by Virna DePaul
Heath gave the middle finger to his two buddies. Besides football, their favorite sport was ribbing one another. “If anyone wants to get some alone time, it’s Kyle. Maybe then he’d let you play more than once a quarter.”
Alec made an “oh snap” sound and Kyle glared at Heath—but only for a moment. “He just doesn’t want to waste my talent with teams who aren’t up to par.”
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that.” Heath and Kyle ribbed each other for the rest of the evening, Alec interjecting periodically before leaving to call his fiancée, Colleen.
“So after Coach’s speech in the locker room? I saw you heading somewhere with that luscious little photographer.”
Heath stiffened and gripped the glass of his beer tightly.
Kyle nodded. “Right. That’s what I thought. I was gonna ask whether Genevieve was right and whether she wears white cotton or not, but I can tell from your expression I shouldn’t go there.”
“You’d be right,” Heath said quietly.
“Got it. And don’t worry, I won’t say anything to anyone. But I’m looking forward to seeing her put you through your paces.”
Heath snorted. “So am I.” And it was true.
Normally, Heath liked things easy, and that included his women. But Camille wasn’t like anyone he’d ever known. She was different. More innocent. Sweet, kind, but prickly as a porcupine. He didn’t know how she’d talk to him and treat him from one moment to the next, and he found himself enjoying the chase. Most girls fell into his lap without him even trying—courtesy of the whole professional football player thing—but Camille? No way. He had to work for her to even talk to him nicely.
Then again, he’d had to work for her to come for him, and he’d enjoyed every damn second of it. So much so, he was going to make sure it happened again very soon.
At home later, Heath was on his laptop, searching for the woman he couldn’t get out of his mind. First, he pulled up her business website; flipping through examples of her photography, he was even more impressed than he had been before. She clearly had a talent, and it had only improved with time. Her work mostly centered on sports photography—football, hockey, basketball, baseball—but he also found some more artistic photos of people. He knew nothing about photography, but there was something about the lighting in each one that enhanced the subject.
He found a few articles from when she was younger: what she did in undergrad, when she was on the honor roll, a scholarship she received for photography. He discovered she’d been married to Richard Barnes, a goalie for the Savannah Marauders, and found a reference to their divorce, something that filled him with a huge dose of petty satisfaction. He hated that Camille had experienced that kind of heartache, but at the same time, he was thankful as fuck that experiencing it meant she was now single, giving him an opening to be with her.
The thought stunned him.
What exactly was going on here? Sure he was attracted to Camille and wanted to fuck her, but it couldn’t go beyond that.
After high school, Heath had worked his ass off in college, even though he’d gotten a scholarship at UCLA. He’d been savvy enough to know that if he didn’t get into the NFL that he had to have something to fall back on, and he’d made sure to study as hard as he’d played ball. Thankfully, however, he hadn’t needed to use his degree in Communications with a Spanish minor because he’d made it. He was a professional football player at the top of his career, but he’d seen how easily guys like him could lose it all if they didn’t remain focused. Often, it had been a woman who had been the death knell of more than one career.
Just look at Alec, who’d been slightly off his game since getting engaged to Colleen. Of course, Heath knew that had more to do with the circumstances of their engagement, something his friend had so far managed to keep from the press. Even so, an unplanned pregnancy changed a lot of things—only time would tell how much fatherhood and marrying a woman he didn’t really love would change Alec and his career.
But even when the circumstances were different? Like with his friend Omar Perkins, who loved his wife more than anything in the world, even football? Well, there was a reason Omar had been traded to Philly last season after his priorities had changed.
Heath couldn’t let anything like that happen to him, so he kept any relationships at surface level. His football career was the most important thing he had going for himself, and ruining it over a woman would be the stupidest thing he could ever do.
Still, Heath kept searching for information on Camille, smiling when he found articles about her father, Cal. His smile broadened when he found a picture of Cal and Camille standing together, Camille looking up at her dad like he was the center of her universe. She looked very similar to how she’d looked at that last high school football game: boyish hair and clothes and all. She was wearing a hoodie with loose jeans, her short hair looking like it’d barely been brushed. But those eyes—he’d recognize those eyes anywhere. Gorgeous and bright, they looked like they could take on the world. She still had those eyes, but they were tempered with maturity now, and from hardships and heartbreak young Camille could never have imagined.
His chest constricted with the urgent need to protect the adult Camille from any more pain. To care for her. To cherish her, for as long as he could.
He wanted to brush the feelings away but it was a testament of her hold on him that he copy and pasted the article link, sending it to the number on Camille’s business card via text message on his MacBook, typing, Wonder if this girl would give me another chance?
He waited, drumming his fingers against the desk. No response.
Maybe she didn’t want to see him again after what’d happened after the game? Maybe she was embarrassed? That was the last thing he wanted. He could call her again. Flirt with her, coax her, get her to laugh. He was good at that. Most women didn’t take much effort on his part, but he’d try even harder to get back in Camille’s good graces. He was about to put down the phone when he saw dots appear, indicating she was typing a reply.
Blink, blink, blink.
Then the response: You’ll need a first chance before you can have a second.
Chapter Eight
Heath Dawson is far too good at getting what he wants, Camille thought as she navigated her way to Heath’s home three days after he’d texted her about second chances. Just thinking about his response, after she’d snarkily responded that he hadn’t even had a first chance, had her blushing and shifting in her seat at the sudden heat that pulsed between her thighs.
I’m pretty sure my first chance ended with you coming with my fingers inside you.
Talk about putting her in her place. She’d instituted radio silence after that. After all, what could she say in response? When she didn’t hear back from him, either, she’d assumed he’d lost interest in her. She hadn’t been surprised—the guy was a sexy superstar athlete, after all, and she was just Camille Pollert, photographer, single mother, and former waterboy impersonator—but she had been surprised by how much it had hurt, knowing how easy it had been for Heath to move on.
As planned, she’d spent a couple days in South Carolina, playing tourist since she didn’t need to be back in Savannah until Thursday night’s game. But then she’d gotten the phone call offering her the job of photographing Heath’s home for a local magazine spread, and she’d suspected Heath had had some part in the job offer even before the woman on the phone confirmed it.
Once more she’d been surprised—this time, by how thrilled she’d been that Heath had gone to such lengths to see her again. And it was a measure of just how thrilled she’d been that she’d called him before accepting the job.
“I want the job, Dawson,” she’d said.
“That’s good, Camille. I want you to have it,” he’d replied.
“And I want you, too. Your body, that is,” she’d said baldy. “And not just your fingers.”
He’d sucked in his breath, then growled, “Likewise, Watergirl. As many times
as you’ll let me have it.”
“That’s the thing,” she’d said. “I meant it when I said what happened between us was a mistake. Nothing like that can happen again. I have to keep things professional. And I can’t take this job unless you abide by my wishes.”
She’d held her breath when he’d remained silent, only releasing it when he’d said, “I’ll respect your wishes, Camille. Whatever they are. You have my word.”
Then and now, Camille hadn’t been fooled by his easy capitulation. He’d meant he’d respect her wish to keep things professional but only if that remained her wish. If she happened to change her mind and decided she wanted something different, he’d respect those wishes too. So the ball was in her court, and she just had to make sure she didn’t let him or her own intense attraction to him jeopardize things—her career, her pride, or her heart.
Ten minutes later, Camille pulled into Heath’s driveway. She didn’t really know what she’d been expecting, but arriving at Heath’s Southern colonial mansion outside of Savannah, she was a mixture of awe and appreciation. It was a mansion, definitely, but tasteful: large yet not sprawling, with a fountain after you passed the gates, but not gaudy. He’d clearly made certain that the house wasn’t overly ostentatious, and she was rather surprised by that. Heath, the man who tried to rile her all the time, who had an outrageous personality on and off the field, had a house that was almost understated in comparison. Well, if you could call a literal mansion understated.
The house itself was a warm peach color, befitting the Georgia sun beaming down from above. Trees lined the drive, and as Camille drove up, she wondered what it would be like to have a picnic under those trees with Heath. Enjoying his company, the smell of peaches in the air as they ate and laughed and talked and even kissed. She flushed at the thought. I’m getting way ahead of myself. Besides, she didn’t want a repeat of what had happened at the football game—did she?
Her phone dinged, and she glanced at the text from Sheila. So are you going to fuck him this time?! She’d already told her best friend what had happened after the football game and how close they’d gotten to having sex. He wants you, she’d argued, and you want him. Have some fun, Camille. Picking up her phone, she’d texted back, No!!! I’m not fucking him. Geez, woman. Sheila had just replied back with a few laughing emojis.
The fountain sprayed clear water as she parked her car in the drive. She half-expected a butler like from Downton Abbey to emerge, suited and severe, but instead, it was Heath himself. No maids flocked around him, no butlers, no one else except him. He waved, a big grin on his face, and Camille went around to her trunk to get out her gear.
“Glad you’re here, Pollert. Anything you need to get started? Your wish is my command.” He came around the back and took her gear, shouldering it without thought.
She shook her head as they entered his house. “I’m good, thanks.” She looked around then breathed, “Heath, your home is beautiful.”
The entranceway was large and airy, with black and white marble tile leading into the house. Large windows with a skylight were above her, and a tasteful chandelier hung below it. But despite the money dripping from the house, it still managed to seem rather homey. Shoes were scattered at the front door, and a bag sat next to it. Football paraphernalia hung on the walls, and Camille had to stop herself from standing and looking at each photo, each signed jersey, wondering at all of the people Heath had gotten a chance to meet and know.
“Thanks. You hungry?” he asked, setting her stuff on a table inside the kitchen. “I thought I’d make you lunch before we started.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’ll make me lunch? You don’t have a maid to do that for you?”
“Surprised?” He began rummaging in the fridge, pulling out meat and cheese and condiments for sandwiches. “I even have girly food.”
“What is girly food? Pink cupcakes?”
“Quinoa salad, or regular salad, or some kind of stuffed mushroom things.” Heath set out the various items. “Pick whatever you’d like.”
Camille, intrigued despite herself, began to pull down dishes from a cabinet above, wanting to help. She hadn’t expected he’d feed her, let alone do it himself. Granted, it was just sandwiches, but her initial nerves at this assignment subsided.
“You like mayo, mustard, what’s your poison?”
“Mayo, please. As long as it’s not a certain mayo substitute.”
Scoffing, he set the large jar of real mayo on the counter. “What kind of man do you take me for? I would never let that abomination in my kitchen.”
She smiled despite herself. “I’m glad we agree at least on one thing.” She opened a bag of rye bread, assembling her favorite sandwich: roast beef, Swiss cheese, mayo, and—she made a sound of pleasure—horseradish. Then again, did she want horseradish breath going around taking photographs? She debated.
“Come on, live a little.” Heath pushed the horseradish toward her.
She knew she had mints in her bag, so she went for it. But just a little dab—and definitely not red onions. “Thanks for this. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. But you have any chips? Quinoa’s not really my thing.”
“Chips and beer. Want one?” He tossed a bag of BBQ chips toward her and then pulled out two beers from the fridge, ice cold. “Or are you more of a wine girl?”
“I actually prefer beer, but my friend Sheila always wants wine.” She probably shouldn’t be drinking in the middle of the day like this, but it was only one beer. Might as well live a little, right?
They sat down at the kitchen table with their sandwiches, eating in silence for the most part. But it wasn’t an awkward silence: instead it felt almost like the kind of silence that falls between two people that know each other well, that are comfortable in each other’s presence. Camille’s heart pounded a little at the thought, and she drank her beer to calm it. Why was she thinking like that when it came to this man? She couldn’t have any kind of future with him. For one, he wasn’t that type of guy, but secondly, she didn’t want a serious relationship right now.
After they were done, Heath took up their plates, rinsing them in the sink before placing them in the dishwasher. “I’m impressed,” she couldn’t help but remark.
“And exactly how are you impressed?”
“A man who knows how to use the sink and how to put dishes in the dishwasher. My ex-husband never managed to do that in the five years we were married.”
“Well, I’m a special kind of guy.” He tossed the empty beer bottles in a recycling container. “But my mom wasn’t around and my dad was always working, so I learned from a young age to fend for myself.”
She didn’t want to imagine young Heath, alone at home, taking care of himself without a mom present, but given her own mother had died of cancer when she was five, it was far too easy to picture. At least Camille had had her dad, a man who seemed far more nurturing than Heath’s father. She didn’t know what had happened with his mom, exactly, but there’d been rumors at school through all of fifth grade: she’d apparently skipped town with another man and never came back. “I’m sorry,” she said lamely. “I know how much it sucks to lose a parent when you’re young.”
He nodded. “I know you do.” Stepping towards her, he took her hand. “Now, you ready to get this show on the road?”
Camille smiled. “Let’s do it.”
She began outside, taking photos of the exterior of the house. She marveled at the sleek architecture, at the warm color of the stone, and how the fountain somehow worked perfectly with the house itself. She particularly focused on the landscaping, and she and Heath talked about how he’d decided on what types of trees and plants. He’d been involved in the nitty gritty details every step of the way in the building of the house, and he exuded excitement when talking about it. Obviously there was more to him than football and wisecracks.
“Dad and I always lived in trailer parks or apartments, so when I was building this place, I told them I wanted trees. Tons and
tons of trees.” He explained the tree species, how each grew, how one tree got sick and had to have a tree surgeon come out, and how he’d imported certain trees specifically to line the driveway. Camille took in all of the information while snapping photo after photo, some with Heath in candid, others without him. Glancing at the photos she’d taken already, she was enraptured by the look on his face as he talked and gestured and explained, and she could see herself saving these photos to hide in a box underneath her bed like she had in high school.
They entered the house then, and Heath took her from room to room. When she snapped photos of him, he looked at her quizzically. “It’s what I’m here for,” she said. “To take photos of you and the house.”
He turned away, appearing hurt by her statement. But he knew she was here to do a job, and that’s all she was here for. She’d made that clear, though given her feelings for him, she was probably giving off crazy mixed signals to the guy.
Camille concentrated on taking photos, forcing away her guilt and confusion. She took photos of the dining room and kitchen and living room and the entertainment room, all large and beautifully furnished but still exuding masculinity in every corner. This was most definitely a bonafide bachelor pad: from the huge TV in the entertainment room, to the arcade games next to it, to the big, comfy couch in the center of the room. He showed her all of the electronic toys he got to play with, and she just shook her head. She’d never had a TV half this size and still didn’t see the use.
Going upstairs, Heath pointed to one of the bedrooms. “My grandfather stays here,” he said, offhandedly.
Taken aback, she brought her camera down. “Does your grandfather live here with you?”
“Yep, although he’s out on a date with his latest girlfriend. That guy gets more action than I ever will.” He winked at her, and she smiled.
They went from room to room, until they ended up in what was surely the master bedroom. A large white room with a fireplace, the furniture was mahogany and was shiny and new. Large windows let in streams of sunlight, and Camille snapped photos as Heath walked around. But then he came up to her, and asked, “May I?”
