Rough & Ready

by Tracy Wolff

  Most of the big donors want to know exactly where their money is going—as they should. And though I know exactly what I’d like to do with the money, I need to make sure my proposal is in as perfect a shape as I can make it—along with the list that allows them to pick an area to contribute to, if they prefer.

  I’ve just pulled up the document when the knock on my door comes. It’s not a surprise—and neither is the man standing in my doorway after I call, “Come in.”

  “You look very official.” Tanner grins at me—and the feet I’ve got up on my desk.

  “And you look like you’ve just been mauled by a pack of teenagers.” Which isn’t exactly true, but there’s no need to feed his already hefty ego. Especially since there’s a teeny, tiny part of me that wants nothing more than to wrap myself around him and lick every inch of his smooth, dark skin.

  “At least they let me keep my shirt. For a minute there, it was touch and go.”

  “I can only imagine.” And I can. Josie isn’t my only fifteen-year-old girl who thinks she’s older than she is and acts accordingly. “Glad you managed to escape the hoard.”

  He shrugs. “Nothing to escape, really. The kids are great.”

  “They are.” Now I’m the one smiling. “Thanks for your donation, by the way. I’m sure it will mean a lot to the kids.” I haven’t checked the amount yet, but I figure it’s at least five hundred dollars, which will go a long way toward the grocery shopping I’ve got to do for the center tomorrow. We don’t provide hot meals here except on special occasions, but I do my best to keep the fridge and pantry stocked with drinks and healthy snacks. Especially in the summer, when the kids don’t have the free and reduced lunch program at school to fall back on.

  It’s nothing compared to what I could have done with five hundred thousand dollars, but at least Tanner made the gesture of coming down here. That’s something, I suppose, when most guys would have forgotten I existed right after I stormed out in a cloud of obscenities.

  I’m not apologizing for it, and I haven’t forgiven him, but the way he is with my kids moves me much closer to polite.

  “No worries. You do a really great job with this place.”

  “I’ve got a lot of help.”

  “Not to hear the kids tell it. They think you’re the greatest thing going.”

  “I feel the same way about them.”

  “It shows.” He clears his throat. “I really am sorry about the Reilly money. I had no idea other organizations were vying for it. And I hesitate to say this, but the truth is he just kind of sprung it on me. We met at an event, he asked me to sign some stuff for his grandkids, which I did. We took a couple of selfies together and bam. Fifteen million dollars straight into the foundation’s coffers.”

  I can totally see that, actually. I wish it hadn’t happened, can resent the hell out of the way it’s so easy for male players to raise donations for their charities. But that’s not their fault—it’s the society we live in. And if he didn’t deliberately go after the money, then it’s pretty shit of me to hold it against him…

  “Well, then. I’m sorry I stormed into the locker room and screamed at you.” It stings a little, but I manage to get the apology out. “I was just so mad and wanted someone to blame, I guess. I mean, besides Jack Reilly.”

  “It’s forgotten.” He glances at his watch. “I’ve got somewhere I need to be in a little, so I don’t have time to take you to lunch. But I’d love to take you to dinner later?”

  And there it is, the invitation I was half-expecting and half-not. My stomach jumps a little, then spins in girly half-circles that feel an awful lot like butterflies. That alone sets off the warning bells deep inside me, even before I get a load of the intense look on his face. The one that says he’s a man used to getting what he wants and that right now, what he wants is me.

  I’m not sure how I feel about that—about any of it, really. Especially since every instinct for self-preservation that I’ve got is screaming at me to run in the other direction. That I’ve been here, done this before…and that the last thing I want is to ever do it again.

  And still I find myself wanting to say yes, even though he’s a baller in every sense of the word. Still I find myself wanting to see if there’s anything to like under that big, tough, superior attitude of his.

  My gut says yes, but it’s been wrong before. And frankly, I’m not willing to make another mistake. Not one like this.

  “I can’t. I’m sorry. I’ve got plans tonight.”

  “How about tomorrow night? Are you free then?”

  “I’m not,” I tell him, with only a little regret. “I’m going to the Save San Diego gala. It’s—”

  “Where community charities meet community donors,” he finishes for me. “I’d forgotten that was tomorrow. How about lunch instead? There’s a great new Baja place not very far from here that I’ve been dying to try.”

  The temptation is there, real and raw and hot as fuck. But I’ve already got too many scars from too many burns to go down this road. “I can’t,” I tell him, honest regret shining through the denial. “I’ve got a lot on my plate right now and I’m just not looking for anything.”

  He lifts a brow. “Says the woman who had plans to go on a date not twenty minutes ago.”

  “Don’t remind me,” I tell him with a shudder. “Octopus Mark was my mother’s idea. I went along to keep her happy.”

  “Octopus Mark?”

  “You saw the guy.” I roll my eyes. “He had eight hands—at least. And, FYI, reminding me of that little lapse in judgment on my part does nothing to advance your case.”

  He’s looking bemused now, as he leans a hip against my doorframe—a little confused, a little amused, and all prime alpha male. I mean, it’s ridiculous, really, how every single thing about Tanner screams prime male specimen. From his towering height to his huge biceps to the shoulders that take up the whole damn doorway. Even his dreads, which I keep thinking should lend some feminine energy to the man, somehow only make him look more masculine—maybe because they emphasize that insane jawline of his.

  None of which matters at all, I remind myself. Because hot as fuck or not, I am not going out with the man who promised to take it easy on me on the basketball court. And I’m sure as hell not going out with Tanner Green, local celebrity and golden boy.

  “How about if I promise that I only have two hands?” He holds them up to prove it to me. “And I promise to keep them to myself until you ask me to touch you?”

  “Assuming an awful lot there, aren’t you, Mr. Green?”

  “Just trying to put your mind at ease, Ms….” He trails off, and we both laugh because he just asked me out even though he has no idea what my full name is.

  “Vance. My name is Elara Vance.”

  He moves then, pushing off from the doorway and stalking across the room with a grace that belies his size. I’m not sure what he’s going to do, not sure what to expect from him, but holding out his hand to shake mine is pretty far down the list.

  I take his hand, of course I do, and smile when he says, “Nice to meet you, Elara Vance.”

  “Nice to meet you, Tanner Green.” His hand feels good in mine. Big and rough, with a wide palm and long fingers that wrap all the way around the back of my hand. And the electricity that sizzles between us doesn’t hurt, either.

  He holds on for several seconds and I let him, even though I know better. Even though this isn’t going anywhere because I won’t let it, no matter how hot he is. Or how well he uses those crazy green eyes of his.

  And he does use them well—so well, that when I break eye contact it’s more an act of self-preservation than to make a point.

  I tug at my hand and he lets go instantly, even goes so far as to take a step back. I get what he’s doing—showing me that he and Octopus Mark have nothing in common. But even if I beli
eved that, which I’m not sure I do based on my past experience with players, it still wouldn’t make me change my mind. I’m not going out with him.

  “I’m not going out with you.” The words come out of their own volition. He cocks a brow at me and I can feel my cheeks start to heat up. Which is ridiculous. I never blush and I mean never. In fact, if you’d asked me before this moment, I would have said that I don’t even know how to blush.

  Obviously, I would have been mistaken.

  “I already told you I’m not like Octopus Mark. I do know how to take no for an answer.”

  He’s bullshitting me—it’s written all over him that this man doesn’t know how to back down, doesn’t know how to back off. And he sure as shit doesn’t know how to back away when there’s something that he wants. Just like on that basketball court, when a challenge is issued, he’s all in.

  Then again, maybe he decided I’m not the kind of challenge he wants. That I’m too much trouble.

  It wouldn’t be the first time.

  I’m okay with that, because if that’s what he decided, he’d be right. And because I’m smart enough to recognize that he is the exact same kind of trouble. I so don’t need that—don’t need him—in my life right now.

  “Okay, then.” I nod, and move back behind my desk. “Thanks for hanging with the kids. And thanks again for the donation. I appreciate both. But I really do have to get back to work now.”

  “Of course.” He steps back and immediately I feel the loss of his big, warm presence.

  There’s a part of me that wants to follow him, wants to press myself up against him just to see what he’ll do. Wants to wrap my legs around his waist and beg him to fuck me and to hell with the consequences.

  I shut that part down fast and bury it deep. Attraction is one thing—you can’t necessarily help that. Following through on that attraction is something else entirely. That I can help. More, I will help it. Because no way am I getting tangled up with another baller. No way am I opening myself up for all that entails.

  I’ve worked hard to put my life back together after my career-ending injury. And after Jeremy. No way am I going to risk what I have now just to become another notch on some baller’s bedpost.

  No way in hell. No matter how hot he is and how much his eyes make me want to melt.

  With that thought uppermost in my mind, I take a seat behind my desk. Then very calmly, and very deliberately, ask, “Do you need me to show you out? Or do you think you can find the way?”

  Tanner’s eyes go wide and for a second I swear I can hear him grinding his teeth together. I brace myself for the explosion—Jeremy would have lost his shit for sure—but all Tanner does is incline his head in a whatever-you-want kind of way. And says, “I think I’ve got it, thanks.”

  Then he’s gone, slipping out of my office like a ghost. He even manages to close the door behind him without making a sound, which is a hell of a feat considering I expected him to slam it. Not Tanner Green, though. He’s way too polite for that.

  It’s another unexpected revelation about a man I was sure I had all figured out the minute he swaggered onto my basketball court. The fact that I was wrong intrigues me more than it should.

  Kind of like Tanner Green himself.

  Chapter 8

  Tanner

  She dismissed me. Elara fucking Vance just dismissed me like I was nothing. Not that I expected her to fall at my feet—she’s not the swooning type—but I usually get a little more female attention than that. Even from the total badasses. And I’ve definitely never been dismissed before—even before I made the pros.

  Not gonna lie, I’m a little bit in shock as I make my way through the center toward the front door. I was sure explaining the money thing would get me back on her good side, and instead she just told me to show myself out. What. The. Fuck?

  I’m in the middle of doing just that—pissed at myself because I can’t just shrug it off even though I know I should—when I get stopped a couple more times by kids wanting selfies and some chitchat. It’s the last thing I’m in the mood for, but I smile through it all. Inside, though, I’m reeling.

  Which is ridiculous. I was raised to respect women, raised to understand that no means no under any and all circumstances imaginable. But I don’t hear it very often…and even when I do, it’s never accompanied with such a cut-and-dried dismissal.

  I’m not sure how I feel about that, not sure how I feel about her. Except turned on, because holy fuck, the woman is a goddamn siren in athletic wear, designed specifically to hit every button I’ve got, even if she has misjudged me all along.

  I know some other guys who might not agree—they might look at all those inches and all those muscles and be intimidated as fuck. And if they got past all that, they might look into those knowing, confident, icy violet blue eyes of hers and run in the other direction. Elara is definitely not the type to take shit from anyone, let alone her man.

  But that’s one of the sexiest things about her—in a long line of sexy things. Seriously, the fact that she knows what she wants and goes after it is one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen. Then again, Elara is the hottest woman I’ve ever seen, everything about her tailor-made to turn me on.

  Well, except for the fact that she wants no part of me. That’s pretty much a boner killer any way you look at it.

  I’m still a little confused as I take my leave of the two young ladies who stopped me for selfies. I start toward the exit, figuring I’ll grab a burger to kill time before I have to pick Tina up. But I’ve taken a few steps toward the street when someone yells, “Tanner, wait!” from behind me.

  I turn to see Elara racing through the commons room straight at me.

  I meet her halfway, reaching out to steady her as she careens to a stop. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

  “I can’t do dinner,” she tells me. “But how about coffee?”

  “Coffee?” I repeat, confusion warring with interest inside me. Because it sounds like she’s asking me out even though she shot me down hard less than ten minutes ago.

  “Yeah. You know, that hot, dark brown liquid that some people add cream and sugar to. Loaded with caffeine. Coffee. Would you like some?”

  I don’t drink coffee—the taste has never been my thing. But if it means sitting across from Elara for a while and listening to her talk—and not scream at me or tell me to get lost—then I’m all in. I’ll drink the whole damn pot if that’s what it takes.

  “I’d love some,” I tell her.

  “Well, come on then.” She starts walking and gestures for me to catch up. “I’ll show you the kitchen.”

  “Oh. You mean like here. Coffee coffee.”

  She raises her brows. “Is there another kind?”

  “I don’t know.” I shake my head, feeling like an idiot. “I guess I thought you meant the Starbucks down the road. You know, where they serve those milkshake things.”

  She laughs. “That’s a little fancier than I had in mind. You good with coffee from my kitchen?”

  “I’m good with water from your kitchen,” I tell her honestly. “As long as it comes with a tour of this place.” And extra time with her.

  “That’s not exactly a hardship. I love to show the center off.” She leads me through the huge commons room, and while the crowd has thinned out considerably from what it was while she and I were going head-to-head on the basketball court, there are still a lot of kids here.

  Some are playing Ping-Pong in the back corner while others are hanging out on the couches in front of the huge TV in the corner, PlayStation 4 controllers in their hands. There’s another group chilling on oversized beanbags in the opposite corner, and more still playing what sounds like a vicious game of Risk on one of the big tables in the center of the room.

  They all look relaxed and comfortable in the bright room, a feat in and
of itself. But most of them also look happy. Which I know from experience is damn hard. Raising my four sisters, all of whom were somewhere on the teenage spectrum at the same time for two memorable years, was no easy feat.

  “You’ve done an incredible job with this place,” I tell her as we make our way up the staircase in the corner. I glance down when we’re halfway up, realize the multicolored stairs we’re walking on are actually artworks—each one painted in a different style by, I’m guessing, a different kid.

  And shit. How cool must it have been for those kids to have their art become a permanent part of the center they obviously loved? This woman really doesn’t miss a trick.

  “Thanks. But the kids have taken a lot of ownership of it, too. Letting me know what they want and how Rebound can actually serve them,” she says as we walk down a long hallway filled with colorful murals. “When I opened this place, I created a teen advisory board to help me figure out what they needed from a rec center. We did surveys in the local junior highs and high schools. Came up with our basic ideas, then did more surveys before we finally decided on our initial offerings.

  “And since then it’s just been about not getting stuck, you know? Twice a year we reevaluate what we’re doing, what’s working, what’s not. What we need more of. And then we program accordingly—to the extent that our budget allows.”

  “And I fucked with that.”

  She gives me a look. “The Tanner Green Foundation fucked with that. You, it seems, were just too nice a guy to the donor who’d made me promises he had no intention of delivering on. Which, upon reflection, means I probably should have stormed into his office instead of your locker room.”