Chapter Eleven
Liz was sitting alone in the front row of the luxurious box. She was eating her way through a pile of garlic fries, and there was a tall beer in front of her. She turned her head and gave him a smile. "Hey, did you know we get free food in here?"
He laughed as he sat down beside her. "I've never actually been up here."
"A waitress comes by like every five minutes. Want a fry? They're very garlicky, so you should join me or sit in the next row."
He smiled and took a fry, popping it into his mouth. "Delicious."
"Aren't they? I love these things. So bad for me, but there you go." She gave him a searching look as he took another fry. "How did it go down there?"
"Fine. I'll take some notes for Hank and talk to him tomorrow."
"What about the job?"
"I told him I have a job already."
"I know, but is it the job you really want? You've been all over me about giving up my painting. Aren't you doing the same thing?"
"You had a choice to keep painting; I didn't."
"It sounds like you have a choice now," she said.
He let out a sigh. "I don't know. I feel like I'd be ripping a bandage off a wound that wasn't healed yet."
"I get it," she said with an understanding nod. "Football was your life. It was your connection to your dad. It was more than a game; it was everything. And then fate dealt you a really bad hand. But to your credit, you got back up, took action and made changes.
"Exactly."
"And that’s all great. But something new has opened up for you now, an option you hadn't considered before. And I think you were smart to come here and consider it. In fact, I think it was pretty brave."
He was surprised at the admiration in her gaze. It was not the kind of look he usually got from her. "Well, thanks."
"You're welcome. And since you haven't said I'm wrong about anything; I must be right."
"You always like to be right."
"I usually am," she said.
Her playful smile drew him in. He didn't think about what he wanted to do. He just did it. He leaned over and kissed her surprised mouth and then gave her a grin. "Thanks. And, wow, that is a lot of garlic."
She laughed. "I thought it might ward you off."
"A little garlic doesn't scare me away." He paused. "And for the record, you were right about pretty much everything. Now, I'm going to go find that waitress. I feel like something a little heartier than fries."
"I was thinking about the French Dip," she said.
"You got it. Anything else?"
"No, I'm good."
As he left the box, he felt surprisingly good, too, and that was all because of Liz. She had a way of looking at things that cut through all the bullshit—at least when it came to him. When it came to her own life, he thought she might need to take some of her own advice. But it was easier to see in others what you couldn't see in yourself. Bottom line—he was just exceptionally happy that they'd run into each other again. And for tonight, he was going to stop worrying so much about the decisions facing him and just have some fun with a beautiful, competitive, smart-mouthed woman who made his pulse race every time she looked in his direction.
* * *
Liz had more fun with Michael than she'd expected to have. She didn't know why no one else came to the box during the game, but she enjoyed the private oasis of luxury. During the game, Michael shared some of his thoughts about the offense. It didn't take long for her to realize why Hank had asked for Michael's input. Michael had tremendous insight into the minds of the players. He knew their strengths and weaknesses, knew which physical movements came naturally to them, what their instincts were when they were in trouble, how they reacted to pressure. He was really an amazing analyst, and by the fourth quarter she was wondering just how he could not take the job Hank was offering.
A Blackhawks rep from the team came into the box just before the game ended and handed Michael a signed jersey and football.
"What's this?" Liz asked.
"I asked my friend Keith Saxton if he could sign these for your dad."
She was stunned when he handed her the signed jersey with a message that read: Stay strong, Ron. We're rooting for you. Keith Saxton. Her eyes blurred with moisture as she gazed back at Michael. "You did this for my dad?"
"I know he's a big fan. It's not a big deal."
"It is a really big deal." She was incredibly touched by his thoughtfulness and generosity. He'd been caught up in his own inner turmoil, but still he'd taken the time to think of her dad. She set down the jersey and then threw her arms around Michael's neck. She gave him a hug and a kiss. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," he said, sliding his arms around her waist. He gave her a mischievous grin. "I did get your dad two things, so maybe another kiss…"
She smiled and pressed her lips against his once again.
He tasted like beer, garlic and Michael. It was a dizzying combination, and the kiss went off far longer than it should have. Finally, they broke apart.
She could hear the crowd cheering. In fact, the noise in the stadium was deafening. She glanced toward the scoreboard, which was flashing a touchdown. "We won," she said, having completely lost track of the game.
"We did," he said, but his gaze was on her and not on the game. "It's nice to be on the same side for a change, Lizzie."
And then he kissed her again, his arms sliding around her waist as he pulled her up against his chest. His mouth was hungrier now, not playful or teasing but rather demanding and insistent. His need fueled her desire. She felt like she was caught up in a fever. His lips, his mouth, his hands were all she could feel. All she could hear was the sound of his breath, and all she could feel was his hard body against her soft curves. She ran her hands up under Michael's shirt, delighting in the warmth and strength of his chest. She pushed the material up and Michael helped her strip the shirt up over his head.
She stared at his chest, swallowing hard at the male beauty: the muscled abs, the fine dark hair, the washboard stomach revealed by low riding jeans. Her mouth went dry. She felt a hunger inside of her that was shocking.
And then Michael was kissing her again, running his hands through her hair, holding her face as he assaulted her mouth with so much passion she could barely stand up.
She lost all track of where they were—until the door to the box opened, and a cleaning person came in.
The woman let out a startled gasp and a muttered "Sorry." Then she quickly backed out of the box.
Liz stared at the door in shock, then looked back at Michael. His hair was tangled from her fingers. His mouth showed a trace of her lip gloss, and his eyes were glittering with desire. He started to reach for her again, but she put up a hand. "We can't do this here."
He looked like he wanted to argue, then his jaw tightened. "You're right."
"What was I thinking?" she muttered as he grabbed his shirt and pulled it back over his head.
"You weren't thinking—for a change. You rarely let yourself go like that, and it was great. We are good together, Liz. Better than I ever imagined. And believe me, I have imagined it more than once."
She swallowed hard, not sure how to reply to that. "You probably imagined kissing a lot of girls in high school."
"Oh, I did," he agreed, "and you were definitely on that list—until you broke my nose. Then I decided you might not be worth the pain. But I was wrong. You were worth it."
She put on her jacket and grabbed her bag. She was pretty sure she'd been crazy to hit him the first time, because to think she could have the same kiss back then was unsettling. "Let's go."
* * *
The drive back to her place took only about twenty minutes and neither of them had much to say. Liz was playing through different scenarios in her mind. When they got to her apartment, they could pick up where they left off. That would probably be really amazing. She'd never been this attracted to a man, and the way he kissed made her toes curl.
; On the other hand, this man was her rival. How could she hook up with him? Sex would really complicate things. She'd be crossing a line. It wasn't professional.
But she didn't feel like being professional right now. She'd been putting her job first for a very long time. When did she just get to have fun?
On the other hand, she wasn't just working for herself; she was also doing it for her father, to protect his legacy. Was one night with Michael really worth jeopardizing all that?
She had a lot of questions, but she hadn't come up with any answers when Michael parked in front of her building and followed her up the stairs. He had to come inside, because he'd left his suitcase in her apartment. Now, she couldn't help wondering if that had been part of his plan.
No, that was ridiculous. Michael didn't plan. He was a live-in-the-moment kind of guy and tonight she wanted to be the kind of woman who lived in the moment, but a voice inside her head was screaming at her to be careful.
This was Michael. This was a guy who could hurt her—on a lot of levels.
She slipped her key into the lock and opened her door.
He followed her inside.
She stopped in the middle of the room, not sure what to do next. "So…"
He stared back at her, and he looked serious, far more serious than she'd ever seen him look.
After a moment, he walked slowly toward her. She felt frozen, her heart racing, her palms starting to sweat. The moment of truth had arrived.
He slid his hands through her hair, gave her another long look, an even longer kiss, and then let her go. "Goodnight, Liz."
"You're leaving?" she asked in surprise as he let go of her.
"That's what you want, isn't it?"
She didn't know what she wanted. There was a very big part of her that wanted him to stay.
"I'm—I'm confused," she admitted.
A spark entered his eyes. "Really? That's not a word I'd ever use to describe you. You're always very sure of your purpose, your goal."
"You usually are, too," she said. "So I'm thinking that maybe you're also a little confused."
A smile played around his lips. "I keep forgetting how smart you are. Smart, beautiful and sexy." He shook his head. "You have it all, Liz."
"Then why are you leaving?"
"You didn't ask me to stay." He paused. "Are you asking me?"
She drew in a breath. "I really want to, but—"
He nodded. "But you're not. I'm not surprised. We're in the middle of a competition. And you can't forget that. What I really want to know is if that is the only reason?"
"No," she admitted. "You shake me up, you challenge my thoughts, my plans. You make me question myself. And you make me feel a little needy. I don't know what to do with all those emotions."
"You do the same to me, Liz. You've been doing it since you were a teenager."
"I really thought you were messing with me back then."
"I wasn't. I liked you. You scared the hell out of me, but I still wanted to kiss you."
"I was the nerd with paint on her clothes; you were the most popular kid in school. We did not go together then."
"What about now?"
"I don't know."
For a long moment, they just looked at each other. "I have an idea," Michael said.
"What's that?"
"Let's just hang out. No fooling around. We'll watch a movie, make popcorn, talk."
She gave him a doubtful look. "I almost ripped your clothes off less than an hour ago. You think we're going to just talk if you stay here?"
He smiled. "I can control myself. Can you? We'll take sex off the table—for tonight. What do you say?"
She hesitated but the bottom line was that she didn't want him to go. She wanted to spend more time with him, and he apparently wanted to spend more time with her. "Okay. You can stay for awhile."
Chapter Twelve
We'll take sex off the table? What the hell was wrong with him?
Michael paced around Liz's studio while she was in the bathroom, wondering where those words had come from. Temporary insanity was the only reason he could come up with. Because clearly Liz was just as attracted to him as he was to her, and a better choice of words might have had them in bed together instead of looking forward to watching movies and hanging out.
He sat down on the couch and tried to think positively. He did want to spend more time with her. And, hell, things could change, right?
Maybe if he didn't say stupid things anymore.
He turned on the television and flipped through the channels to see if there were any movies on. Perhaps a good horror film, something to get his mind off sex. Or a sappy romance. Yeah, a chick flick. She'd be happy. He'd be bored, and then he'd go home.
Liz came out of the bathroom and gave him a tentative smile as she sat down on the couch. "Anything good on?"
"There's a holiday movie called A Thanksgiving Love Affair. What do you think?"
She made a face at him. "It sounds cheesy and stupid."
"It's a girl movie."
"Give me the remote."
"No way, I do not give up the remote."
"It's my TV."
"Yeah, but first one with the remote wins," he said, holding it out of reach as she made a quick grab for it. "I was a quarterback. I can dodge three-hundred-pound linebackers. You really think you're going to get this away from me?"
"Well, we're not watching that movie so find something else."
He flipped through several more channels. "There's not much else on."
"Stop," she ordered.
"What?"
"It's a true crime story," she said. "I love those. They start with the murder and then show you all the suspects. It's always surprising. And I love when the detectives find just the smallest clue and make a shocking connection."
"A shocking connection?" he echoed with a smile.
"Well, they usually are," she said defensively.
"Fine, we'll watch this."
"Do you want a drink or something?" she asked. "Before it gets started?"
"I'm good."
She grabbed a blanket off the back of the couch and pulled her legs up under her.
"Hey, what if I'm cold?" he asked.
"I might be willing to share. Are you cold?"
As much as he wanted to get under that blanket with her, he knew that was a really bad idea, not if sex was off the table. "I'm okay for now."
"Suit yourself."
He turned up the volume as the story began and for the next hour he had to admit he became riveted by the telling of a murder in a small New England town and a very unlikely suspect. During commercial breaks, Liz continually changed her mind on who was guilty, and he loved watching her try to put all the clues together. He wasn't bad at that himself, but then he'd always liked puzzles. Which was probably why he'd always liked Liz.
After the drama ended, they watched some old reruns of sitcoms, one of which had a guest appearance by one of their former high school classmates. To remember what that classmate used to look like, Liz dragged out the high school yearbooks, and they talked and laughed about mean girls, mascots, bad teachers and good friends.
"Look at you here," Liz declared, pointing to a picture of him standing at the auditorium podium. "Most likely to be President of the United States."
"That was a bad call."
"It's how people saw you."
"As the most powerful man in the world?"
"Yes."
"Well they'll be disappointed when I show up at the high school reunion without the Secret Service."
"You'll still be the biggest celebrity in the room."
"What were you picked to be?"
"I was picked to be nothing, which was pretty typical of my high school experience. I wanted to be a leader, but it's hard to lead when no one wants to follow. You, on the other hand, were like the pied piper."
"Because I was selling fun, Liz. I was flash; you were substance. Teenagers don't want substance; they wan
t flash."
She stared at him with a thoughtful gaze. "It's kind of nice that you know that." She paused. "What do you think Charlie Hayward wants?"
"I guess we'll find out."
"I have a feeling you'll be selling him fun."
"That is what he wants, Liz."
She shook her head. "No, what he wants is to sell out his park, to be the best in the world, to have people talking about him, to make money so he can keep expanding. I know how to make that happen. Do you?"
"I have some ideas and my sister does as well."
"Is she the one who's really going to come up with the plan?"
"We'll work together on it. What about your company? Are you going to bring in the partners?"
"No, I'm going to bring this account in by myself. Then the partners will have no choice but to make me a partner, too."
"Make sure there's still an actual Palmer in Damien, Falks and Palmer."
"That's right. I have to make sure they don't change the letterhead."
Michael frowned. "So this is about paper?"
"No it's about my dad's legacy. I have to protect it."
He heard the fervor in her voice. He understood that it came from a deep sense of loyalty and love for her father, but he couldn't help thinking she was running someone else's race. "What about your legacy, Liz?"
"The company will be mine, too—someday."
"Are you sure about that?"
"When I get Playworld, I'll be more sure." She paused. "My dad's former partners like to pretend that my dad never existed. But he was the heart of their firm. They were always jealous of him. My dad was the one with all the charm, bringing in all the accounts. But when he got sick, he couldn't take meetings the way he used to. Things started to fall apart for the company, so they wanted to bring in another partner, a younger guy who could do it all. My dad wanted me to take over his position. His partners fought him on it. They said I was too young, too inexperienced and that the firm needed to go in a new direction. My dad was furious. It set back his recovery because he was so angry. I hated to see him like that, so I told him I would take over the company for him. I would do what it took to become so valuable that his partners couldn't ignore me anymore or try to get me out."
Steal My Heart (Bachelors & Bridesmaids) Page 10
