Estie had to laugh.
“I’m so sorry.” Brett groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands.
“It’s fine; he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“Yeah, but that’s a small consolation.”
Meanwhile, Bongo sang a profanity-laced rap song, complete with musical sound effects. Brett sighed and turned to the cat crate. “This is Blackjack. He’s old and crotchety, but once you get to know him, he’s a real lover. He can stay in the crate for now.”
Estie peered inside. The cat hissed and turned its back on her. “Good idea.”
“I’d better get back to the guys. Thanks again.”
“My pleasure.” And it was, especially after seeing the happy grin on Brett’s face.
Estie stood by the window and watched the men as they hauled in box after box and carted big pieces of furniture as if it was light enough for a dollhouse. Brett joined right in, pulling his weight. Estie watched as he piled a couple large boxes on top of each other. His biceps flexed under his tight, long-sleeved T-shirt and his sandy brown hair dripped with sweat, despite the cool day. The same sweat that caused his shirt to cling to that magnificent chest and rock-hard abs.
Estie licked her lips. Her vibrator would get a workout tonight, just picturing the scene.
Brett would be the ultimate renter. He was never home, not to mention his furry kids fit in well with her own menagerie. She glanced at Risky, who was lying on his back while Marilyn licked his face. Smart dog to submit to the female.
She turned back to the window, getting a good shot of Brett’s fine ass in his faded jeans as he bent over to pick up something that had fallen out of a box. She’d give anything to see that man naked.
And here she’d thought she just wasn’t as crazy about sex as her girlfriends.
Seeing Brett had her daydreaming about doing it every which way and in every imaginable location. She’d never before thought of sex as anything but in a bed and on the bottom. She didn’t want to be just on the bottom with Brett, she wanted to be adventurous, to try new things, to—
She shouldn’t be thinking about banging some guy’s brains out when her life needed some serious repair and strategic planning, especially a man with as many dark, secret places as Brett obviously had.
She’d lost her mind. Gone completely mad. And she couldn’t stop the madness that filled her imagination with images of a naked Brett and an equally naked Estie.
Bye week.
With some great stretch of luck—the kind Brett didn’t usually have—the Steelheads had earned a bye and a week off while the wild-card teams battled it out. He used the time to study film and dissect his technique, his strengths, and his weaknesses, all under Tyler Harris’s relentless gaze.
Brett also studied the great quarterbacks of the present and past, especially the smaller guys because they all shared one thing in common: they played bigger than they were and made everyone forget they weren’t six foot four.
Determined to be one of those guys, Brett was exhausted by the time Saturday rolled around. He stood in the shower of his new apartment, steaming water pounding his body. He’d worked long hours all week, despite the team being given a few days off. Harris never took days off, and neither did Brett.
All week the local and national media took turns battering him with negativity and building him back up again. He’d been the subject of several news articles in the last couple days leading up to the playoff game, everything from flattering to downright insulting. He’d heard it all.
Yet he had a few media guys in his corner.
The Steelheads’ Cinderella story is ready to become the next greatest show on turf.
Tyler Harris tutors the Steelheads’ backup, has utmost faith in his replacement quarterback.
The tweets were the worst, and he quit reading them. People could be brutal, and Brett didn’t need his brain riddled with self-doubt crap, not when he was determined to hold tight to his newly found confidence.
Fuck all the doubters. He’d prove everyone wrong and get a big fat contract as a starter somewhere else at the end of the season because everyone knew the Steelheads were still Harris’s team.
Leaving the apartment before six this morning, he’d spent all day at Steelheads headquarters, dragging himself in the door just before four thirty. Tonight was not about football. Tonight was about working with Estie to benefit their mutual passion—animals. Tonight was Yappy Hour and a well-deserved evening away from football.
Tomorrow morning he’d get back at it as far as studying game film, working with his receivers to get his timing down, and trying to absorb everything Harris told him. Prick or not, Harris knew football, especially the quarterback position.
Wearily, Brett lathered up his tired body. Living below Estie didn’t help his sleeplessness, even though he hadn’t actually seen her since he moved in. With the hours he kept, he left before she got up and came home usually after she’d gone to bed. She took care of his animals, but by the time he came home at night, she had them tucked safely into their beds in his basement apartment. Obviously, she didn’t want him coming upstairs to get them every evening.
Some nights he could hear her walking around upstairs. He knew she liked to play Michael Buble in the evenings and slept in the room directly above the one he slept in. Even worse, her bed squeaked.
He’d be sleeping on his couch if Michaels spent the night with her.
God, the thought of Estie groaning and panting as a guy pumped into her made him as hard as a rock, as long as he was that guy. Any other guy and he imagined strangling them with his bare hands. And these hands could do it, not that he advertised those particular talents.
Brett heard Estie turn on her water and knew she was most likely taking her own shower. He closed his eyes. Images of a naked Estie slammed into him. Water ran down her body, across her breasts, beading on her erect nipples—tight, pink nipples hardened into little nubs just perfect for rolling around between his thumb and forefinger. In his fantasy, she knelt in front of him and sucked his dick between her plump red lips.
Brett wrapped his hand around the base of his cock and squeezed, pumping up and down, imaging it was Estie’s mouth and not his hand, which was a piss-poor imitation.
In his imagination, she took him deeper, and her sky-blue eyes gazed up at him the entire time. He buried his fingers in that thick silky hair and gently guided her mouth downward until his dick was fully buried.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.
Brett pumped harder until his body shuddered its release. He sagged against the shower wall. His knees buckled, and he slid down the tile to sit on the floor. He shut his eyes and let the water run over his body until he’d emptied the hot water tank and the water went from lukewarm to damned cold.
On not-too-steady legs, Brett stepped out of the shower and toweled off. Estie’s footsteps echoed above him, and he heard her sweet voice crooning a popular love song.
He threw himself face-first on his bed and fisted his hands in the comforter.
He had it bad. Really fucking bad.
Estie was crazy, batshit crazy. Only an insane woman would step into the shower at the same time as she heard the water running in the pipes of the apartment below. The man she lusted over was in his shower just one floor below her. Naked. As soon as the warm water hit her, she imagined his long fingers running over her body, touching her nipples, sliding down her hips to cup her ass. His mouth traced its own path across her wet shoulders, and she groaned when one of those hands found the sweetest spot of all between her legs.
Only it wasn’t Brett’s hands. Her own were a poor substitution, but it would have to do. She slid a finger inside followed by another and worked them in deep, followed by a vigorous in and out motion. Rubbing her clit, she leaned against the shower. With her free hand, she pinched and tweaked her nipples.
It didn’t take long before Estie came in a bigger rush than she ever had with he-who-would-not-be-named, a.k.a. King of Douches.
Her hands and her vivid imagination did all the work. She couldn’t fathom what the real Brett Gunnels might be like.
God, she’d give a year of her life for just one night with Brett. Just one decadent, no-rules, no-guilt sex. Just one.
Only she was a mess right now and had to get her life in order. She’d told Tyler and Freddie everything. Tyler swore he’d beat the living crap out of Richard, and Freddie promised to help. Only Estie’s threat of death by slow poison prevented them from enacting their revenge. Ty assured her she would continue to handle his finances since he could fucking hire anyone he wanted, and Richard the Prick couldn’t—and wouldn’t—do a damn thing about it. He’d already said so. Estie sent Freddie to move stuff out of her office, wishing she could’ve been a fly on that wall. Freddie didn’t end up in handcuffs, so at least she didn’t do any bodily harm to the man.
Estie had trusted a man she’d known since college and made excuses when things didn’t add up. Now she paid with a serious blow to her confidence and a lack of trust in anyone but family. The life she’d planned for herself since she’d been a teenager didn’t exist any longer, leaving her with serious doubt and no direction. Estie without direction was a damn scary thing.
Enough of this internal beating up. She’d devise a new plan, an exciting new future, one that didn’t include any kind of partnership or dependence on a man.
Brett was a friend. That’s all he could be—a friend, a good friend, a nice guy with some secrets and dark shadows. She didn’t need another man with secrets, nor did she need to jump from the frying pan into the proverbial bonfire.
Besides, Brett didn’t need a controlling woman like her, despite their mutual love for animals. He needed a nice, sweet woman who’d settle down with him and give him a couple kids and live happily ever after in a suburban development. That was so not her.
Today was Yappy Hour, and she’d be spending it with Brett, facing even more temptations.
After drying her hair and composing herself, Estie walked down the deck stairs and rapped on Brett’s door. He opened it, wearing his Steelheads jersey, a zip-up Steelheads hoodie, faded jeans that clung to his lean, muscular thighs, and a pair of conspicuously new cowboy boots.
His lopsided smile made her forget all her problems, while his blue eyes stripped her down to her basic essence, and his expression gentled the same way it did when he tried to calm a frightened Risky.
Estie managed her own weak smile, as weak as her knees and as tremulous as her lovesick heart.
“Hey,” he said, his deep voice powering through her offensive line, taking the same path as his smile and sacking her heart for a huge loss—or would that be a gain?
“Hey, cowboy, looks like you’re ready to do some bronc busting.” She liked the boots. They made him an inch or two taller than her.
“I hope not. I need to keep my body intact.”
“And Tyler would kill me if you damaged your throwing arm.” She winked at him. “Someday, I’ll teach you to ride, and you can break in those boots with some good old dust and horse manure.” Yeah, right, just what she needed was to spend even more time with him.
Brett laughed. “I’d love to learn to ride. Someday.”
Estie opened her mouth to promise him a lesson soon but thought better of it. His face fell, as if he realized like she did that “someday” would never happen.
Before things could get any more awkward, she said, “Well, I’m ready to play puppy matchmaker. How about you?”
“Absolutely.” Brett smiled again. He smiled more than he used to, despite the pressure put on him as the team starter. She wondered if she’d put that smile on his face, and if she’d be the one to erase it.
Yappy Hour was wild. Estie ran around like crazy, organizing the workers, making sure the participants had the info they needed, and trying not to fixate on Brett, who sat at a table and signed autograph after autograph. She spotted a few Number Ten jerseys in the crowd, something that wouldn’t have happened before last week’s win.
People crowded around the portable bars set up in the four corners of the room or stood at the high, round tables sipping drinks while discussing the various dogs listed in the Dogalog—Sylvia’s creation to compile pictures and bios of each adoptable dog. Her friend circulated among the guests, sizing them up and suggesting possible doggy matches for them. Little dogs yapped from their locations in their crates, while the larger dogs woofed and strained on leashes. Meanwhile, several people participated in the doggy speed dating, spending three minutes with each dog before moving to the next excited canine. It was chaos, barely controlled chaos, and Estie was in her element, loving every minute of it. Even the quiet Brett seemed to be enjoying himself.
Suddenly—not that she was watching—Brett’s head jerked up, and he shot to his feet, deserting his post and leaving a bevy of autograph seekers standing in line with puzzled expressions on their faces. Estie frowned and made a beeline for him, wondering what the hell just happened. Had someone insulted him or pissed him off, or did the crowds finally get to him? She didn’t know much about his military experiences and even less about PTSD or if Brett suffered from it, but she knew enough to know that the sheer noise and number of people might have been a contributing factor to him escaping from the din of barking dogs and loud people.
Estie paused long enough to assure the fans that they’d have further opportunities to get a signature before the night ended.
As she rounded the corner, she saw what attracted Brett’s attention. A young woman pushed a wheelchair containing a twenty-something man into the banquet room. The man wore an Army baseball cap, and both his legs were missing below his knees. Brett stopped in front of him as Estie halted a few feet away.
Brett bent down, studying the man intently. “Thank you for your service.” Brett smiled one of those rare smiles she cherished.
“Thank you for yours. I’m Mike Wilcox.” Mike smiled and held out his hand.
“Great to meet you, Mike.” Brett shook his hand and nodded at the man’s companion.
“And this is my wife, Dulcie.”
“Great to meet you both.” Brett smiled at her.
The wife spoke next, as she looked over Brett’s shoulder into the chaos beyond. “We’re looking for a dog for Mike. One that might be a companion while I’m at work during the day.”
“I know just the dog. Follow me.” Brett walked slowly across the room as Mike wheeled beside him, leading them to a golden retriever named Goldie. Her name might not be much on originality, but Goldie was a sweetheart of the first degree. In fact, Estie had fallen in love with the dog at first sight and already determined if she didn’t find the right home tonight, she’d take her back to her place.
The two-year-old dog had no vices and had been abandoned by a family who had to move into an apartment when they lost their house. Instead of finding her a good home, they’d left her to run loose on a busy street until a Good Samaritan rescued her before she got hit.
Goldie headed straight for Mike and sat at his feet. Her tail thumped on the carpeted floor as she stared at him with adoring eyes. She’d picked her human; it was love at first sight for both of them. Mike bent forward to whisper in her ear and her tail thumped harder. He hugged her, and she slurped his face. Mike laughed when she leaned into him with a happy sigh.
Estie slid closer and whispered to Brett, “This is the happiest I’ve seen Goldie since we took her into the shelter. She’s done nothing but mope around.”
Dulcie, sporting a huge smile, looked up and nodded. “Same with Mike. It’s a match made in heaven.”
“That it is,” Brett agreed, snaking his arm around Estie’s waist in what appeared to be a purely spontaneous gesture. Estie looked at him, their faces so close—only a few inches more and their lips would touch. She forgot they were in a room full of people or that she’d just broken her engagement and sworn off men. All she knew was that Brett’s arm was around her, and his body warmth seeped into her, heating up every cell i
n her body. She gazed into those pale-blue eyes, and he gazed back like a man with a mission, and that mission was her.
Estie liked being his mission.
As if realizing his arm was around her, Brett dropped his arm and stepped away, looking flustered and embarrassed.
The happy couple and happier dog didn’t even seem to notice the sparks arcing between Estie and Brett.
Estie swallowed and beat back the butterflies careening around in her stomach. “I’d better get back to the speed dating.”
“Uh, yeah, I guess I’d better get back to signing.”
“Thanks. Looks like we have at least one happy match tonight.” Estie’s hand flew to her mouth. She hadn’t meant that like it sounded.
Brett smiled sadly and definitely with longing. “Yeah, at least one.”
Estie hurried away, not wanting him to read the regret in her eyes, to know how close she was to throwing away all her new intentions.
The Yappy Hour was a success. Twenty-three dogs were adopted out via the puppy speed-dating. Brett signed a shitload of autographs, looking pretty dazed and out of his element by his instant popularity. He helped Estie, Sylvia, and the animal rescue staff clean up afterward and pack up the supplies.
After carrying the last box out to his SUV, he caught up with Estie as she locked the door of the building. “That’s it?” He almost looked disappointed for the evening to be over.
She nodded. “All done. I’m starved. I didn’t take time to eat.”
“Me neither. I’ll buy you dinner, unless you’re in a hurry to get home.”
“You’ve got a deal.” Even if she hadn’t been starved, she’d fake it just to spend time with him.
Brett’s big grin did more for her than all the other smiles in the world. He reached for her hand, and she clasped it tight, even though she shouldn’t. It was just a friendly gesture on his part, nothing more.
Like hell. Who was she kidding?
Brett drove his SUV to a small neighborhood bar close to Estie’s house. He held the door open as they entered the old log cabin structure and found a private booth. A few people glanced his way and did a double take. When Brett didn’t make eye contact, they left him alone and minded their own business, much to Estie’s relief.
Hot Read: The Originals (Seattle Steelheads Book 5) Page 12
