by Celia Aaron
EPILOGUE
CORDY
THE SMELL OF FRESHLY mowed grass and dirt filled my nose as I stared out at our home field. The stands were overflowing with fans for our season opener against the Lions. Billy the Bobcat did pushups in our end zone, and the hum of excitement energized everyone on the field.
“Coin toss, captain.” Hawthorne elbowed me. I, along with two other team captains, ran out and did the honors.
Running back, I spotted something that made my heart skip a beat. I veered off toward the right where all the visitors stood with their special bright blue lanyards. Trent didn’t need one, of course. Everyone recognized him. He was the starting quarterback for the Bucks, one of the top professional teams in the country.
His team was based in New York, but he would fly his mom, my dad, and me to his games. After Christmas, his mom had taken a new approach with me. When she told me that my relationship with Trent reminded her of how she and his father had been in their early days, I knew we’d turned a corner. Things had thawed between us, and our relationship had become so warm that even Trent was amazed. Our little cobbled-together family was new, but didn’t lack in the love department.
“Hey, kicker.” He gazed down at me and smiled.
“Hey, QB.” I stood next to him as we got ready for kickoff.
“I miss this.”
“You do this every Sunday.”
“Not with you.”
“I like to do other things with you.” I shot him a smirk.
“Do you have any idea how hot you look with eye black on? Have I ever mentioned that?”
“Just a few hundred times.”
He smacked my ass and yelled “good game” as if that somehow covered it.
I laughed and leaned into his arm. He was dressed in a nice button-down and jeans. It was odd that I was dressed out and ready to play while he had to stay on the sideline. I, of course, took the opportunity to rib him about it.
“You’ll be riding the pine for the whole game. Are you okay with that?”
“I could try for another year of eligibility if you want me back.”
“Oh, I don’t know if that would be a wise choice on my part.” I whistled. “Our new quarterback was a five-star recruit.”
He puffed out his chest a little. “So was I.”
“Well, he’s really tall.”
He stood straighter. “So am I.”
“He doesn’t hog the shower in the women’s locker room.”
He glared down at me. “Cordy.”
“Kidding. Well, not really. He doesn’t hog it because he’s not in there.”
“Better not be.”
I bumped my hip into Trent’s. “I’m going to be pretty sweaty after this game.”
“Yeah?” He licked his lips.
“I’ll certainly need a shower.”
“I agree.”
“Maybe you could come help me soap up. You know, for old time’s sake?”
He grinned. “Oh, I’m certain I can manage that.” Looking me over, he stopped at my hands. “I thought you were going to wear it?”
“I am wearing it.”
I reached inside my jersey and pulled on the chain around my neck. My ring popped out, and I held it up to him. The Billingsley B was imprinted on the top, and “National Champions” flowed down each side.
“Where’s yours?”
He waggled his fingers, the matching ring flashing in the lights.
“When is kickoff?” I frowned and stared down the field, wondering why the kicking team was still on the sidelines.
“I think you need a new ring.”
I smirked. “I’ll get one at the end of this season.”
Since when did the stadium get so quiet?
“I was thinking one with less gold and more diamonds.”
I turned to him slowly and only then realized our image was on the huge screens above each end zone. When I looked back, he was on one knee, holding up a ring with the largest diamond I’d ever seen.
My knees turned to jelly, and I was struggling to stay conscious.
“Cordelia Elaine Baxter, will you marry me?” His eyes swam with emotion.
I put a shaking hand to my face. “Oh my God.”
He smiled. “Can I take that as a yes? My heart’s kind of on the line here. More importantly, we’re delaying kickoff, and the team—”
I bowled him over, and we landed in a heap on the turf. I kissed him as he wrapped his arms around me. The stadium erupted around us as we made out on national TV.
“Yes…yes…yes.” I said between lip locks.
He laughed and sat up, then took my hand and slid the ring on. The crowd ramped up again as he pulled me to my feet.
“Look.” He turned me around and pointed out his mom, my dad, Landon, and Ellie in the stands right behind us. My dad grinned like a madman and tried to hug Trent’s mom. The attempt was comical and ended in a half-hug truce.
“I love you.” It was all I could think or say as I met his eyes again.
He picked me up and twirled me, my head going foggy as he kissed me. “I love you too.”
Tears blurred in my eyes as he set me down and gave me one more long kiss.
Our kickoff team ran out on the field, and Hawthorne shot me a thumbs up as he dashed past.
Trent grinned, his handsome face alight with joy. “Now give it back. I’ll hold it while you go out there and kick some ass.”
Acknowledgements
I watch football. A lot of football. I roll with the Tide every season. Before starting this book, I researched the hell out of the mechanics of kicking field goals. I watched footage of amazing college and NFL kickers. I did my homework and relived the terrible Kick Six of Alabama’s 2013 season. I felt up our football and slept with it (ok, maybe I didn’t sleep with it … but all the rest is true).
Despite my in-depth research of men in tight pants with balls, Mr. Aaron read my draft and marked all the football sections with a red pen. So, I tweaked, and re-arranged, and changed yardages, and redid whatever he said didn’t seem quite realistic. Mr. Aaron knows, because he played football. Don’t tell anyone, but his nickname during his football days was Quiet Storm, and he was the best damn linebacker, like, ever. {{I just asked him who the greatest linebacker of all time is, and he said “Dick ButtKiss.” I laughed. Then I realized he was serious. Then I looked it up, and it’s actually “Dick Butkus.” Awkward.}} Point is, Mr. Aaron knows the game. He even tells the TV announcers the correct rules before they get told in their earpieces. Vern and Gary have nothing on Mr. Aaron (if you get that ref, you are a fan and I salute you).
So, my number one thank-you goes to Mr. Aaron for setting me straight on “real” college football. He made the football parts of this book as realistic as possible while I made the sexy parts as hot as possible, as I tend to do.
Also, thanks to the tip of the spear—Rachel and Viv. Y’all are always the first ones in, and your feedback is invaluable. Neda, thanks as always, for keeping my promo going while I’m in my writing cave or adding more filth to my Tumblr. Trish Mint gave me some excellent beta input. Keep it #Mint, my dear. Next, a big high-five goes out to everyone in the Acquisitions. You ladies (and a few gents) are fabulous readers, and I can always count on your support.
My next book, Tempting Eden, is a modern reimagining of Jane Eyre. It’s slated for release in late September. I’ve included the first chapter for you to get an idea of just how modern it is, and I hope you enjoy it.
Thanks, as always, for reading.
xoxo,
Celia
CHAPTER ONE
EDEN
“I DON’T GIVE TWO shits if the entire development goes down the drain. That’s exactly what will happen if you go with anyone else. Give me the business and see all the units sold. Go elsewhere and get used to having a ‘for sale’ sign permanently in your window.” I tapped the screen and ended the call.
He would call back. Developers always did. I hurried across the sidewalk toward my
building, the tallest in the city.
I looked up. Impossibly bright blue eyes caught my attention. That’s all it took. My left heel caught in a grate, stuck as sure as if it was superglued to the spot. I tried to take another step with my right foot to anchor myself. Mistake.
My coffee sloshed to the top of the travel cup, shooting like a geyser through the small opening before I let the cup go entirely. It crashed down, ending in a small explosion of caffeine and foam at my feet.
I pulled my left foot from the offending shoe to take a steadying step, but when my bare foot came down, it turned to the side, twisting as sure as a corkscrew. It was over then. Gravity would have its due. My momentum carried me toward the concrete at an alarming pace.
The blue-eyed man caught my elbow and easily pulled me upright. “Whoa.”
“Get off.” I yanked my arm away. “You made me drop my coffee.”
“What?” He cocked his head to the side, the sun illuminating his angular jaw and handsome features. “Let me help.”
“You’ve done enough. I don’t need your help.” My ankle was screaming, my shoe was still stuck in the grate, and the sleeve of my white blouse was streaking brown from the coffee. I’d dropped my blueprint binder. It lay open, the pages turning and turning, as if the breeze were the fastest reader of all time. Shit.
I realized I’d let out a string of some of the vilest profanity allowed this side of the Mason-Dixon line, but no one cared. People kept passing by, not even offering a glance to the grate’s newest victim. It was just that commonplace. I made a mental note to call the Pilot Group, the building’s owner, and have the damn thing fixed once and for all. Thornfield paid a small ransom each month to ensure our business presence on the top floor, and maintenance was part of the package.
“You definitely need my help.” He took my elbow again as I glared up at him.
“I’m fine.” I went to step back for my shoe, but my ankle gave a decidedly painful twinge. More curses, these perhaps even more colorful than the last.
His thick black brows lowered, encroaching on the blue that had led me to this state of affairs. “You twisted your ankle.”
“No shit, and no thanks to you.” I glanced down to my notebook. How the hell would I manage to pick it up and make it to my office?
He bent down to retrieve my shoe. His back was broad beneath his suit coat. Built was the word. I hadn’t seen him before, or at least I thought I hadn’t. I was pretty sure I’d remember him. Those eyes at the very least. They were impossible, beyond beautiful, more startling than oddly colored contacts.
He gingerly removed my shoe from its metal prison. The leather heel was scraped and ruined. I’d have to take it in for repair. I added it to the long line of things in my life that needed fixing.
He scooped up my binder and returned to my side. I just stood, helpless and with the injured foot up and resting on the tips of my toes. In my skirt suit, I looked like the corporate karate kid about to do the crane kick and win the tourney. The thought was so ridiculous and out of place that I laughed at myself, more like a harsh bark.
He gave me a stoic look that revealed nothing. I tamped down my temporary amusement.
I just needed to get to my office and recover what little shred of dignity I still had left.
The day was already teed up to be full of difficulties. This start really wasn’t that out of character.
“Let me help you to your office.” It wasn’t a request. His hand returned to my elbow, a steady pressure.
He was sure of himself, walking the fine line between confidence and cockiness with the skill of a tightrope performer. I wondered if he was working without a net.
But it didn’t matter what he said or how he said it. I wasn’t in a position to say no. I would make a spectacle of myself trying to get to my floor in this state. “Sure. You owe me, since all this is your fault. Get me to the elevator bank, then I should be all right to make it from there.”
“If you say so.” He smirked and squeezed my elbow lightly. I hopped along, struggling toward the door, so much so that he did away with pretense and simply wrapped his arm around my waist, allowing me to use him as a crutch. I caught a whiff of his scent—masculine with some sort of tantalizing aftershave. Definitely not an aqua velva man, thank God.
He was tall so that even jostling along on the one remaining heel kept my eyes at the level of his shoulder. His arm tightened even more, lifting me to keep the pressure from my injured ankle. He didn’t slow his gait, just manhandled me along like a package under his arm. He was hard against me, and I couldn’t help but mold to his metal, my curves melting into him.
I looked up, taking in his profile as he half-carried me into the high rise. He seemed younger than me, though I was only twenty-eight. His dark hair was cropped close. There wasn’t even the hint of a shadow along his jawline; clean-shaven and professional. His neck was long, almost too elegant for a man. His lips were full and a rich plum color, a perfect match to his light brown skin. Handsome by any standard. And those otherworldly blue eyes were stunners.
He hit the elevator call button. I noticed he didn’t have a band on his ring finger. That’s what I did—noticed details. Details were the sort of thing that could make or break a person. I wasn’t the sort to ever allow myself to be broken. Not anymore.
We stood in front of one set of shiny gold elevator doors, making the silly bet that it would be the one to open for us instead of the five others. I looked at us, standing together, covered with a hazy gilded finish. Me short and fair, him tall and dark. We made an interesting pair, standing too close, looking too familiar for strangers.
The doors slid open before I could ponder any further. We’d won the elevator door bet. That was something, at least. He swept me into the enclosed space, and I got a waft of him again, rich and masculine.
“Floor?” he asked.
“Forty-two.” My real estate brokerage, Thornfield, took up the entire floor, abuzz with salespeople working on some of the largest real estate deals and buildings in the Southeast. Well, it wasn’t my company. I was just a senior vice president of sales, overseeing a number of the pricier projects.
I’d been away for a week, checking over an almost-finished development in midtown Atlanta. Nothing fancy, just some lofts for DINKs (dual income, no kids) near some of the livelier spots. They were coming along nicely, and with another small infusion of Gray’s money for higher end interior finishes, they’d be ready to take to market. I was poised to make a nice profit on them now that the real estate sector was back in full swing. The money would go a long way to make my life easier, if only in the short run.
The stranger hit the button for my floor, but didn’t hit any others. He must have been skipping his floor to take me to mine first. Was there no end to his Southern gentleman behavior? I smirked.
“I can take it from here.” I pushed my elbow into his ribs.
He only tightened his grip. “I’m going your way.”
His strength made some of the wires in my brain cross. I wanted to escape, but I also tingled in all the wrong places.
A few others hurried into the elevator before the doors closed, saying their good mornings to each other or giving friendly nods. I nodded back and watched them as they watched me in the reflective panels.
The whoosh of gravity pressing down made my ankle ache as the blood rushed into it. I put more weight on my good foot, scooting closer into the stranger at my side. His hand slid down a little lower on my waist, onto my hip so he could hold me even more tightly. His hand was large against me, spanning the fabric of my skirt and top with ease. His constant pressure was making me warm.
I glanced to the mirrored door again and saw he was watching me. His gaze was trained on my legs and leisurely made its way up my body until he caught my eye. He didn’t look away, even though I’d basically caught him eye-fucking me. He was certainly bold, whoever he was.
The ride slowed as it approached the twenty-fourth floor.
“I can make it from here.” I put more force into my voice than necessary.
“All right.” He smirked again and let his arm drop.
I winced when I put my foot to the ground. His warmth was gone, and goose bumps rose along my skin. I wanted him back. I didn’t have a plan for making it the rest of the way to my office. He still held my binder and ruined shoe under his other arm. My coffee was long since lost, the delicious contents feeding the treacherous grate outside instead of my caffeine addiction.
“You sure you can make it by yourself?” That. Fucking. Smirk.
The elevator stopped, and three men stepped off, leaving one more passenger and floor before mine.
“Yes.”
The elevator pinged again. The last passenger got out, leaving me alone with the stranger as we finished the ride to the top.
He continued studying me in the mirror. I felt my cheeks pink as he watched me, his silence embarrassing me. Well, embarrassing wasn’t the right word. His silence was heavy, not the comfortable, affable sort that was to be expected on elevators.
“You missed your floor.” I gave him my ugliest glare. I needed something to break the quiet between us that seemed to double every second, larger and larger.
“I haven’t.”
The elevator stopped at the top, Thornfield’s domain.
“But this is my floor.” It sounded stupid when I said it, like I was a child with a toy and I refused to share.
He remained silent and offered his arm. I ignored it. Fuck him.
I took a step and struggled to keep my cry of pain in my throat. He looped his arm around my waist and helped me into the lobby. He didn’t ask permission, just used his strength to reinforce my weakness. I hated it and basked in it all at once.
Sasha rose from the receptionist desk, hands going to her face in an over-dramatic gesture. Her nails were done in vivid red, with the pinkie sporting some intricate design, complete with glittering crystals. “What happened?”
