding on my front door.
It’s early. Too goddamn early for visitors.
Wait.
Since when do I have visitors in London?
Squeezing my lids shut against the light seeping in through the blinds, I reach blindly for my phone off the coffee table. My palm hits the TV remote, then accidentally tips over the plastic container that was topped off with chocolate chip cookies just last night—binging Cake Wars is not conducive to healthy eating—and, finally, lands on my phone.
More eager knocking pops off like rounds of gunfire as I bring the phone close to my nose and peer at the screen with only one eye open.
Eight in the morning.
Whoever’s at my door has a death wish.
I roll onto my side, feet landing on the floor with a heavy thud, and take my sorry ass to the entryway. Knuckling aside the blinds, I spot Topher standing on my front stoop. His fingers are looped around the padded straps of his backpack, and he’s bouncing from foot to foot like he can’t be bothered to tamp down his excess energy.
Sunday. Mini-golf.
Shit.
Fully prepared to do whatever I can to keep that smile plastered on the kid’s face, I yank open the door and drop my shoulder to the frame. Cover my mouth to shield the yawn threatening to make an appearance.
“Teenagers are supposed to sleep in,” I tell him, softening my tone and hoping I don’t sound like a gruff bastard. Mornings have never been my thing, not when I was in the NFL or when I worked for Sports 24/7. Not even a week of morning practices with the Wildcats has managed to do away with my bad habits yet. “Thought your mom told me we were going for one today?”
Topher only tightens his grip on the backpack straps. “I may have been a little excited.”
“To play me in mini-golf?”
“To whip your ass.”
I let out a bark of laughter. “I specifically remember your mom saying something about no cursing.”
“Whip your butt. How’s that?”
“Yeah, that’ll work.” The kid has spunk, I won’t deny that. Pressing a finger to the awful, yellow-colored door that is in serious need of a repaint, I push it open another few inches. “You wanna come in and hang out while I shower real fast? If not, I’ll come by and let you know when we’re ready to roll out. I wasn’t expecting you so early this morning.”
I haven’t even finished talking before Levi’s son is already ducking under my arm and letting himself into my place. “I’ve been dying to know what this house looks like on the inside.” He turns in a half-circle, eyes critically surveying the eyesore of a living room. “I was expecting cobwebs.”
Ironic. I’d been expecting dildos hanging from the ceiling after the realtor sent the listing over to me last month. Aisha Smarts had promised the house would be a labor of love—the understatement of the year, in my opinion. This place needs less love and more demolition. I’m pretty sure there’s mold growing under the nasty pink carpet.
Nothing wads of cash and my buddy Nick Stamos can’t fix, though.
“This place is going to look great soon enough.” I point to the far wall that’s currently nothing but rotted wood paneling. “Floor-to-ceiling bookcase right there,” I tell the kid. “It’s gonna be a showstopper. And the ceiling is tall enough for a ladder, too, so we’ll go all out.”
“We?”
“Well, me and a buddy of mine, Nick. He does construction down in Boston.” He was also the only guy on Put A Ring On It that I felt any compulsion to befriend. The rest of my castmates were nothing but gossip-toting crybabies. Having come from a team environment in football—all dudes, all the time for over ten years—I’d had similar expectations for the men who showed up for filming. I couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s
not every day a guy shows up in a dinosaur onesie looking for true love. “I’m good enough with putting things together or tearing stuff out”—I tap the laminate floor with my bare foot, indicating that it too will be stripped from the house—“but in no way am I a designer or a visionary. Not like him.”
Topher nods like that makes a whole lot of sense. “Oh, right.”
Part of me can’t help but wonder how much of a role Topher’s dad has played in his life. Everyone in the league is fully aware of Rick’s reputation. After all, the guy’s been with the Steelers for nearly twenty years now . . . which has got to put him in his fifties, at least.
And a good deal older than Levi.
Was that part of his allure for her when they first hooked up? An older man paying a small-town girl a bit of attention, enough to sweep her off her feet and promise a world of fairytales? Being married to a man like Clarke . . . it must have been hell. Even my limited interactions with the guy have been less than stellar.
Back when my contract was up with Tampa Bay and I hadn’t resigned yet, Rick Clarke pushed hard to get me in with Pittsburgh. He promised me all sorts of shit if I agreed to the trade: a Lamborghini as soon as I signed on the dotted line, exclusive access to women he promised were virgins, and the chance to come on the team as captain, never mind the fact that Pittsburgh as a team—and as a city—adored their quarterback captain, Jesse Evans.
I turned Rick down as soon as the email popped up in my inbox.
Call me an asshole, spread rumors that I’m lacking in the emotional department—I don’t care. It’s not as if those accusations are entirely unfounded. But don’t ever think, for even a second, that I can be bought . . . or that I’m willing to loosen my morals for the sake of fame and fortune. Fuck that.
With Rick Clarke for a father, it’s clear to me that Levi is to thank for Topher’s good demeanor. His kindness, which is evident every day at practice when he seeks out the kids who haven’t had any luck making friends yet. His dry humor, which has his mama written all over it.
