That, Stephen thought with a grimace, was not going to happen.
He glanced down and noticed the topics indicated with the interview. “I have to have my girlfriend do one with me? Is that really necessary?”
“Nonnegotiable,” Simon said firmly. “People need to see you as a gentle giant off the field.” He gave Stephen a once-over. “Maybe not so giant anymore, but we want to promote a feeling of normalcy and every-guyness.”
“Every-guyness? Is that a word?” When the polished man raised a single brow, Stephen felt about two feet tall. “Sorry.”
Picking up his pen, Simon continued. “Tell me a little about your girlfriend. I understand from the coaches she’s the one really keeping you in check with your sobriety. What’s she like?”
Amazing. Sexy, restful, inventive, warm, driven, perfect . . . “She’s okay.”
When that brow rose again, Stephen shifted in his seat. “I’m not really comfortable talking about her like that. She’s not a part of this.”
“She’s absolutely a part of this. A man who will turn over a new leaf for a woman is a soft side we can exploit and use to our advantage. There is really no reason to deny ourselves that low-hanging fruit.”
Simon talked in circles enough that Stephen wasn’t sure if he was the low-hanging fruit, or Mags. Either way, he wasn’t impressed. “Look, I’ll apologize for my behavior. I’ll talk about getting sober, how hard it was and how I’ll have to work at it the rest of my life. I’ll do encouraging pieces about finding better things to do with my life but drink, and how anyone can do it with encouragement and support. But my girlfriend didn’t sign up for this. So leave her out of it.”
She hadn’t signed up for media spotlights, for interviews, for people to pry into her life. She hadn’t asked for any of it. Mags had simply heard his plea and said yes to helping him.
And, okay, there was money involved. But that was secondary. Right?
Maybe not at first. But they’d slept together. Surely now she wasn’t staying for the cash.
“Mr. Harrison, please focus?”
He blinked, realized the smarmy Simon was still waiting for him. He might not be able to avoid all media with Mags, but he’d shelter her from as much of it as he could. “This list will need some editing.” Picking up his own pen, he crossed out one of the interviews. “Let’s start there.”
Chapter Eighteen
Mags had cleaned everything that could be cleaned. She’d polished everything that could be polished. And in a very, very weak moment, she had even snuck in and organized under Stephen’s master bathroom sink.
Thank God for label makers.
Since the day he’d left, she had gone back to sleeping in her own bed. It felt wrong, somehow, or even presumptuous to sleep in his bed. For all she knew, he’d slept with her in a weak moment, and regretted it even now.
Not that she would know, she thought as she scrubbed the still-spotless stainless steel fridge front. It had been two weeks, and had he called? No. Texted? Nope. Smoke signal? Nada.
Calm down or you’ll rub the stainless right off the steel.
Putting the rag down, she rested her head against the cabinet next to the fridge and breathed. There was only so much planning and plotting for her future business she could do, only so much cleaning of a single house—okay fine, two houses, because Mrs. M had needed some deep cleaning done and Irene wasn’t ready for it, but that was totally pro bono—before she went completely stir-crazy.
No one woman should be alone with her thoughts for this long. It was why people didn’t last long in isolation. Cassie was good company, as were several other Bobcats spouses and significant others. But she didn’t want to get completely sucked into a world that she wasn’t staying in permanently. Those women were only hanging out with her because they thought she was Stephen’s special someone. If she told them she was his housekeeper, they’d never look twice at her again.
Maybe Cassie. Probably Cassie. Okay, fine, a few others. They were decent people, after all. But still.
When the doorbell rang, she nearly broke land speed records rushing at it. Maybe it was Stephen. He’d left early. They’d finished early. They’d let everyone go home because the team was so amazing and awesome and awe-inspiring that there was no more work to be done.
Even as she opened the door, she chided herself for that idiotic thought. And her smile deflated as she recognized the brown uniform of the carrier in front of her. “Oh, hi.”
“Usually I don’t get that look unless I’m holding bills. But I’m pretty sure that’s not what this is.” With a smile, the man handed her a small package the size of a loaf of bread and tipped his head in acknowledgement. With a “Good day,” he was off again, leaving her dumbfounded.
She glanced at the name, and was surprised to see it was hers, not Stephen’s. “I didn’t order anything!” she called out, but he simply waved from his truck as if he couldn’t hear her and drove off.
“I didn’t order anything,” she muttered again, shutting the door. Whoever had sent her something—the company on the label was foreign to her—was going to be upset they’d wasted the shipping on her. She would just have to call them and set the matter straight. Excited at the prospect of ten minutes not thinking about Stephen, she sat down at the kitchen island and sliced open the package, ready to look for the right info to make the call.
The contents stopped her cold. Business cards. With her name on them.
She picked one stack up, tightly bound in plastic. As carefully as she could, she snipped the plastic and pulled one out. It was thick, clearly good quality, and pitch-black. The lettering was done in a metallic silver that shined when you moved it under the light. They simply had her name, under the company name she had given him. Elite Cleaning. And her cell phone number. They were exactly what he’d suggested: simple, clean, and expensive.
Digging through the box, she found no note or anything else that would explain the unexpected gift. But that didn’t surprise her. The gift spoke for itself.
He’d been thinking of her. He believed in her. He wanted her to reach for this dream.
When the first tear fell on the business card in her hand, she quickly sat back as to not contaminate the rest of the cards with her stupid hormonal moment. They were gorgeous. Exactly like he’d explained them. And he’d been right. She wouldn’t give them up for the world.
That man . . . God, she missed him. He needed to come home. Now.
***
Stepping off the bus, Stephen expected to find Cassie waiting to transport him and Trey home. He hadn’t told Mags when they were returning, mostly because he hadn’t been sure . . . sure of anything, really. Sure if she’d still be at his house waiting for him. Sure if he’d make it through the entire three weeks of training camp without being cut, being pushed away, without falling off the wagon and getting himself removed from the team.
Wasn’t sure if he could make it three weeks without her.
But if Trey could, if the other guys on the team who had girlfriends and wives could, then he wouldn’t be the one pussy that caved. He’d given himself multiple lectures about not acting like an asshole the minute he saw her. She’d gotten his gift—she had texted Trey to tell him thank you, but nothing more. He had no clue if it had offended her, if she’d loved it . . . anything.
He was spinning.
When Cassie walked into Trey’s arms beside him, Stephen stepped off to the side and let his bag drop. Give them a few minutes of playing kissy face before asking for a ride home.
A tap on the shoulder from down below had him sucking in a breath. Someone’s kid wanted to play hero worship. Guarding himself for five minutes of nonsense chitchat, he turned, and found Mags instead.
Before he could think twice, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tightly against him. Nose buried in her hair, he smelled the scent of furniture polish and nearly wept with the comfort of it. He’d missed her—missed what she did to him—so damn much.
“Well, hey,�
�� she said in a shaky voice, rubbing his back. “I’m glad to see you, too.”
Realizing he’d violated his don’t come on too strong rule, he let her go and stepped back. He had to stuff his hands in his pockets to keep from pulling her tight against his side in the sea of testosterone they were swimming in. “Hey.”
She took the separation in stride, though, smiling up at him. “Where are your bags?”
“They get delivered later. Just one of the perks of being a professional jock.” He slipped the strap of his single duffel over his shoulder and waved toward the parking lot. “Did you drive or ride with Cassie?”
“I drove. I wasn’t sure if . . .” She bit her lip, looking a little uncertain. “I hope you don’t mind, but I borrowed your SUV to come here. I didn’t drive it any other time,” she added hastily. “I just didn’t know about you and your stuff fitting in my car.”
“Mags . . .” He sighed, then kissed the top of her head. “I don’t care if you drive my car. You can drive it anytime you want.”
“I just wasn’t sure about the plans.”
His plan included getting home, showering three weeks’ worth of training camp and poor water pressure off, and then dragging her into his bed for three days straight to make up for the fact that he’d missed her. Like a sore tooth he’d been compelled to poke at, he’d constantly let his mind wander to her, let her invade his dreams at night. As much as he’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t let anything take precedence over this season, she had . . . and he was shockingly okay with it.
***
Mags let him drive home. He’d missed it, he claimed, though she knew it was more just a male-liking-control thing than his actually missing driving.
Men were so weird.
Cassie had planned to pick him up and had told Margaret as much. But the idea of meeting Stephen at home, alone, for the first time since she’d ducked out of bed in the middle of the night gave her the shakes. If she saw him in public first, it might take the edge off. Might temper some of her potential embarrassment, his potential anger or frustration.
The hug, the absolute joy she’d seen on his face the moment he recognized her, had been unexpected. Pleasant, but unexpected.
After they exited the parking lot, Stephen reached over and took her hand in his, letting them rest together across the center console. He was so at ease with the whole being-a-couple thing. As if it were totally normal, and they’d been doing this for years now.
“How were your three weeks alone? Boring?”
“No, not at all,” she lied cheerfully. “I spent some time with Mrs. M, and hung out with a few of the wives, and Cassie of course,” she added. “Cassie’s two sisters, as well. Irene is going to start working for Mrs. M.”
That made Stephen look at her a moment before turning his gaze back to the road. “Seriously? Doing what, filling buckets with bad attitude?”
“Hey.” She squeezed his hand hard, which did absolutely nothing. He squeezed gently in response, and she felt like a jerk. “She’s a good kid, she’s just really upset about how things are turning out in her life. She’s allowed to be upset that the life she thought was secure is now crumbling. She’ll pull it back out. But in answer to your question, she’s taking my old job. Cleaning.”
Stephen snorted. “That girl hasn’t had to clean a thing a day in her life.”
“She’s a smart girl.”
“Maybe, but cleaning a house professionally is hard work. You’re a hard worker. You’re actually working, not just walking around picking shit up. You understand chemicals and reactions to different surfaces. It’s not just, Hey, I can run a vacuum. She’s not going to have a clue.”
His solemn defense of her career warmed something in her chest, and she fought back a smile. After she got her lips under control, she said, “No, not yet. But she’s willing to learn. I went over there once and helped her learn the basics. I’ll keep doing it later.”
“And for this, you get a cut?”
She blinked, then looked at him. “Why would I?”
“You essentially just signed up your first employee.”
“No, I . . . oh.” That had her smile blooming. “I sort of did, didn’t I? Huh. Cool. Well, not really, because her mother would never let her actually get a job with a cleaning service. The only reason Tabitha said yes to this was because Mrs. M had a rich, well-known husband, she’s a respected lady in the community, and she can technically claim Irene is coming over as a community service project to help the elderly.” That made her laugh. “Mrs. M had serious lemon-face agreeing to that. But she recognized something in Irene, and wants her to have some independence and a job she can be proud of. If that means she has to play elderly spinster for a while, until Irene’s out on her own, she will.”
“What does Mrs. M see in her?”
“Me,” Mags said quietly, then watched out the windshield as Stephen took the exit for home.
***
There were two options, as Stephen saw it. Reaching for a towel, he dried off, feeling immensely better after using his own soap, his own washcloths, his own pulsing showerheads, which could blast the chrome off a bumper. He loved training camp for the physical, team-building aspect. All football, all the time, and all that. But he also liked his creature comforts. So sue him.
Option one . . . he got dressed and sat down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, a whole-grain muffin, and talked with Mags like adults about what had happened the night before training camp, why she’d run out, and how they would continue on.
Option two . . . he dragged her into bed and let their bodies do the talking.
Because the way he saw it, there was only one outcome. Just two ways to get there. Her, plus him, in bed, period.
He walked into the bedroom, wrapping the towel around his waist as she knocked on his closed bedroom door. He wouldn’t have bothered to close it, which meant she’d closed it at some point for him.
“Yeah?” He paused at the dresser where he kept his boxers.
“Your mom’s on the phone. Do you want to take it, or call back?”
He looked into the drawer where his underwear resided . . . and found T-shirts. Mags had been organizing again, and he had no clue where his boxers were. That, he decided, was his answer from up above. “Here, hand it in.”
She opened the door a crack and thrust in just her hand, gripping the cordless from the kitchen. He wrapped one hand around her wrist and part of her forearm and yanked until she was inside. She shrieked, then slapped a hand over her mouth.
With a grin, he grabbed the phone and said, “Hey, Mom. Yeah, I’ll call you back. Lots of unpacking.”
Mags glared at him, her eyes promising retribution.
“Oh, of course. Margaret did mention you’d just gotten home,” his mother said.
Seeing a weakness, Mags poked at his stomach. He sucked in a breath.
“Are you okay, sweetie?”
“I’m good, Mom.” He bent down low and shouldered into her stomach, lifting her off her feet. She grunted, then slapped at his back. “Just really busy. Call you later, love to the girls.” He clicked off and threw Mags on the bed, laughing when she bounced and fumbled to keep her shirt from riding up over her bra.
That, he decided, would be taken care of soon.
“Oh my God!” She glared at him, then the phone. “Your mom totally knows what you were up to now.”
“Uh-oh. I might be grounded.” He stilled her as she fought to climb out of the massive bed. “Stay.”
She looked like she was actually debating it, then settled back on the bed. “I want to hear about training camp.”
“You will.”
“No funny business?”
“Nothing I am about to do or say will be remotely funny,” he promised with a straight face.
“Clever.” She softened a bit, cupping his face as he crawled next to her. “Thank you for the business cards. I love them. They’re perfect.”
He wanted to puff out his ch
est with pride, but he resisted. “I missed you like crazy.” He pressed a kiss to her wrist, holding her hand against his jaw. “Please tell me you aren’t upset about what happened between us that night.”
“Not upset,” she said slowly, “but embarrassed. And maybe a little panicked. You invited me into your home and I’m here to do a job and I didn’t want to jeopardize your sobriety.” She covered her face with her free hand. “I’m an idiot.”
“You’re adorable. And you didn’t jeopardize anything.” He let her arm drop to the bed beside her, kissing her neck. When he encountered the strap to her tank top, he moved it down her arm.
“Stephen?” she asked, sucking in a breath while his mouth cruised lower. “This feels like funny business.”
When he reached the cup of her bra, he took a moment to admire the pretty lace. Not at all what he expected from his practical, perfect Margaret. Then he folded the cup under until the majority of her breast was bared. With one lick around her nipple, he drew back and blew cold air and watched with fascination as the skin puckered and ruched into a fantastic bud. “I’m not laughing. Are you?”
As he took the whole tip in his mouth, she shuddered out a breath. “No.” Her hands tunneled through his hair—way too long, since he’d missed his regular haircuts during camp—and held him firmly in place. “Not laughing. Not at all.”
He repeated the move with her other breast, until she started wriggling and fighting him. “What?”
“My bra is suddenly too tight around my rib cage. Help.”
He rolled her to her stomach, caressing the skin of her back before unhooking the bra and helping her remove both it and her tank top. When she rolled back and simply pressed her front to his, nuzzling against his chest, he wrapped his arms around her and held on. They were naked from the waist up, and he’d already started something he wasn’t about to go back on. But the moment was comforting, not sexual. Two people who had missed each other too much since they’d been apart. Two people who needed reassurance it wouldn’t happen again anytime soon.
Stephen knew the old married guys were pros at leaving their wives behind. The wives were pros at being left, and handled it with class. But he had no clue how. Three weeks without touching Mags had nearly driven him insane. If alcohol had even been an option, he might have lost the battle to drown out the noise in his mind being apart from her had caused.
Takes Two to Tackle Page 18
