Craving Heat

by Adrienne Giordano

  She scooped the clothes off the bed. “Not interested.”

  “In what?”

  “A fling. Or whatever the hell we’re calling them these days. Not with him.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, first of all, I’m supposed to be protecting him.”

  “Which you are.”

  Debatable. So far at least. She’d change that, though. “Second, I’m not his type.”

  Dammit. Idiot, Maggie.

  “Ha!”

  Again with the ha. “Riley, if you don’t stop saying that, I’ll hurt you.”

  “You know his type.” She poked her finger. “You checked him out.”

  Her sister knew enough to badger the truth out of her, so she might as well admit it. Besides, she had the perfect excuse. “Of course I checked him out. He’s in my town. It was background.”

  “Nice try. What’s his type?”

  Maggie waved the clothes in her hand. “I’m taking a shower.”

  Knowing Riley, she’d be off the bed and on her heels in two seconds.

  “So,” Ry said, “take a shower.”

  And, yep, by the time Maggie walked across the hall to the bathroom, Riley stood in the doorway, her foot blocking the threshold.

  “Ry, I need to shower.”

  “What’s his type?”

  Typical Kingston, refusing to give up. If Maggie allowed it, they’d be squared off in front of the damned bathroom all night.

  Not happening.

  “What’s his type?”

  Grrrr. Riley and that stubborn streak. Well, fine. “Petite. Elegant. Fragile. I mean, my God, the man dates women who get blown over by a breeze.” She ran her free hand the length of her torso. “In case you missed it, that’s not me.”

  “Heck no.”

  Gee, thanks.

  “Why would you want to be any of those things? You’re our Mags. You always know what to do. You can fix anything. You practically carry this town on your back. That’s why everyone loves you.”

  Yeah, but her sister was missing the point. Underneath all that surface stuff, underneath being the go-to, always responsible Maggie was a woman who hadn’t had sex in over a year. Forget that. She didn’t care about the sex—not much anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to have a little passion in her life, but that wasn’t it, wasn’t the thing she ached for.

  She, go-to, responsible Maggie, wanted to be held.

  By a man.

  Who wasn’t a family member.

  She wanted to feel…safe. And damned Jayson Tucker did that for her.

  But somehow, as usual, she’d never be enough. No matter how hard she worked, everyone expected more.

  Heat stormed her cheeks—oh no—and Maggie whirled. A shower. That’s all she needed. It had been a long few days and the fatigue finally caught up with her.

  When a spurt of tears—crap—welled in her eyes, Maggie shook her head. Crying. Terrific.

  “Mags?”

  She sidestepped, tossing the clothes on the edge of the sink before moving to the tub where she cranked the ancient faucet hard enough to snap the thing off. “Ry, give me a break. Please.”

  “Why are you upset?”

  The shower head spurted and released a steady stream of water. Seventy seconds. That’s how long it would take to get the hot water flowing. Seventy seconds to avoid Riley and her questions. “I’m not upset. I’m tired.”

  “I know you. Are you crying? You never cry.”

  And didn’t that say it all? Her family assumed she never cried. How had things gotten to the point where people thought her a machine?

  She cupped her hand under the shower spray, let the cold water refocus her whirling mind. Cold water. Her father’s cure-all for tears.

  Then she faced her sister. “Of course I cry. You guys just don’t see it. I cry a lot actually. At silly movies, when I see little girls with their dads, when my family leaves.” When I climb into my bed alone. “All of those things make me a little weepy. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

  “I didn’t say there was.”

  “Then what do you want from me?”

  “I want to know why you’re about to cry when we’re talking about Jayson Tucker.”

  Ah, dammit. “Because, Ry. I like him. A lot. He makes me feel things I haven’t felt in a long time. He respects me and he’s not intimidated by me.”

  “Awesome. What’s the problem?”

  “I said it already. I’m not his type. He likes being in charge. We’re both alphas. And our worlds don’t exactly mesh. The football star and the small-town sheriff? Picture us in People magazine. Me in my boots and uniform. It doesn’t work.”

  At that, her sister made a gagging noise. “Now you’re being dumb. You’re a sheriff. So what? It’s your job. You wouldn’t go to games or events in your uniform. You own other clothing, Maggie.”

  With the shower still running, she pushed by Riley and stormed down the hall to the second bedroom that doubled as an office. As expected, Riley followed.

  Still on the printer were the photos she’d found the last two nights. Background, she kept telling herself.

  She snagged the pages from the printer and shoved them at Riley. “Here. Look at these women. Do you see anything about them that makes you think I can live in that world?”

  Stubborn mule that she was, Riley folded her arms. “I’m not looking. I think you’re being a goof. You like this guy, right?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Is it, you know…”

  Riley waggled a hand between them and Maggie nearly choked out a laugh. “Mutual? If his tongue halfway down my throat is an indication, I believe so.”

  Riley’s mouth flopped open. “You kissed him? With tongues?”

  “Oh, honey, I didn’t just kiss him. I mauled that man.”

  Yow. That sounded bad.

  But baby sister’s eyes lit up and her lips split into an all-teeth smile. “Mags! You have to give me the scoop. What was that like? He’s so darned hot.”

  Now Maggie did laugh. Riley. So funny. Never mind the crying and confessing her feelings about a total wild card of a man. Somehow they’d gotten to this extremely uncomfortable place that had Maggie, the responsible one, admitting she’d done naughty things.

  And it felt…good. Freeing. Silly.

  When had she been silly last? Long time.

  Wasn’t that the shame in all this being responsible? She’d forgotten to have fun.

  What the hell? Might as well go all the way.

  “It’s amazing, Ry. His arms are like steel rods, but when he wraps them around you, he’s gentle. I want to snuggle with him.” She slapped her hands over her face. “Can you even believe I just said that? I must be insane. As soon as Grif finds him a job, he’ll leave.”

  “But football is seasonal. He’ll come back.”

  As smart as she was, a pure intellectual, Riley had a sweetly naive romantic side that believed love conquered all.

  Maggie smiled. “We’re getting way ahead of ourselves here.”

  “So what? If you ask me, that’s what you need. If I could find a hot guy like him, who could maybe get me out of my own head long enough to actually have an orgasm, I’d never let him go. Come on, Mags. Live a little. If he’s all the things you say he is, you’d be dumb to not go for it. And one thing I know about my sister. She’s not dumb.”

  * * *

  Accustomed to crack of dawn workouts, Jay’s body brought him from sleep—even on a Sunday—at 5:45. Blame it on the wicked hot dream about Maggie and her handcuffs. Those handcuffs. There had to be some rule about not using them for recreational purposes. If so, he had no shot because buttoned-up Maggie didn’t seem the rebel type.

  He might have to get another pair of cuffs they could use. An unofficial pair.

  He turned on his side, ignoring the discomfort of what might be the hardest, absolute granite of an erection he’d ever experienced. Maggie, Maggie, Maggie. He stared at the closed window blind while contemplating an
other hour of sleep.

  Thanks to the dream, he didn’t imagine any rest would be possible. And laying around would only force him to think about his current life situation. Out of work, drop-kicked by sponsors, and the target of a couple of attempted homicides.

  Great life, pal. All because of a locker room brawl. He threw the comforter back and set his feet on the floor. “Stupid, fucking idiot.”

  Somewhere down deep the nagging started. That vicious, debilitating voice reminding him where he came from, reminding him he shared his mother’s DNA.

  That was enough to scare the hell out of any man.

  I’m not her. He ran his hands over his face, scrubbing away the morning fog and worries.

  “Just fix it,” he muttered.

  That’s all he needed to do. Fix it and get his life back on track.

  He scooped his phone from the bedside table. The minute he turned it on, the damned thing would explode into another day of insanity. Calls and texts and voice mail, calls and texts and voice mail. For a guy out of a job, he was damned busy. Even on a Sunday. A day when all his friends would be on the field.

  Don’t go there.

  The fact that he’d even turned the phone off was a stabbing indication of how much his life had changed. Before, he’d never turn it off. Maybe airplane mode or silent, but off? No way. He’d been the team’s leader and as such, he’d made himself available 24/7.

  No team leader.

  No team.

  Don’t.

  He set the powered-down phone on the nightstand. An hour of peace. That’s all he needed. A shower, some breakfast, and then he’d let the world in.

  Good plan.

  Twenty minutes later, the aroma of pecan coffee drew him into the kitchen where the ticking of Miss Joan’s ancient analog clock disturbed the quiet.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  His gaze shot to the shiny countertop where a ceramic jar held a jumble of wooden spoons, rubber spatulas, and a set of tongs. During his childhood, his mother’s kitchen, normally staffed with professional chefs, had a compulsive efficiency to it. Counters cleared, utensils sorted and placed in drawers according to their purpose. All of it way too intimidating for a young kid. Jayson supposed that was the point. The insanely organized and antiseptic kitchen kept him and Sam away. God forbid they leave a fingerprint on the refrigerator when grabbing a glass of milk or a snack.

  In their minds, the kitchen, a place where most families gathered, became a hostile environment.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  He peered at the wall and the Mickey Mouse clock Miss Joan told him she’d bought the day after she’d married her husband. It had survived six rambunctious kids.

  In his mother’s kitchen, the cheap clock, regardless of its sentimental value, would have been tossed. Or maybe donated to the less fortunate.

  Jay walked to the sink where he grabbed a mug from the drain and poured his coffee.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Somehow, the repetitive sound enhanced the peaceful energy of the house and brought him to a place of mindfulness. Being still.

  When the hell had that ever happened?

  He took a sip of coffee and held the mug up, toasting to Miss Joan and kitchens meant to be enjoyed.

  10

  Just as Jay poured the first pancake onto the griddle, Miss Joan entered the room. Freshly showered and dressed in jeans, a light cotton sweater, and soft boots, she looked casual, yet put-together. His mother? She wore diamonds to the gym. Anything to hide the secrets.

  “Well, look at you,” Miss Joan said. “I can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me in my own house. Of course, my boys aren’t exactly handy in the kitchen. The girls do just fine, though.”

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Jay said. “I figured I owed it to you. I don’t want you waiting on me. I’ve lived alone a long time.” He flashed a smile. “I’m low maintenance.”

  Even he could see the humor in that statement. Nothing about Jayson Tucker, fallen football hero, could be considered low maintenance.

  Miss Joan topped off his mug. “I can tell by the mobs of reporters.”

  Clearly the Steele boys inherited their mother’s sarcastic wit.

  He let out a laugh that damn near tickled his toes. Thank you, Miss Joan.

  She gestured to the griddle. “You like to cook?”

  “I do. When I bought my first house, I hired a chef to give me lessons. Once a week for a year.”

  He considered it his effort to banish the demons in his head and get over his anxiety about the kitchen. By the time he’d hit puberty, the most important rooms in a home—bedroom and kitchen—gave him nightmares.

  “Oh,” Miss Joan said. “I’d love that. Such fun. My sister—Maggie’s mom— sure could use it. I swear, she’ll poison us one of these days.”

  He made a show of looking over both shoulders, then leaned closer to Miss Joan as if he were about to share nuclear codes. “Don’t tell anyone, but I watch Food Network.”

  “A boy after my own heart. What’s your specialty? Besides pancakes.”

  “I do a decent rack of lamb. I’ll make it for you one night. I’m curious what you’d think.”

  After retrieving a plate from the overhead cabinet, she set it next to the stove and propped one hip against the counter. “But you’re my guest. I’m supposed to take care of you.”

  He shrugged. “Cooking relaxes me. It keeps me from thinking too much.”

  “You’ve had a rough week. And, you know, you don’t have to worry about that nonsense in this house. Everyone who comes here deserves peace.” She paused and looked around the kitchen. “For years I loved this place. I never told the kids, but I’d drive up here and just park on the side of the road so I could sit for a while.”

  “Why?”

  “I honestly don’t know. There’s something about this land. I think I was meant to be here. Even with all that craziness going on at the training center, this is my sanctuary.”

  He flipped one of the pancakes. “I can see why. I was just thinking how peaceful it is.”

  “Excellent. I want everyone who walks in here to feel what I feel. And if my son says you belong here, then we’re going to make sure you have peace.” She snorted. “We’ll just have to keep Reid and that wicked mouth of his out.”

  He set one of the pancakes on the platter. “I like him. He works me hard, but I laugh a lot, too. He’s a good man. Grif, too.”

  “When they’re not fighting, they make me proud. I’m sure your mama feels the same about you. A professional athlete. That’s no easy task.”

  After transferring another pancake, he prepared himself to give the usual speech about how his parents gave him opportunities most didn’t have and how thankful he was. All true, of course.

  Also the standard get over on someone response befitting the superstar quarterback. For years he’d been shoveling his own brand of bullshit. Protecting his carefully crafted image for the long haul.

  With Miss Joan? Who’d given him a comfortable, chaos-free place to lay his head?

  It all seemed wrong. I’m a fraud.

  “My mother,” he said, “isn’t like you.”

  “Honey, if she had a personal chef, that’s for darned sure.”

  There it was again. The humor. “Chef aside, your personalities are different.”

  He took a second to frame his thoughts, line up the adjectives just right so he didn’t come off sounding like a rich, spoiled kid dissing his mother. “She’s…tough,” he said.

  And scary as shit when drunk.

  “Tough can be good,” Miss Joan said. “Was it?”

  He moved two more pancakes to the platter and poured more batter. Then he turned to face Miss Joan, meeting her gaze head on. “She’s not you. Everyone should have you. She taught me a lot, though. Made me resilient. My protective instincts and an ability to deal with crisis resulted from her. I’m also a forward thinker. For that, I’m thankful. The rest?” He shrugged. “Can’t w
orry about it.”

  Because, yes, folks, he’d spent his entire adolescence thinking ahead to the day he’d leave behind his batshit crazy mother and her iron fists.

  Voices sounded from the porch followed by a woman’s laughter. The door flew open and banged against the wall and Miss Joan sighed. Reid stepped inside, his shoulders taking up half the friggin’ doorway. The guy was huge.

  Behind him, Maggie gave him a shove. “You’re such a jerk.”

  Wisps of her honey-blond hair hung loose from her ponytail and her face had a glow that came with released endorphins. She wore second-skin tights again and an unzipped hoodie over a sports bra that displayed tight abs. The vision did nothing to dismiss the idea of his own set of handcuffs.

  A welcoming smile took over Miss Joan’s face. “Well, good morning you two.”

  “Hey, Mama,” Reid said. “Superstar, you ready to work?”

  Arms extended, Miss Joan took two steps toward Maggie.

  “Oh, Aunt Joanie, you don’t want to hug me right now. I’m seriously sweaty.”

  Miss Joan waved that off. “Nonsense. You know I love you any way I can get you.”

  She wrapped her arms around Maggie, pulling her in. And if Miss Joan’s hand on Maggie’s back wasn’t all that interesting, the profile of Maggie’s tights hugging her ass was extremely fascinating.

  At least until Reid cleared his throat. Jay glanced over and got the I will fuck you up look from the badass former Green Beret.

  Jayson went back to his pancakes, carefully flipping them while Miss Joan released Maggie and pulled out two chairs. “Sit. Both of you. I’ll get plates. Jayson is treating me to breakfast, but it looks like he has enough batter there to stretch. How about I start bacon? We’ll cheat and microwave it.”

  “Speaking of bacon,” Reid said, dropping into a chair. “Wait’ll you hear this one.”

  Maggie smacked him on the shoulder. “Don’t even start.”

  “Hey,” the big man said. “Not my fault he buried you. With bacon.”

  Miss Joan arranged bacon on a plate. “I swear, y’all speak in tongues. Is this about dinner the other night?”

  Reid made a dinging noise. “The sprouts won. How she let sprouts beat sweet potatoes, I have no idea.” He looked at Maggie. “How does that happen?”