“Kale chips.” When he wrinkled his nose, she nodded. “I know, my thoughts, too. But they’re supposed to be really good.”
“Says who, some fruitcake on Pinterest?”
Since that was exactly where she’d gotten the recipe, she chose to ignore that. “And we’re washing it down with some juice.”
When she put the mug in front of him, he glared in it. “It’s green.”
“It’s a green superjuice,” she said simply, biting the inside of her cheek. “It’s supposed to be extremely good for your digestion.”
“It looks like it went bad a few weeks ago.”
She turned, giving the kale her attention because otherwise she would laugh out loud. A moment later, she heard him sputter and gasp.
“What. The. Hell. Was. That,” he bit out. She turned and handed him a paper towel, letting her smile show now. “You’re trying to poison me?”
“Oh, stop.” She waited for him to mop up the little bit he’d dribbled on the countertop. “It’s just juice.”
“Juice that tastes like . . . I don’t know. Stale socks and death.”
“Stop. It’s just got some green stuff in addition to the apples and pears.”
“You fed me green juice.” He tried to scowl, but she could see the impulse to laugh behind it. “I can’t believe you put vegetables in a juice, on purpose, then fed it to me. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“So sorry.” She settled the plate of kale chips in front of him and came around to sit beside him. “Maybe these will erase the taste.”
He eyed them then shook his head. “No, nope, not going there.”
“Oh, come on.” She nudged his side, then grabbed one and popped it in her mouth. “See? They’re actually not terrible.”
“Not terrible. What a sales pitch.” He took one, slowly brought it up and took a bite that wouldn’t choke a squirrel. “Not quite the same as a bag of sour cream and onion chips, but I’ve had worse.” He pointed. “Like that juice.”
She laughed and leaned her head against his shoulder. Her back was aching, thanks to bending over the stove all day making four days’ worth of food to package for Stephen’s lunches. He reached up and rubbed one shoulder, and she moaned.
“Found a sweet spot, huh?” He tilted her back straight up, then stood and bent her over the counter and began to walk his fingers up her spine. She rested her cheek against the cool granite. “You’ve got some rocks in here, Mags. What have you been up to?”
“Grilling, steaming, chopping, mincing, and brewing. The last of which you did not appreciate.” He found a weak spot and dug his fingers in, making her gasp. “Oh my God, are you trying to kill me?”
“Just a part of the service here at Chez Stephen.” His fingers gentled a little—though not much—and kept going. “If I’ve learned anything from my trainer, it’s that muscle abuse like this has to be paid for, either in stretching or in a massage. I can’t stretch you, but I can do this much.”
She sighed and let his strong hands do the work. Every so often, her body jerked forward during a particularly forceful push, squashing her breasts against the edge of the counter. She wasn’t about to complain. But it sort of gave her the feeling of being taken from behind. Possessed in an animalistic sort of way. As if he came home, found her cooking, and had to release some training tension, and her body was the only way . . .
Her skin flushed from head to toe, and she pressed a hand to her cheek to hide the color.
“What’s wrong? Too hard?”
Oh, no. Just hard enough. Really pound me from behind. Rock my body. That’s the way.
She bit her lip to keep the hysterical giggle from releasing. “I’m good,” she squeaked. Clearing her throat, she changed the subject. “How was your workout?”
“Good. Great, actually. I’ve gained about five pounds since I got home.”
Ah, to be a man and actually know joy in that statement. “That sounds promising. All muscle, right?”
“You’ve got it.” He paused and she looked behind to see him flexing his left biceps in a parody of a bodybuilding stance. She rolled her eyes and snorted.
“I’ll be impressed when you’re up another twenty.”
“We’ll get there,” he said simply and went back to the massage.
We. They were a team. Partners. A pair. A we.
It could have been a slip of the tongue. Likely was. She had to stop reading into every little thing he said, every move he made. It would drive her crazy and make the whole situation uncomfortable for both of them.
We.
Too bad that simple two-letter word sent her heart racing.
Chapter Eight
She’d gone quiet, and he had no clue if it was the backrub or thinking about the work she’d done, or if she was just tired. Maybe a combination. She’d been in a good mood when he came in, so he knew that wasn’t it.
“Everything okay with you?” he asked, hoping his voice sounded casual.
“Yeah, it is.” She waited a beat. “I spent the morning doing some business research. I’m wondering if I should take a business class or two while I’m not working. Online, I mean,” she added quickly, as if she didn’t want him getting the wrong idea. Not that there was an idea to get.
“I think that’s a great idea. If you want to take it out in town, that would work, too. You aren’t chained to the house, Mags. Do what you need to. This is your time as much as mine to get goals accomplished.”
“I know, I just . . .” She faded, and he gave her a chance before squeezing her shoulders a little.
“What?”
“I don’t want to leave you alone at night,” she whispered, then turned her head into her arms, as if hiding.
She worried about him being alone. Relapsing if she wasn’t around. Because she was getting paid for it? Or because she cared?
“I’ll be okay for an hour or two while you take a class, Mags. If you need to, you can drop me at Trey’s or Josiah’s for the time you’re on campus. Babysitting,” he added with a laugh. She turned her head on her arms to look behind her. “Really,” he said, sobering now. “It’s okay. Do what you need to do. Don’t let me get in your way.”
She nodded, but he wasn’t sure she believed him.
They’d talk about it more. And if it was about the money, he’d pay for the damn classes and make her go. She had such promise. He refused to let her walk away over something trivial like a few dollars.
“Let’s go out for dinner tonight.”
Her head popped up at that. But her eyes were wary. “Where?”
He debated giving her the name of a clean-eating paleo restaurant his nutritionist had recommended, but knew she’d probably take a swing at him. “Just out. Your pick. Feeling like a burger and fries, maybe? Or pizza?” Both ideas had his mouth watering.
“You,” she said, poking a finger into his chest, “are not supposed to have either of those.”
He caught her hand and flattened it over his heart a moment. “My nutritionist just gave me the go-ahead for a cheat day every so often. I’ll journal it and not go overboard.” He wouldn’t. This job was too much a part of his life to give it up for a junk-food binge. He’d never gain the right weight the right way if he slipped back into old habits.
He could almost see her mentally calculating the risks and rewards right before his eyes. Then she made a decision. “Since it’s your cheat meal, you go ahead and pick.”
“Then babe, you’re gonna need to get fancy.”
Her eyes widened a little, then she nodded. “I’m going to go change.” Reaching up on her tiptoes, she kissed his cheek and raced around him. “You’re paying!”
“I already figured that,” he answered to her retreating back. As soon as she disappeared around the stairs, he reached down to his groin and adjusted the erection he’d been doing his best to hide since he’d first touched her.
He was already paying . . . just not how she assumed.
***
Wal
king out from the restaurant, Margaret grabbed his elbow to steady herself. For the first time since he could remember meeting her over two years ago, she wore heels and a nice dress. She’d always worn her uniform, or simple lounging clothes, or for the barbecue, capris and a shirt with sandals.
But this Mags . . . was a new, sultry breath of air. Her hair swept into some low complicated knot thing at the base of her neck, making him want to nuzzle there and see how sensitive she was. The dress’s low back made his fingers tingle to walk down her spine, and the way it clung to her hips reminded him of bedsheets draping over naked skin.
And those heels and what they did for her legs . . . were going to be featured prominently in his fantasies that evening.
He handed the ticket to the valet and watched him hustle off. She shivered, and he rubbed a palm down her bare arm. “Cold?”
“Just the change in temperature.” Leaning against him a little, her voice soft, she said, “Thank you for dinner. That was definitely higher quality than anything I could have picked. I was just going to suggest Applebee’s, and you broke out the five star cuisine.”
He chuckled and rested his chin against the top of her head. She even smelled like a dream. Nothing of the lemon-scented cleaning he’d come to recognize as a hazard of her job. Was it odd that, as delicious as she smelled now, he sort of missed it?
“Nothing against Applebee’s, I just felt like going somewhere worthy of this dress.”
“This dress was a splurge a year or so ago. Not even sure what possessed me to buy it.” She smoothed a hand down his front and shivered again. He shoved out of his jacket and draped it around her before pulling her back tight against his chest. As if the warmth of the jacket had been everything she’d ever craved, she moaned and melted against him. “That feels good.”
Down, boy, he warned his penis. Now is not the time to come up for air.
Because he could, and because it felt right, he nuzzled that space just below her ear. A wisp of hair tickled his nose as he sucked gently. She jolted, then angled her neck to give him a bit more space.
“Stephen?” Her voice was shaky, but she didn’t pull away. “What are you—”
“Here you are, sir.” The valet—damn his soul—interrupted them, keys held out with an eager-to-please grin on his face.
If you were so damn eager to please, you’d have taken another ten minutes.
Shaking the thought off, Stephen took the keys, gave the kid a healthy tip, and held open Margaret’s car door.
As Stephen held the door open and watched her slide inside the SUV, he thanked God for that delicious slice of thigh revealed by the rise of her skirt when she hopped up. When he reached over to help her buckle, her eyes widened. But one glance over his shoulder, where the valet stood, pretending to give his attention to anything but them, had her nodding slightly.
So he took advantage of the situation and brushed a kiss across her lips. Just the barest touch, nothing too intense. But somehow, that faint whisper of his lips against hers fired his blood more than he could remember in a long time.
When he pulled back, she was watching him with glassy, unfocused eyes. He closed the door, gave the valet a casual wave, and climbed in on his side of the car as if he were a man completely unfazed by what had just happened.
Lie. Total lie.
The second his own door was closed, he cupped a surprised Margaret’s face between his palms and kissed her like he’d been thinking of doing for the past week. Their lips molded together. Her hands came up to his shoulders, and he hoped to God she wasn’t about to push him away. But after a moment, they snaked up and around, pulling his upper body tighter against him.
The gearshift dug into his hip, but he’d be damned if he stopped now.
Her fingers scratched against his scalp, behind his ears, and he nearly lost the battle to just throw the seat back and cover her body with his.
After a moment, her tongue tentatively touched his, and the flames all but singed his clothes off. He thrust his own to meet hers for a moment, before forcing himself to pull back, just an inch. Her scent infused the minimal air between them, heating his blood.
She took in a shaky breath—mirroring his own unsteadiness—and whispered, “Is the valet still watching?”
Stephen sat for a moment in stunned silence. She thought he’d kissed her because of someone watching . . . to make their relationship look more legitimate. He glanced around, then realized the valet wasn’t even looking, and even if he had been, the tinted windows would have given away almost nothing.
Without a single thread of guilt, he said, “Yeah, he still is.”
***
She barely had time to suck in another breath before his lips were against hers again. This time, there was no testing, no teasing, no waiting for her response. He simply took what he wanted.
Or, no, wait . . . what he thought they needed . . . for the show they were putting on.
The thought of that chilled some of the heat from the kiss. But as his tongue pressed in to lick at hers, her body revved up again. There was no need for tongue, unless he wanted it. So this, whatever it was, was not just for show. Even if he wasn’t realizing it.
She threw herself into the kiss, letting her hands roam over his body. He’d started regaining some muscle, filling out a bit, but was still nowhere the size he used to be. His arms were hard, straining to keep him up and positioned over the center console. And his chest was like stone as her fingers traced over the hills and valleys of his cut body.
A car horn honked behind them, jolting them apart. Stephen rapped his head on the top of the SUV and cursed. She tried to bite back the giggle, but it managed to squeak out.
Rubbing one hand over the top of his head, Stephen grinned like a little boy caught midmischief. “Guess we’re holding up the line.”
“Guess,” she agreed, then settled back into her seat and stared straight ahead. She would not look at the valet. She would not look, she would not look, not look, not look . . .
Well, she wasn’t Superman. She looked.
The valet wasn’t watching them with rapt attention, or even looking at them. The guy had his back turned completely, as if he didn’t realize they were even still there. Had he been watching at all?
Stephen buckled his seat belt, started the car, and drove off without another word. But she couldn’t help turning her head to watch out her own window and hide the small smile that crept across her face.
***
Mags didn’t wait for Stephen to open her door when they pulled into the garage. She’d been getting in and out of cars by herself for over a decade now—why change? He looked a little annoyed, but said nothing as they entered the house.
“I’m tired,” she said, faking a bit of a yawn. “I think I’m just going to head to bed.”
“Oh.” He paused by the kitchen island, letting his keys drop. When she raised a brow, he flushed and scooped them up again, taking them to their designated spot by the door. “Sorry. Old habits.”
“Hmm” was all she could manage as she watched him unbutton his shirt. Had they turned the air off while they were gone? Why was the house so hot?
Three buttons down. “Mags?”
“Hmm?” He started in on the cuffs of his shirt. Wrists were amazingly sexy. How had she never known this fact before?
“Mags.”
“What?” she breathed.
“Are you going up?”
More like falling, hard. “I’m . . . yes. Yes, going up now.” Before I jump you and you have to fend off a wild woman. “I . . . good night.”
She ran as best she could in her heels—women who did this in movies made it look suspiciously easy—and managed to make it back to her bedroom before she changed her mind. Seducing the man who was essentially making her dreams come true seemed like career suicide. Wasn’t there some sort of saying about not mixing business and pleasure?
As she pulled on her rattiest pajamas to discourage midnight wandering, she men
tally shored her defenses back up. This had to work. She couldn’t let him down, and she couldn’t let herself down. Time to grow up and stop acting like a lovesick teenager.
Chapter Nine
Burt Talbin, assistant coach of the Santa Fe Bobcats, was an unassuming, out-of-the-limelight sort of guy with a real penchant for downplaying almost anything in his life besides football. Though many of the guys had been on the team nearly a decade or more, they barely knew his wife or his grown children. In fact, Stephen was pretty sure both of Talbin’s kids had left the area, if not the state.
It was a stark contrast to their head coach, who had used his family in the past as a springboard—or maybe poster board—for his work and philanthropic endeavors, and often acted as hostess for team functions. Tabitha Jordan sat on many charity boards, and their kids were often polished up and trotted out for games and other events. Tabitha seemed to thrive on, or maybe even live for, the thrill of hosting events and chairing committees.
So it was a surprise to Stephen, and almost everyone else, when it was Coach Talbin who extended the invitation to his house for the vets. But as he explained, the rookies would be invited out next week . . . the coaches just wanted a chance to get together with those guys they had known longer.
It sounded a bit suspicious to Stephen’s mind, and to his friends’, as they’d been texting about it since the invitation was issued. But there was no way he was going to miss this opportunity to keep drawing Mags closer to him, by any means necessary.
He hoped, though, to feel out the situation and see if they could dispense with the deception. Mags was uncomfortable with it, and he knew it couldn’t last forever.
The thing was . . . he wanted it to.
Or maybe not forever. That was too fast. He had to keep reminding himself he was an addict, even if he wasn’t partaking in alcohol. His addictive personality made him jump too fast.
Separating his real feelings from his impulse would be the biggest challenge.
His friends had given him surprisingly little shit about his relationship with Mags, though he wondered if they were choosing to go soft on that because they were hard on his recovery. But something told him it had less to do with his disease and more to do with them just plain liking Margaret. And so, when the team was asked to bring their spouses or significant others to the get-together at Coach Talbin’s house, Stephen had no problems letting Mags know she would come with him.
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