My girl beams. “Sure, Gabriella!”
“It’s after school. My dad is taking me. Can you come with me?”
Abby swivels around. “Can I go? She said her class is doing balance beam, and I really love doing the beam. Please, please, please.”
And the monkey bread afternoon falls by the wayside. “Of course, little bear. But I bet you don’t have a leotard, so why don’t I drop one off for you after my yoga session?”
She snickers, then turns to Gabriella. “I call him Daddy Yoga, like Baby Yoda from The Mandalorian,” she whispers to Gabriella.
The little brunette giggles.
“Bring leotard I will,” I say in my best Yoda voice.
Both girls laugh, but then Abby smacks her forehead. “I have a leotard! There’s one in my bag from my last class. And we can make monkey bread when I get home.”
“Seems you have the whole afternoon planned.”
Abby smiles proudly. “I do.”
Gabriella looks up at me and presses her hands together. “Mister Taylor, next time I come over, can I paint your toes again?”
I arch a brow. “Were you the culprit who made them pink and blue last time?”
A deep, belly laugh comes from nearby, and I turn to the source of it—a guy in glasses with a thick beard. “She does drive-by pedicures when dads fall asleep.” The man extends a hand. “I’m Arturo. Gabriella’s dad. Good to meet you.”
As the girls scurry off to the playground before the bell rings, Arturo gestures to them. “Gabriella said she wanted Abby to come to gymnastics today. Is that cool with you? It’s kind of last minute, but I’ll take the girls.”
“Absolutely. I appreciate you doing that,” I tell him. “Let me know where to pick her up?”
He waves me off. “Nah. S’all good. I can drop her off when they’re done.”
“Works for me,” I say, with a smile. “You’re a full-service dad.”
Arturo smiles. “That’s me. I’m a stay-at-home dad,” he says, looking supremely satisfied with that.
“Good on you,” I reply, and I mean it.
He glances around like he’s checking for eavesdroppers. When he finishes his sweep, he says, “Also, that catch the other week in Seattle. Epic, man. Epic.” He holds up a hand for a combo high-five, fist bump.
“Thank you.”
“You’re killing it this year. Don’t retire. We need you around for a long time. And don’t you dare sign with anyone else in the off-season. Hey, how about a deal?” He points at my chest. “If you re-up, I’ll always take the girls to gymnastics. I’ve got an extra booster seat in my car.”
“You should be my agent. I like that deal,” I tell the guy, then thank him again for ferrying the kids around, and we exchange numbers before I skedaddle.
But honestly, his situation doesn’t sound too bad either. He seems pretty happy doing what he likes.
I make my way to the gym, join the guys for a workout, and shoot the breeze. But my thoughts aren’t entirely on the here and now.
They’re on the future—a year ahead and a couple of hours from now when I meet Katie at her studio.
I’ve seen her five times since our cancelled date—from the classes to the private sessions—and each time I want to see her again a little bit more.
Seeing her is terrific and tempting at the same damn time.
I resist because the last thing I need this year is a whiff of a scandal. But, even more so, I don’t want to bring that on Katie.
The Renegade and the Yoga Instructor—Caught Downward Doggie Style. Yeah, that’s not how I want to cap off my career—by putting a black mark on hers.
But also, I want more than doggie style with Katie.
More than sex.
I just like her.
A whole helluva lot.
And I sure wish we didn’t have the worst timing in the world, because all I want is to take her out and treat her well.
Katie circles me as I lie on my back near the wall, my legs going up it and forming an L.
For the record, I hate this pose.
It’s hell on the hammies.
“Shimmy your booty,” Katie tells me. “A little more. Just a smidge closer to the wall.”
The waterfall pose is fuck-all hard. As I wiggle my butt closer to the wall, she laughs, tugs my legs up, then bends to adjust my butt.
Nice.
This is just so damn nice . . .
I mean . . . distracting.
This is crazy distracting.
But I wouldn’t change a thing as I indulge in the view of her. “I like hands-on yoga instruction. I’m gonna keep this up,” I say, shamelessly staring at her fantastic chest.
While she stares at my . . . toes.
She flicks her fingernail against the big one. “Too cute.”
“Happens to me once a week. I’ll take a catnap when Abby has friends over, and they conduct pedicure ambushes.”
“The pastels are fetching,” she teases.
I wiggle my toes. “Why, thank you. Does it turn you on?”
She leans over me, a little closer. “So much.”
A groan rumbles out of me, unbidden. Everything she does gets me going. Hell, just the view of her chest fires me up. Her tits in that sports bra are so damn tantalizing. The tease of them, the peek at her flesh.
I want them, dammit, but I can’t have them.
Or her.
I whimper.
She tilts her head. “You okay?”
I clear my throat and sweep away the dirty thoughts. “I’m all good,” I say, and home in on the poses.
Whatever Katie’s been doing to the team, and to me, it’s working. In just a couple of weeks, I feel better, I’m playing stronger, and the hammie strain isn’t bothering me a bit.
That feels like winning.
The only thing I wish were different is the time I spend with her. I wish I could see her at night, especially after that picnic lunch. Every night, every hour, every second we spend together seems to tug me deeper into her orbit.
And I like her orbit a lot.
Because . . . I like her.
When we finish and make our way to the exit, an idea takes hold, gripping me. It feels necessary.
Important.
And it’s a chance to spend more time with her.
“Katie, do you like monkey bread?”
She swings her gaze to me. “The bread that ought to be cake? The bread that’s dessert for breakfast? The bread that’s like a cinnamon roll?”
I tap her nose. “Show-off.”
“Yes. Yes, I do like it.”
I toss out the next question, hoping she also likes what I’m offering. My hope for her yes is more intense than I expected. “Abby wanted to make some, but she’s going to gymnastics with a friend. I thought I would get started, and we could finish when she comes home. Any chance you want to shop for monkey bread supplies with me, and then we can make some with Abby?”
I just asked a woman to hang with my daughter and me.
I ought to be terrified. And I’m honestly not sure why I chose now to ask Katie this big question.
But something about this seems just right.
This afternoon is all I can give, but maybe it will be enough for now.
20
Katie
I wasn’t jonesing for this invitation, but now that he’s offered it, there is only one way to RSVP.
“I would love to shop with you and make monkey bread,” I say, and his suggestion feels worlds better than any night with my ex.
And it feels just as good as dancing to 80s tunes, shopping with a drag queen, and making eggs with this man.
Being with Harlan in any little way feels good.
That’s scary as hell, but wonderful too.
It’s making me think about timing, and steps, and possibilities.
About the future, and how to make it happen.
Risky thoughts I probably shouldn’t entertain, given my past. Given my heartbreak.
/>
And yet, I am.
That means there’s monkey bread to make.
“Let’s hit it, handsome,” I say.
Harlan shoots me a sexy and sweet smile that melts my heart—and all the rest of me too.
So much for being only teacher and student with him. His smile just crossed the don’t-break-me line of my heart.
“And we’re off to the store,” he says.
And maybe to something unknown.
How is it possible that grocery shopping can be fun?
Tell me that, universe.
I have never enjoyed shopping for food. Food buying is functional.
But shopping for groceries with Harlan is a blast.
I grab a box of brown sugar and waggle it. “Confession time—as a kid, did you or did you not sneak spoonfuls of sugar from the pantry?”
He scoffs. “Obviously. Brown sugar was my gateway drug into sweets.”
“Right? Same here. Never turned back. I’m convinced brown sugar ignited my lifetime love affair with yummy things.”
He sweeps the box into the shopping basket. “My words to live by: you can never have enough brown sugar, good tunes, and”—he stops to glance around the bougie gourmet store in Pacific Heights, then lowers his voice—“good sex.”
Mmm.
Those words rumble from his lips. They’re about more than the physical. “I like how you added an adjective before sex. It’s important to specify. Because bad sex is not worth having,” I say as we reach the spices, and I grab some cinnamon.
“You’re a woman after my own heart,” he says, and I want to shout, Yes. Yes, I am.
But I should slow down, so I zip my lips as he talks.
“If you’re going to do something, you might as well do it right. Football, yoga, parenting,” he says, listing the things that matter to, well, to us. “Friendships, musical taste, baking—pies in particular—and yes, sex.”
I swear, this man wants the same things I do. Feels the same things. Is this what a real connection is like? Maybe.
We wander past the frozen goods. “Honestly, there’s no reason to have bad sex,” I say. “If you’re having bad sex, that means you’re not trying. Good sex isn’t magic. You don’t wave a wand and have it. You’ve got to listen to your partner, pay attention, and, most of all, to want it.”
His eyes lock with mine in the relative seclusion of the freezer aisle, and in his brown irises I see as much want as I feel.
This conversation is dangerous, but I don’t want to let go of it yet. I like talking about sex with Harlan. I like talking about why the sex is so damn good with him. Because something is happening, and something has always been happening with us. It’s not magic—it’s effort. Good, hard effort that pays off. We vibe in bed because we vibe out of bed.
We’ve vibed every time we’ve been together.
That’s why we can’t seem to resist stealing every little moment.
I’m not sure I want to resist much longer.
Maybe he doesn’t want to either. “I loved reading your cues, Katie,” he says. “Figuring out your needs, and then delivering. That’s what made it so damn good.”
In the span of a few seconds, this conversation has shot from our childhood memories to why our intimacy rocks.
Our intimacy that we’re not having.
But tell that to my body. The shiver that runs down my chest and settles between my legs feels wildly intimate.
“You think so?” I ask, a little breathless as I stand next to the butter.
“Don’t you?” He sounds breathless too.
“Sometimes, but I also think we read each other’s cues out of bed too. Like the way we interact—that’s part of it. Part of why it’s so good,” I say.
This is hardly the place for this talk. But we’ve never been in the right place at the right time. Why should today be any different? Maybe I’m learning to embrace the moments with Harlan, to take them as they come.
When they come.
Even if I try to halt them with a pump of the business-minded brakes here or there, the moments don’t stop.
They keep happening, from seizing the night at the wedding seven years ago, to making the most of my anti-wedding night this past summer, to our yoga sessions, to lunch . . . to today.
He inches closer, latching onto my words. “I do think the way we are together is why the sex has been so damn good,” he says, and I am buzzing. “But everything with us is so good.”
My entire body hums with arousal and longing.
With need.
With hope that I can somehow rewrite the future. That I can discover an opening to what I want where I’m not hurting the people I work with. Where I’m not behaving like my mother in business.
I need to find that way.
And I need to find it soon.
I’m not even technically involved with this man, but it sure seems like I am.
Here goes the next thing—putting my feelings out there, taking the steps to let him know. I should be cautious about those things, but I can’t be bothered right now. “I can’t believe I’m saying this by the nine-dollar eggs, but I was really looking forward to seeing you again. To all of it. To everything.”
If I’m going to look for a way forward with him, it should start with speaking from the heart. So, I do. “I was looking forward to dinner and ice cream and foosball and sex, and also just . . . getting to know you more. I still am. I look forward to getting to know you more each day because I like everything I’ve already gotten to know,” I say, reaching for the side of the cold case like I need to hold on or I’ll stumble.
But I’m pretty sure I’ve already fallen.
21
Harlan
My head is spinning.
I feel woozy too, almost like I’ve been knocked hard out of bounds.
But I like this feeling. It’s new and different, but it’s all good. And I want more of it. “I was looking forward to spending more time with you,” I say softly. “I wanted all of it. The sex and the dates and just . . . you. I still do. I like you so much.”
My heart slams against my rib cage. I’m dangerously close to dropping this red basket on the floor, shoving her against the yogurt and eggs, and kissing the breath out of her, no matter what it brings.
For all our flirting, all our teasing, all of this red-hot sizzle, she’s onto something—the reason our first kiss went to my head. Hell, I can still remember how it felt to taste her lips for the first time.
Spectacular.
I like this woman.
I like her so damn much.
The last few weeks have fueled those feelings. The time with her not kissing, not touching, and not fucking has only fanned the flames.
Even though I can’t touch her, I can use my words like she just did. “Katie Madigan, I’m so into you, it’s kind of crazy.”
Her smile is one I want to remember for a long time. Here, by the organic eggs in the grocery store a few blocks from my home, she smiles like I’ve made her happy.
Just happy.
And isn’t that what a man should aim to do for the woman he wants? Treat her right and make her feel good? It’s that simple.
But whatever is happening between us isn’t simple. It’s complicated by downward dogs and deals with the team. A tryst would be risky, but much more for her than me. Whether I finish football now or in a few years, I’m at the end of my days. I’ve achieved the greatest highs in the game. Her career trajectory is rising, shooting higher every day.
I’d just be another jock who messed around with a trainer, a teacher, a woman stretching him. Though not the way I want to cap off a career, I’d be forgiven in a heartbeat.
She’d be the woman who slept with a client, and I don’t want that for her.
So she has to stay off-limits, and I have to stay hands off.
She sighs wistfully. “So now what?”
That’s a good question.
I drag my hand along the back of my neck t
hen shoot her a rueful grin. “Want to go prep the monkey bread supplies?”
“I do,” she says.
We check out and head to my place. As we head up the steps, I’m keenly aware this isn’t the first time Katie has stepped into my home. The first was on her non-wedding night, when I brought her here to sleep with her.
But now she’s stepping inside playing a different role in my life.
A colleague of sorts? A teacher? A partner?
None of those terms feel right.
She’s coming into my home as a friend. Yes! That’s why I invited her over today. Katie’s a friend at the moment, and that’s why it feels like the perfect time for her to meet my daughter.
Bags in my hand, I unlock the door and hold it open for her. “After you,” I say in my best Southern gentleman voice.
“Why, thank you, sir,” she says in her Texas twang.
Once the door closes, we head straight for the kitchen.
“Tunes?” I ask as I unload the groceries.
“If it’s Ed Sheeran, Dolly Parton, and Adele, we’re golden.”
I chuckle. “How about I throw in some Frank Sinatra and Eric Clapton, and we can call it a day?”
She lifts the sugar from the bag, shakes her hips, and gives me an approving hum. “We’ll get along just fine, sir,” she says, still playing with the accent.
“Darling, we always have.” I hit shuffle on some tunes, and Ed Sheeran’s tones fill my home, making Katie happy, judging from the twinkle in her eyes. Then I drop the accent and say something that’s a little bit hard. “Hey, Katie.”
“Yeah?”
I square my shoulders. “I don’t introduce women to my daughter. It’s just not something I’ve done.” I swallow roughly as I lay the truth on the line like she did in the store.
I want her to know that this thing between us is becoming much more for me.
More than I expected.
More than it’s supposed to.
It’s turning into something that feels a little inevitable.
She receives my words like a beautiful pass, catching them with a smile and warm eyes. “I’m excited to meet Abby. She sounds amazing. And I’m glad you want me to meet her,” she says in a kind, inviting tone that underlines, black Sharpie style, why I like her so much.
A Wild Card Kiss Page 17
