Rules of the Game

by Sandy James

  My heart slammed in my chest and echoed in my ears. We both snatched short breaths as our tongues mated. The growl coming from deep in his chest hit me on a visceral level. I think he lifted me off the floor, because I felt lighter than air.

  It had been forever since I’d been kissed. I wasn’t sure if my reaction was because Scott was such an incredible kisser or because I hadn’t enjoyed this type of contact in too long to remember. When he tried to pull away, my lips followed his. He chuckled and kissed me again.

  My feet touched the floor when he ended the kiss and set me back down. I reluctantly pulled back my arms. I didn’t know what to do to keep my hands from grabbing his shirt and tugging the man right back into my embrace, so I shoved them into the pockets of my jeans.

  “I need to go, Maddie.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How about we get together tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow? You mean we’re going out tomorrow?”

  He nodded, making that gorgeous lock of hair fall across his forehead again. If my hands hadn’t been in my pockets, this time I would have brushed it back with my fingers. Then I would have kissed him again. “We could take that monster of yours for a long walk in Central Park.”

  “That would be great. Cleo loves long walks.” And I could get to know Perfect Man better.

  He opened the door then turned back to me. “I’ll get the jacket tomorrow.” The door closed on that promise.

  Jacket? I inhaled, and the smell of leather and Scott filled my lungs. I was still wearing his jacket.

  I wore it as I sat down and wrote a love scene that would scorch a reader’s fingers.

  Chapter Three

  Scott called right after lunch the next day. “We should get to know each other before you meet my friends,” he suggested.

  I’d already thought of that. “Yeah, we won’t be able to pull this off if we don’t get a crash course in each other. How many of your friends do I have to face?”

  “Four. Two couples who can’t seem to keep their noses out of everybody else’s business.”

  “Married, right?”

  His chuckle was warm, and even though I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol, it still sent sparks flickering over my skin. Delicious, yes—but also terrifying.

  Suddenly, this pretending we were a couple didn’t seem like such a great idea.

  After years of being an independent woman, I resented knowing that I could potentially fall for this guy. Not a love-at-first-sight thing. A this-guy-is-like-my-heroes thing. The men I wrote filled a void in my life where a real man might have been, so I hadn’t missed the real thing. Well, not that much. Surely not enough to actively throw my name out there to my gotta-fix-you-up friends, like the ones Scott was taking me to deter.

  Scott could be a hero. And that scared the shit out of me.

  His voice buzzing in my ear brought me back from my near panic. “Yeah, they’re married. Always looking to trap someone else in their misery.”

  “Typical alpha male response,” I grumbled before I could stop myself.

  “Thanks. No one ever called me an alpha male before. A pig, maybe, but—”

  “A pig?” A nice guy like Scott? “Who would call you a pig?”

  “My mom. My sister. My equally piggish brothers. Anyone who ever shared living space with me. I’m kind of a slob. Alpha male, though? I like it. So how about that walk in Central Park? I’ve got an important meeting at three, but we could meet after lunch. Need me to swing by and pick you up?”

  “No, thanks. I’m not sure I’m up to riding on the back of a motorcycle when I’m sober.”

  “Coward.”

  In more ways than one… “How about I meet you there?”

  * * *

  Cleo tugged at her leash, eager to be turned loose to chase the neon pink Frisbee Scott had tucked under his arm. I looked around the park to be sure there weren’t any other dogs nearby and took the leash off her collar as Scott tossed the disk over the open grass. Cleo bounded away like the puppy she really still was. Heavens, how she pleased me with her innocent enjoyment of the simple things. Warm sunshine. Spring grass. A good run.

  “She’s not a typical city dog.” He glanced over his shoulder as he waited for Cleo to return. “What made you choose her?”

  “She was a mistake.” My silly dog ran over to me instead of Scott and dropped her toy at my feet as she wagged her tail.

  “A mistake?” he asked.

  “Yeah. A hundred and twenty-five pounds of mistake.” I picked up the Frisbee and heaved it far enough that Cleo would give us a few moments of peace. Then I tried to shake the clingy spit off my fingers. “I was dumb enough to make eye contact with the big ball of fluff at the pet store when I was just supposed to be picking up millet sprays for the birds. As if I could leave her there after that.”

  Scott reached for my hand and gently wiped it clean. “Oh, I see. You’re a soft heart.”

  “I’m a soft touch.”

  “Good to know. Is that how you ended up with the birds, too?”

  “They were on purpose. I needed some background noise so the place didn’t seem too lonely. How about you? Any pets?”

  “Not unless you count my younger brothers. Wish I did, though. I love animals.”

  My dog came running, skidding to a stop in front of Scott this time.

  I tossed him a smile. “Looks like animals love you too.”

  They played toss-and-fetch until her drool lathered Scott’s face and hands. I handed him the slobber towel. He was cleaning himself up when I saw the dog.

  Dog? Hardly. The Yorkie was small enough to hide in my favorite Fendi. How the poor thing had ended up in the lake was beyond me, but it was struggling, barely keeping its head above the surface of the water. I couldn’t bear to sit by and do nothing.

  I ran as fast as I could move, jumping into the water until I was waist deep. Scooping up the poor thing, I trudged back to the shore. My white linen pants and expensive sandals were ruined.

  Scott hooked the leash back on Cleo’s collar. “Is that a dog?”

  “Yeah.” I held out my hand. “Drool towel?”

  “Oh…sorry.” He snatched it from his back pocket and dropped it in my outstretched hand.

  I dried the Yorkie best I could with the semi-wet towel before giving up and using the bottom of my shirt, since the whole outfit was shot anyway. Then I checked the tag on the green collar. “Aloysius? Who in the hell names their dog Aloysius?” The name was bigger than the dog.

  I’d no more than said the words when a frantic woman came running up the hill, shouting all the way. “Al! Where are you, Aloysius? Here, boy! Here, boy! Aloysius!”

  Scott waved her down. “Looking for a Yorkie?”

  With her long blond hair blowing behind her like some stupid shampoo commercial, the woman jogged over to me. Perfect makeup. French manicured nails. Designer yoga pants and jacket. “Yes! Have you seen him?”

  I nodded at the damp dog I cradled against my chest. “I think this belongs to you.”

  “Aloysius! Oh, my God! Are you all right?” She took the Yorkie from my hands. “What happened to him?”

  “I think he decided to go for a swim and got a little too far from the edge of the lake.”

  Cleo suddenly indulged herself in one of those full-body shakes all dogs love. Unfortunately, with a St. Bernard, the shake is usually accompanied by a saliva shower. Drool hit me, Scott and the lady.

  “Ew!” The woman wiped away the spit clinging to her jacket with her fingers, shaking the substance that was as sticky and stringy as newly pulled taffy. She held her dog in front of her as if it had suddenly developed the bubonic plague and hurried away without so much as a thanks.

  “Do you do that often?” Scott asked.

  “Do what? Go swimming in Central Park?” I glanced down at my dirty clothes. “Only when I’m properly dressed for it. Can we talk later? I need to run home and change.”

  He kissed my cheek. “Like I said, you’ve got a
soft heart, angel.”

  “What I’ve got is a ruined ensemble and an exhausted dog.”

  “Then let me take you home. We can meet before dinner on Friday and get our stories straight before you meet my friends.”

  * * *

  The music from the live band nearly drowned out the twenty-something hostess’s question.

  “Pardon?”

  She threw me an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes as if she hated explaining anything to a geriatric thirty-something like me. I wondered if she thought mascara came in single-serving containers. She might as well have been auditioning for a remake of Cleopatra.

  “I asked if you have a reservation,” she said with another sigh.

  I assumed Scott had made reservations, but I’d forgotten to ask. For all I knew, the people sitting around waiting for a table could be the friends I was supposed to be fooling. “Um…I don’t know.”

  A hand pressed on my shoulder, and I turned to face a grinning, drop-dead handsome Scott. Quite a relief because he helped me avoid another awkward exchange with the waif of a hostess.

  “Hi,” I said in a breathy voice that hardly sounded like mine.

  “Hi.” God, I loved that dimple when he smiled.

  “May I help you?” The hostess batted her clumpy eyelashes at Scott.

  “Brady. Party of six. But not for about half an hour.” He smiled at me again. “We’re heading to the bar first.”

  The blonde scanned her book as she gave her glossy lips a lick. Geesh. What a hussy, standing there flirting with Scott as though I was entirely inconsequential. Sure, I couldn’t hold a candle to her, but…for pity’s sake, a little subtlety might have been nice. Next time she should probably just tear open her shirt, pop off her bra and be done with it.

  I smoothed my hand over my hair, tucking a lock that had escaped its restraint behind my ear. I thought about pulling out the clips holding all my hair away from my face, but it really didn’t matter. Mousy brown hair looked as bad up as it did down. It was as straight as an arrow. What I would have done for some natural curl. At least the goofy bangs had finally grown out, and now I wore it all one length that barely brushed my shoulders.

  Scott pointed toward the bar. Thank God, the band seemed to be done for the night as they put their guitars in cases and pulled the microphone plugs. I was already tense, and the thrumming beat of a bunch of middle-aged guys trying to recreate some KISS song sure wouldn’t help.

  I waited for him to acknowledge that I was wearing his jacket. He pulled out a barstool for me, then sat down on the next one. A bartender who appeared young enough to be carded came up to us. Flopping two yellow cocktail napkins on the wooden surface, he asked, “What can I get you folks?” He winked at me. “I’ll have to see a driver’s license, miss.”

  As if.

  I was thirty-three and the years showed, although I was actually glad of it. I would age gracefully and try not to freak out every time I got a new laugh line because that wrinkle meant that at least some time in my life, I had laughed. I threw a smile at Scott. “Leave him a great tip.” Back to the bartender, I said, “Mimosa, please.”

  “Vodka martini,” Scott replied.

  I couldn’t help myself. “Shaken, not stirred?”

  Scott laughed, but the bartender clearly didn’t get the James Bond joke as he turned to talk to a waitress.

  “Like the jacket?” Scott finally asked.

  “Love it.”

  “I’ll want it back.”

  “Eventually.”

  The baby bartender put the drinks on our napkins before moving on to greener pastures.

  Scott sipped his martini. “Where do we begin? Gotta get our stories straight.”

  “Definitely.” This, I understood. “Where did we meet?” I nursed my mimosa, loving the bubbles from the champagne.

  “Why not Trixie’s?”

  “Good idea. Keep it simple.”

  “Keep it honest. The fewer lies we have to tell, the easier it’ll be. I hate to lie.”

  “That’s not backstory, that’s characterization.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What we’re doing is the same as planning a book. What we need is the history of how we met and what got us here. It’s called backstory. Your dislike of lying is characterization.”

  “You’re a writer?”

  I nodded and fiddled with the edge of the cocktail napkin.

  “I suppose I should know that if we’re a couple. Or is that characterization again?”

  I loved his smile. And his sense of humor. He had a quick mind. I liked that, especially because being sarcastic was a way of life for me, and good sarcasm was lost on stupid people.

  “What do you write? Magazine articles? Reviews? Books?”

  “Books.”

  “Do you think I might’ve read any of them?”

  I let loose a laugh. “Wrong gender.”

  “Ah, lusty busties, huh? Bodice rippers?”

  It would have been easy to take exception to his comments, but the twinkle in his eyes took the bite out of his questions. He didn’t mean any offense. I diverted the topic. “So we met at Trixie’s. Why did we end up together?”

  “You were looking for a good lay that night, and I was the sexiest guy in the joint.” He plucked the little plastic sword from his drink, put it in his mouth and sucked the olive off. Why that was the most erotic thing I’d seen in a long time was beyond me. My whole face flushed hot.

  I took a long pull on my drink, trying to think about our backstory instead of how much Scott appealed to me, what he looked like under all that stupid clothing, and how very much I wanted him. The guy had me so hot and bothered that I was practically squirming. “How about something a little less…bawdy?”

  “I’m bawdy?” He chuckled. “I’m not the one who writes romance novels.”

  “Let’s try this… I had car trouble. Stopped to get some help, and you were my knight in shining armor.”

  “Hmm.” Scott stroked his beard-stubbled chin with his index finger and thumb as if deep in thought. “I love it. I’m a gearhead, so it fits. After I fixed your car, you fell into my bed in gratitude.”

  I almost spit my champagne and orange juice across the bar. “You’ve got a problem with that ego. Obviously needs some work to shore it up.”

  “Damn, I love a woman with a sense of humor. Do you even own a car?”

  “Duh. No. I’m a city girl.”

  By the time we’d concocted a viable story about how we met, how many dates we’d been on, and a couple of special events like a shared song and a first dance to pepper in more intimacy, the backstory had shaped up nicely and I was considering using it in a book sometime. Why waste all that hard work?

  His cell phone started to play “I Can’t Drive Fifty-Five.” Nice macho tune for a roughneck like Scott. He reached for the phone clipped on his belt. “Excuse me,” he said before he hit the button to take the call.

  Manners. Scott Brady had manners. And he used correct grammar. And he smelled nice. I’d made a bunch of assumptions about him based on blue-collar stereotypes that clearly didn’t apply. I made a mental note to be less judgmental in the future, especially where he was concerned.

  “They’re here.” He clipped it back on his belt. “They’re waiting at the hostess stand.” Picking up our drinks, he followed me to the front of the restaurant.

  Heavens, how I loved a man with impeccable manners.

  “Scott!” A pretty redhead smiled and waved. She held hands with a tall, handsome blond who could have been a model. A second couple stood behind.

  Scott answered my question. “Hi, everyone.” He nodded at the brunette. “Glad you could make it, Tiffany.” He leaned closer. “That’s my sister.”

  She wore Halston. I knew that outfit because I’d paraded it around the fitting room until I’d finally told myself I was not going to spend that kind of money on something simply because it made my ass look smaller. Besides, she pulled it off much b
etter than I could.

  Scott leaned down so his sister could kiss his cheek. How sweet. The redhead followed suit, kissing his other cheek. Even though she was holding onto Fabio’s hand, I suddenly wanted to knock out a couple of her teeth.

  What the hell? I didn’t even know Scott, unless I wanted to pretend the little plot we’d put together was real. Why in the world would I be jealous?

  “Everyone,” Scott said, nodding at the couple, “this is Maddie Sawyer.” He turned to me. “The redhead is Andrea Schmitt. Watch out for the temper that goes with the hair. And the guy who never lets go of her hand is her husband Mitchell.” Nodding at the brunet, he said, “That’s my brother-in-law, Caleb Brown.”

  “And I’m Tiffany.”

  “Scott’s sister,” I said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “So where did you two meet?”

  Scott dove right in. “I looked up from winning a game of pool, and there she was. The girl of my dreams. Smart. Funny. And a dog lover.” He handed me my drink and then draped his arm around my shoulder. Leaning in, he pressed a kiss to my cheek, which totally made up for the kiss Andrea had planted on him. That one, he only received—this one, he gave.

  I really liked this pretending we were a couple stuff.

  Dinner was easier than I’d expected, mostly because Tiffany liked to talk about herself more than listen. Scott and I managed to slide through a couple of tricky questions with ease. The man was entirely too smart for his own good. I also quickly discovered that if I ever lost my voice, I could communicate with my feet. If Scott stumbled onto thin ice in the conversation, I’d slip my foot out of my flats and rub my toes over his shin. He’d lean in for me to whisper in his ear and let him know what pile of poo he was about to step in. He’d immediately correct his mistake. I also discovered how much I liked touching him.

  Over our turtle cheesecake desserts, Tiffany frowned at Scott. “Maddie, please tell me he hasn’t dragged you out to ride that ridiculous motorcycle of his.”