Game, Set, Match (A Humorous Contemporary Romance) (Love Match)

by Malone, Nana

  Aaron nodded. “Did a spread on LeBron last year. I brought you a copy. It’s in my car.”

  For the first time since his surgery and the scandal, Jason’s spirits lifted. “I’m in.”

  Chapter Three

  “So, you two finally steam up the sheets last night?”

  “What?” Stifling a yawn, Izzy whipped her head up from her task to glare at Jessica. “Would you be quiet? Somebody might hear you.” But as she scanned the long hallway off the back kitchen for potential clients, she saw none.

  Jessica giggled. “I’ll take that as a no.” She chugged the last of her latte and added, “You can relax, nobody’s here yet. You know full well the looky-loos don’t start till around six-thirty.”

  “Jess, not today. Please, I beg you. I can’t talk about my love life when we’re in the middle of a tart crisis.” Today of all days, Izzy didn’t need Jessica’s needling. They had their monthly Arts and Tarts open house, and she was already a wreck. She and several other small gallery owners in the neighborhood hosted open houses every month starting in the late winter to draw in potential customers.

  Arts and Tarts was initially supposed to be just her and the two gallery owners around the corner in the cheery Pasadena neighborhood, opening their galleries one night a month. But over the last two years, other shops had joined in. Before she knew it, once a month, most of the merchants in the neighborhood stayed open till nine, serving wine and desserts from the bakery on the corner.

  Izzy had never meant for it to be a big thing, but now, local news wanted to come and film the first event of the year. And this month of all months, she had cash flow problems, so no tarts from the bakery. Thankfully, Jess and Nick baked, but she was nervous. Did they have enough? Would anybody notice her tarts weren’t as tasty or fluffy as the tarts offered by her neighbors?

  “Hey, I’m sorry. I know the stress you’re under. I shouldn’t tease you now. I’ll resume tomorrow.” Jessica tilted her head and gave Izzy her most encouraging smile. “It’ll be great, okay? Don’t worry about the press. Everyone will be focused on the great pieces and not your past.”

  “I hope you’re right about that. I don’t need that kind of attention. Though, do you think I’d get more sales?”

  Jessica’s pink bob shook from side to side as she chuckled. “You just worry about putting whipped cream on the tarts, and I’ll go grab the extra trays from the bakery.”

  She shot Jessica a grateful, but rueful smile and resumed her work with the whipped cream, already mentally preparing for the Simon questions tomorrow. Pausing to rub tired eyes, she carefully spread dollops of whipped cream on the final tarts. It was the only job Nick or Jessica allowed her to do when it came to the baked goods.

  She didn’t enjoy the Arts and Tarts events, all those people poking around her work, never really buying anything. But until she opened at a gallery, it was a way to get a few pieces sold.

  She checked the clock for the fifteenth time that afternoon. Damn. Late again. Since Sabrina’s call, she’d been off. Her schedule, her internal clock, her relationship with Nick.

  “Izzy, are you here?”

  The click clack of Simon’s footsteps echoed on the mahogany hardwood floor, reverberating down the hallway as he made his way to the studio’s back rooms.

  Crap. He was early, and she was far from ready. “I’m in the kitchen, Simon.”

  He joined her with the usual force of a tornado, a flurry of frenetic energy and exuberant enthusiasm. “Hello, sweetheart.” He gave her a quick squeeze, and kissed her with a sound smack on her lips, stealing her breath. Though, more from surprise than breathless arousal.

  The instant claustrophobia that clung to her like a sloppy drunk co-ed, forced her to step away from him and pick up the tart tray. Through measured breathing, she gave him a wan smile, the tray of tarts acting as a shield. Her stress wasn’t his problem. Her mind latched on to the thought of forty pieces in the next three months.

  She’d deal with that later. All she had to do at the moment was prep for Arts and Tarts, make herself look presentable and, fingers crossed, sell a couple of pieces. Any thoughts about her relationship with Simon could wait. Would wait until she could find time to breathe, analyze. She knew she’d eventually have to make a decision about their relationship, or rather their non-relationship. She knew she’d eventually have to decide to sleep with him or not, move their relationship forward or not. In some ways, it would be easier to avoid him. Like Dad. Like every other man in her life. Thankfully, she didn’t have to decide today. Today, she could be grateful for the extra help.

  “I’m glad you’re here. I need help with the display for the Arts and Tarts and—”

  Simon let out a puff of air and tapped impatient hands on the glass counter. His light gray suit was a perfect blend with the harsh stainless steel backsplash and appliances.

  “Izzy, you can’t be serious. Have you forgotten you have an appointment in ten minutes about the SI shoot?”

  Damn it. Had she forgotten? She last glanced at her calendar around ten. There hadn’t been anything about SI on it. Had there? Panicked, she looked at the wall clock again and wished for more time to prep for the open house. “Shit, I’m so sorry. I forgot, and Jessica is out and—”

  He took hold of her wrists as though she were a chocolate-smeared three year old headed for a white couch. “Izzy. Focus. They’ll be here any minute. You’re not usually so out of it, what’s with you lately?”

  Jaw set, her temper threatened to boil over. She inhaled three deep breaths before she spoke. “I’ve got Sabrina, Nick, the studio, a judge who won’t let me adopt my son, and a boyfriend-slash-manager who’s promised forty pieces for my gallery opening without so much as a consult with me. You’ll forgive me if I’m a tad forgetful.”

  He grimaced, contrite in an instant. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m a prick. And a demanding one at that. I’m just working for your future.”

  For one scary second, her temper threatened to rebel against its leash, but she restrained it. She didn’t want conflict. Simon was not the enemy. “I’ll put these in the main studio and wash my hands.” She caught a glimpse of her image in the wall mirror and made a mental note to do something about her hair as well. No one would take her seriously in pigtails.

  Simon followed close behind, giving her the rundown of everything Sports Illustrated wanted for the shoot. “There’ll be three separate shoots. One on Saturday…”

  She tuned out Simon’s voice as she turned into the studio’s sale hall, where she hung all photos she’d sold that still awaited pickup. It was pitifully empty. Only three black and whites lined the hallway, all off to the same owner.

  Voices trickled into her consciousness from the front hall. Her feet faltered. At first thought, her ears played tricks on her. A deep voice, crackling like a glowing fire on a rainy night, reverberated off the walls. Heat flushed her body. Izzy tried to take a deep breath. Last time she’d heard that voice, he’d told her he’d be back in an hour. He’d left her aroused and alone. It can’t be him. It can’t be.

  But she knew it was. The telltale Connecticut accent dripped from each word he spoke.

  Her heart kicked up and added another thud to its usual routine. The last time she’d seen him, she’d been the picture of embarrassment after throwing herself at him. The pleasure-pain of nerves prickling with awareness assailed her.

  Her hands gave an involuntary shake of the tart tray and she hurried to right it. Rounding the corner, half hoping it would be him, and half hoping-pleading-begging it wouldn’t be, she let out a breath when she saw him—that same sandy blond hair and that same angled jaw.

  Her fantasy, come to life, Jason Cartwright.

  Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

  She squeezed her eyes shut in the illogical hope that if she could no longer see him, he wouldn’t see her. She whirled around, intent on escape, but slammed into Simon—tarts and all.

  “Izzy!” Simon ground out, along with a few ep
ithets.

  “Crap, crap, crap. I’m sorry.” She peeled one eye open to survey the damage. After an eyeful, she squeezed it closed again. If she didn’t see it, it didn’t exist. Though the image of white gloops on a grey Brooks Brothers suit left an imprint she couldn’t ignore.

  A surprised voice came from behind her. “Izzy? Izzy Connors? Is that you?”

  Busted. Her option of retreat vanished into the ether.

  Muttering under his breath, Simon excused himself and hurried to the restroom near the kitchen to clean up.

  With no hope of escape, she took a deep breath, trying to force her heart to return to its normal rhythm. When that didn’t work, she turned around anyway not sure what to say. Wow, that was a long ass hour, would come across as combative. And the last thing she wanted was a confrontation.

  She settled on, “Hello, Jason.”

  His casual stance belied the speed and strength she knew he was capable of. Years of rigorous activity had hardened his tall, rangy body. Memories of kissing his square jaw and the light cleft in his chin assailed her.

  Dark glasses masked his eyes, but Izzy knew behind them, she’d find intense heat able to strip her to the soul. His tousled blond hair was just as she remembered it, a little unkempt, as if he hadn’t bothered with it. The sexy grin that had haunted her dreams for fifteen years showed off straight white teeth. He was every bit the Hollywood playboy portrayed in the press. And that devil-may-care sexiness would be the death of her.

  Before she could say anything else, his strong arms and a warm musky scent enveloped her. Involuntarily, her body stilled like an ice sculpture as her breasts came into contact with the hard planes of his chest. Unable to process the situation, she heard a faint clatter as his sunglasses fell to the floor. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to think of the last time she’d seen him, the last time he’d abandoned her for Sabrina.

  “Damn, Izzy, you look terrific.” He set her down, but kept hold of one of her hands. Whiskey eyes poured warm amber over every inch of her body. “How’ve you been?”

  The source of her greatest humiliation wanted to know how she’d been, as if they were old buddies. She reminded herself they, for all intents and purposes, were old buddies, until she’d made the mistake of pegging him as her first lover.

  Behind Jason, his companion, with his rugged dark good looks and infectious smile, saved her from having to speak. Not that she could have. “You two know each other?”

  Jason’s smile flashed and made her want to do all manner of inappropriate things. Smash his head in with a pan? Strip him naked and see if he still looked as good as he promised? Launch a full TET offensive on him with her lips? Not necessarily in that order.

  Jason ignored the question and asked his own. “You’re Z Con?”

  Simon returned from the bathroom, flustered, but just as jovial as ever. With one glance at her hand in Jason’s, he placed a proprietary arm around her shoulder, and she felt the tingling heat of a flush envelop her body.

  “Yep, this is none other than Z Con. It was great marketing, keeping the gender of the photographer a secret, shrouding my girl here in anonymity.”

  Izzy worked not to grind her teeth at the ‘my girl’ comment. Trapped, Izzy looked from Jason to Simon, back to Jason. Her voice made a reluctant appearance. “It helps with privacy.”

  Not sure whose touch to be most concerned about, she erred on the side of safety and removed her hand from Jason’s. Then she shrugged out of Simon’s grasp as well, glad to be free, glad to be able to breathe.

  Jason’s smile remained firm, and he picked her up again the moment she extricated herself from Simon. “Damn, I can’t believe it’s you.”

  Simon looked confused for a moment, then narrowed his eyes at Jason, he said, “I see you two are friendly.”

  Izzy tried to free herself from Jason’s tight grasp, willing her arms to push against the sheet rock of his chest, not languidly roll around his shoulders like they wanted to. “Jason and I went to college together. Haven’t seen each other since he left for the pro tennis circuit.”

  She heard the front door bell chime and was more relieved than she’d ever been to see Jessica, serving trays in hand.

  “Erm, Simon, why don’t you show these gentlemen into the studio. I need to sort Jessica out for a minute.” And calm her speeding heart, but she couldn’t tell him that.

  While Simon directed them into the studio, she hung back to steady her nerves.

  She watched Jason walk around the first set of displayed photos. She couldn’t help the urge to know what he thought of them. A small part of her hoped he saw what she saw when he looked at them.

  “So, are you going to tell me who those fine specimens of men are, or am I going to have to find out all on my own?” Jessica’s voice broke Izzy out of her trance.

  She pulled Jessica toward the reception desk where they could watch the men in relative secrecy. “Jess, I need you to pull the Mother-May-I escape plan in about five minutes, okay?”

  Jessica looked back toward the studio. “Are you insane? You’ve got hot men in the studio, and you want me to come in and interrupt you?” Jessica took another look and whipped her head back at Izzy. “Cheese and Rice, Batman! Is that Jason Cartwright?”

  Izzy’s brow furrowed. “Cheese and rice?”

  Jessica’s bob flounced merrily. “Yeah. Lord’s name in vain.”

  “Right, right, you’re still into that Mormon rocker guy.” Izzy nodded. “Yes, that’s Jason Cartwright.” She held up a hand. “Mother-May-I. Five minutes.”

  Jessica’s smile morphed into a scowl. “You’re crazy.”

  She didn’t have time for resistance. “Please? I’ll explain later, but right now, I can’t really deal with more than one man at the moment.”

  Realization reappeared on Jessica’s pretty face. “You know them?” Her voice trailed off, and as she took another peek, she added, “I call dibs on the McDreamy look alike.”

  “Jessica!”

  “What? You got dibs already? Fine, I’ll take JC. He’ll do just fine.”

  “Be serious for a minute. I need you to do this. Okay?” Exasperated, she added, “You have a man.”

  Jessica must have seen the desperation on her face, because she acquiesced. “Yes, I do, but it’s always good to have a spare.” At Izzy’s scowl, she sighed. “All right, all right. You okay, Izzy?”

  She shook her head. “No. No, I’m not okay.” Izzy tried to suck in a calm breath through gritted teeth. Now was not the time to lose control.

  ****

  Jason tried to calm the adrenaline-heightened tremors in his hands. Izzy Connors. Judging by the way she’d stiffened in his arms, he shouldn’t have touched her. The hug had been an impulse, and now his body paid for it.

  He remembered every nuance about her. Her smell, her voice, her eyes, the way she’d felt in his arms. She looked just like he remembered her, from her thick, ink-black hair to her bee-stung lips. His mouth did its best impression of the Sahara when he remembered those lips brushing against his. He coughed to clear his throat and his mind. He’d thought about her for years. Tried to replace her. Now that she stood in front of him, his stomach felt as though he’d just sampled the finest scotch.

  Watching her take long strides into the studio, he could tell this was her domain. She owned this space, standing tall and confident. Her face lit with pleasure when she walked by particular pieces.

  He couldn’t tell if she still played tennis, but she still had the body of an athlete. Moved like one. No wasted movements, every muscle doing its part in the balletic walk. Her simple silk blouse and leather belt accented her tiny waist and full breasts, her jeans showed off long, muscular legs.

  She moved ahead of him to show Aaron a portrait at the far end of the studio, giving him a spectacular view of her peach of an ass. He smiled as he recalled how she’d always referred to it as her African trademark.

  Fifteen years, and she hadn’t changed. Not a bit. It took h
im several moments to realize she walked toward him again, lips moving. An unsteady smile passed her lips before she spoke again. “You see anything you like?”

  Blood pumped in his ears as he thought his answer over. From the glower her manager shot in his direction, she wasn’t on the available list, which nixed telling her exactly what he’d like. He indicated the portrait of the Masai woman on the wall. “I have a canvas of a Masai warrior. It’s related to this one right?”

  Her eyes danced. “Really? You have one of these canvases? We did a few of them in limited release mostly as marketing for the Kenya Homelands book. It’s one of my favorites.”

  Then, as if she realized her proximity to him, she took a step back, and her smile faltered, replaced by a furrow on her brow.

  Fifteen years, and she still could make him feel what he shouldn’t feel. She isn’t seventeen anymore. He shoved the thought aside. There was too much water under the bridge now. Far too late to think about what he should have done.

  Aaron and Simon joined them at the photo of the Masai woman. Her lips quirked in response to Aaron’s question about various locales for the photos, and deep dimples peeked out of both cheeks. Her wide, almond-shaped eyes, framed by thick lashes, lit up when Aaron relayed a story about his trip on Safari in South Africa.

  In that moment, he could have killed Aaron. Jason stole a glance at Simon, adding him to the death toll. Simon’s possessiveness was as defined as an Ansell Adams photo with all the back-off signals radiating off of him.

  Jason had never been one to ignore a direct challenge for something he wanted. All he wanted was five minutes alone with her. Well, for what he wanted he’d need a lot longer than five minutes, but he’d start with that.

  “Izzy, I’m so glad to have someone who knows me so well on these shoots.”

  She blinked at him and nodded, but it wasn’t hard to notice the looks from Simon and Aaron. Aaron’s more curious, but there was no mistaking the hostility in Simon’s scowl.

  Izzy’s expression changed, her unsteady smile tensed. The four of them stood there in a bad parody of No Exit. They made several attempts at small talk, but none caught hold.