Marabelle pitched forward, grasping the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white. “I was being facetious,” she said through cold lips. “Nobody is going to agree to auction himself off to a room of drooling, miserable housewives with too much money. It’s degrading.”
“It’s da bomb!” Carol Evans shouted in all her New Jersey glory. “A live bachelor auction! The perfect addition to this year’s gala. I can see it now.” Her eyes took on a dreamy quality while her hand floated in front of her face as if reading a marquee. “It will be a huge success. The mothers at St. Michael’s are going to be pea-green with envy.”
The image of besting her good friends, who gave of their time and money at St. Michael’s, probably danced in Carol Evans’s over-bleached head. Raleigh’s high society had stringent requirements: children needed to attend either Trinity Academy or St. Michael’s. The schools shared a long, bitter rivalry and just mentioning them in the same sentence was risky.
“I’m bidding on Coach Frasier. His abs make a great six pack,” Mrs. Cartwright cackled as she snipped the end of a black thread.
Beak-Face Crow, the Blondie Twins, and even Mr. Turner talked at once as their excitement escalated over the racy new element to be added to this fine Christian event.
Marabelle watched in horror. The tornado was heading her way and there was no stopping it.
* * *
Nick Frasier strolled into room B12, where his nephew attended kindergarten. He glanced around the empty classroom and then at his Rolex Submariner. Three minutes past four. The room appeared to have been swept clean of debris from a day of active kids. The small chairs pushed under the laminate desks looked like obedient little soldiers, and a hint of Lysol hung in the air as if the desktops had been wiped down. But no signs of life.
Until he heard grunting.
Nick’s eyebrows rose as he caught sight of an attractive, heart-shaped ass poking out from under a wall of cabinets below the windows across the room. He spied hot-pink panties peeking from the bottom of a pleated skirt.
He double-checked his location.
This was where his nephew went to kindergarten. Hand-painted pictures tacked up willy-nilly, toys lining one wall, Play-Doh, paint smells. Yep.
So what kind of place were they running around here where young women showed their butts off to anyone who happened to walk by? Nick cleared his throat just as Miss Cute Ass yelled, “Gotcha!” and bumped her head scooting her way out from under the furniture.
“Shhhugar. That hurt.”
A petite person struggled to stand with a very large ball of caramel fur cradled in her arms. He remained unnoticed as she marched to the guinea pig cage on a nearby table and placed the furball on its wheel. She turned while brushing hair off her front, glanced up, and stopped short.
“Whoa, you’re huge.”
Miss Cute Ass gawked, but whether from fascination or fear, he couldn’t tell. He figured she’d seen him on TV, of course, when the camera would pan the sidelines of a Cherokee game. He always wore a billed Cherokee cap like the one he had on today, but with a headset attached, and he usually paced up and down the sidelines, barking orders or reviewing plays on a beat-up clipboard. But against the other players, the Carolina blue skies, and evergreen pine trees, he imagined it could be hard to determine true size.
He smiled as she started babbling.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to imply…it’s just that you look much smaller on TV.” She motioned with her hand. “Would you like some hand sanitizer?” She squirted some onto her palm from a huge commercial-size pump that sat on the edge of the teacher’s desk. “You can never be too sanitary around here.”
Nick couldn’t agree more, but declined as she rubbed the clear goop over her palms and around the backs of her hands as if she were scrubbing up for surgery.
“Well, now we can shake hands without spreading germs.” She thrust her small hand forward. “Hey, I’m Marabelle Fairchild, Brandon’s teacher’s assistant. Mrs. Harris is on maternity leave.”
Brandon’s teacher? She had to be kidding.
Nick masked his surprise as he engulfed her much smaller hand in his, shaking it firmly but gently. “Nick Frasier, Brandon’s uncle. I believe you wanted to meet with me about something?”
* * *
“Uh…Ms. Fairchild?” Coach Frasier gently shook her palm again. Marabelle stared at the end of her arm where her hand used to be, swallowed up within his warm grasp.
“Oh.” Marabelle snatched her hand back as if she’d gotten too close to a burning flame. Her face blazed. God’s nightgown, she needed to get herself back in the game.
Coach Frasier towered over her. He had to be about six four. A fine specimen, indeed. Chiseled from his jaw down to his toes, the perfect proportions created by his broad shoulders and a trim waist. Naturally sun-streaked, sandy-blond hair curled out from under his red cap. And golden-brown skin only highlighted his piercing blue eyes. The gods had kissed this guy but good. No wonder all the women in this town want a piece of him. Marabelle remembered the painful meeting the day before and what she had to do, and her stomach muscles tightened into a cramped ball.
“Take a seat, Coach Frasier, any seat,” she said, dreading her next course of action. Coach Frasier arched a brow at the room full of miniature furniture.
“How ’bout I just prop myself up against your desk?”
Coach Frasier had a deceptively soft but husky voice. Marabelle had the strangest sensation of melting butter on top of a steaming bowl of homemade grits. Lord, this man was dangerous with a capital D!
Marabelle gave Coach Dangerous a covert glance from beneath her lashes as he rested one hip on the top of her desk. It wasn’t so much what he wore as how he wore it. He made ordinary clothes look extraordinary. His off-white Nike fleece pullover with the Cherokee tomahawk logo hugged his mile-wide shoulders, and his well-worn jeans, snugly fit to showcase his muscled thighs, dropped comfortably over expensive brown ostrich-skin boots. Why do all football players have to play cowboy?
A large hand waved in front of her face. “Ms. Fairchild?”
“Sorry. I was having a moment.” Marabelle erased the fantasy of playing cowgirl to his sexy Clint Eastwood and marched around her desk. “Um…just let me get my folder.” She rustled through a stack of papers, hoping to get her mind out of the gutter and back on track.
“Is Brandon in some kind of trouble? Is he doing well in school?”
Marabelle’s head popped up, the shuffled papers forgotten. “Oh no. Brandon is completely out of control and in danger of becoming much worse, but that’s not why I called you here.”
Coach Frasier’s head jerked back. “Excuse me? Do you really teach here?” he asked.
Wishing she could shove her words back down her own throat, Marabelle gulped. Probably not the best time to bring up Brandon’s awful behavior.
“Uh, yes, and I’m sorry if my comment offended you. But don’t you think it would be better if you knew the truth? About your nephew, that is.”
* * *
Was this some kind of joke? Stumped, Nick openly studied this woman, not caring if she noticed.
No, make that half-woman, half-urchin with curly brown hair wrestled on top of her head in some claw-like device. She couldn’t be more than five feet, if that. Nick’s gaze tracked from her head to her feet. The extra-large gray Trinity Raiders sweatshirt she wore swallowed her entire upper body and fell somewhere midthigh, and a black-and-white-plaid pleated skirt peeked out as if gasping for air.
The only thing with any shape was her legs, and they were nicely formed. Slender ankles and muscled calves showed that she exercised regularly. Small, narrow feet sported a pair of Nike tennis shoes. No glamour in that footwear. Nick’s gaze traveled back up her bulky form and landed on a faint blue paint smudge on her right cheek, which somehow seemed fitting. After sizing her up
, he couldn’t help but mentally question the credibility of the school. She should be taking the class, not teaching it.
Marabelle twisted her hands and gnawed her bottom lip. “Coach Frasier, may I be perfectly frank?”
“Have you ever been anything else?”
She hesitated before answering. “Well, no, but I think it’s an admirable trait.”
Nick bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “Then certainly don’t change on my behalf.”
Blinking huge chocolate-brown eyes, her expression grew more determined. Her face, sans the paint, was attractive. Faint freckles were scattered across her small, pert nose, but her mouth, by far the main attraction, had that bee-stung look that Hollywood stars coveted. For a moment, he wondered if her lips were as soft as they were full, if she tasted…
Where had those thoughts come from? She’s a kindergarten teacher, for chrissakes. He punted those unwanted thoughts right out of the stadium, and got his head back in the game by focusing on her small hands, which seemed to talk even more than her sexy, full mouth.
Marabelle paced in front of the large dry-erase board. “Trinity Academy has a very important fund-raiser every spring that the whole community supports, and this year is going to be extra special, because they’re raising money to improve the football field and add two more tennis courts. And—”
Nick had heard this pitch a million times. Same set-up, different location. “And you want me to contribute to the fund? Right?”
She stopped pacing. “Well, it’s more than just your money. Don’t get me wrong, your money is huge.” Nick chuckled at her lack of tact, but she ignored him, intent on lining up dry-erase markers in alternating colors.
“We need your help in contacting your celebrity friends and asking them to participate in the golf and tennis tournaments,” she said, leaning the markers against the board. “And we want you to ask the single, eligible men you know to sell themselves in our bachelor auction,” she finished all in one breath and turned, knocking all the markers to the floor.
“Um, what?” Nick shook his head as he bent to help her gather the scattered markers. This had to be a joke. “Are you secretly filming me for YouTube or something? Is this some sort of practical joke?” He’d had enough of being secretly filmed to last a lifetime, and if this fairy-tale character thought she could pull a fast one on him, she had no idea who she was up against. His gaze darted around the classroom, searching for a hidden camera. The room looked clean. Then he smirked. “Did my offensive coordinator set this up?”
Kneeling on the floor, Marabelle’s brows puckered. “Who?”
Nick handed over three reds and two blues. “Coach Prichard. We’ve been arguing about the draft, but I didn’t think he was this upset.”
Right on cue, she turned stern schoolteacher. Standing, she released the handful of markers on the metal tray, her back as straight as if fused with a goalpost. “Coach Frasier, this is not some reality TV show and I don’t even know your offensive coordinator. But if he’s upset, I suggest you make nice and maybe you guys will start winning some ballgames.”
Splaying hands on his hips, he narrowed his eyes and delivered one of his fiercest stares. “You tetched in the head or something? Are you telling me how to coach a professional football team?”
Marabelle didn’t flinch. A room full of five-year-olds must be tougher than he thought. Curling her fingers around a ruler in the metal tray as if she might rap his knuckles, she said in the same firm schoolteacher voice, “If there’s dissension among your staff, it would be prudent to smooth things over. Arguing with your staff is bound to affect the players. It just goes to reason.” Tap, tap went the ruler in her palm.
Nick swore under his breath. Many a rookie had backed down from his most intimidating stare. Its effect was legendary. But not on crazy Marabelle. “Ms. Fairchild, you don’t know jack shit about coaching football.” Nick rarely lost his temper off the field, but she’d managed to push all his buttons. Nick knew his young team had struggled last season. He certainly didn’t need reminding from little Miss Muffet. He had the team’s owner, general manager, and the press for that. But Nick believed in his team. They had raw talent, and with good coaching and proper discipline, they’d only get better. Yet it still rankled when confronted with their less-than-stellar record.
He didn’t need this hassle. “I’m out of here,” he muttered, starting for the door.
“Coach Frasier, please wait!”
Nick whipped around to squash the crazy ruler-toting fairy once and for all, when three high school boys barged through the classroom door, carrying large tennis bags over their shoulders.
“Hey, Coach, you comin’ to practice today?”
“What?” The theme song from The Twilight Zone played in his head. Why would he be coming to practice here?
“Whoa! You’re Nick Frasier,” said the tallest of the boys as all three gazes landed on him.
Nick plastered on a smile, not wanting his scowl to be reported all over social media. “Hey, guys. What’s up?” All three eagerly shook his hand, talking at once. “You boys play for the tennis team?” Nick asked in between introductions and hand pumping.
“Yeah. We’re heading to practice and wondering if Coach is coming.”
“Coach?” Still confused, he searched their faces.
“Surprise, surprise,” Marabelle chimed softly next to him.
Chapter 2
“Listen, guys, start your warm-up without me,” Marabelle said.
After several more minutes of slobbering over Coach Frasier, the boys left for the courts. Marabelle pushed the heavy classroom door closed to the celebratory high fives, taking a moment to inhale much-needed air to calm her nerves. She turned, facing the man who stood between her and a successful auction…and her future.
“Um, could we start over?”
“You’re a coach?”
Marabelle barely refrained from smacking her forehead with her open palm. She half chuckled, half smirked. “For the varsity tennis teams.”
Surprise lit Coach Frasier’s expression. “You actually play?”
“Since I was six.” Time to steer the conversation back to her cause: approval from the board and a permanent teaching position. Marabelle clasped her hands together and in a steady voice, said, “Let’s see if we can focus here. I’ll start by apologizing for fouling this whole thing up—”
“You don’t look like a tennis player. You barely look like you can ride a tricycle.”
Marabelle stepped closer, ignoring her quivering belly, determined to say her piece and get back to the reason for this meeting. “There’s an entire world of sports beyond football out there. You should give some of them a try. Besides, what I lack in stature, I make up for in guts. Now, can we get back to the business at hand?”
Coach Frasier peered down at her, his gaze zeroing in on her mouth. Heat crept up her face under his intense scrutiny. She nervously slicked her bottom lip with her tongue and could’ve sworn he groaned.
“Okay, Ms. Fairchild, start from the beginning.”
The tension in her shoulders eased as she exhaled. She explained how she was responsible for the tournaments and securing eligible men for the auction, barely managing to omit that her independence, pride, and sense of worth were all at stake. Marabelle had thrown away a fortune…literally. She couldn’t afford to screw this up.
“So will you do it?” She crossed her fingers behind her back.
Coach Frasier relaxed his hip against her desk again. He crossed his powerful arms and tilted his head, his mesmerizing blue eyes making a slow glide from her forehead down to her tennis shoes. Marabelle nervously shifted her weight from one foot to the other. If she’d been the kind of woman who fussed over her appearance, she would’ve been insulted by his blatant perusal. But she wasn’t here to win a beauty contest. She had a job to do.
“None taken. And yes, compared to the rest of the staff, I actually look pretty good.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Hard to believe, huh?”
Coach Frasier’s gorgeous head fell back as he burst out laughing, flashing straight white teeth. He had one of those warm, masculine laughs.
Marabelle liked it—a lot.
Smiling, she pushed up the sleeves to her sweatshirt. “Okay, okay, so I’m not in the big league.” Damn, her small stature always put her at a disadvantage.
“Honey, you aren’t even in the Pee Wee league,” he said between hoots. “Has the committee ever conversed with you? I’m no expert or anything, but you kinda lack the finesse for winning friends and influencing people.” Coach Frasier grinned.
Marabelle shot a grin right back, mimicking his body language by folding her arms. “I have zero tact. That particular gene skipped me. But I’m a damn good teacher and the students love me. Crazy as this sounds, I relate much better to children—”
“Now that I believe!”
“—and if I strike this deal with the sexiest, most famous guy Raleigh has ever seen, I will improve my status here at the school in a big way.” Now there was the understatement of the century.
She bent to straighten a cup of crayons on one of the small desks when Coach Frasier entered her space. “You think I’m sexy?” he said in his smoky voice.
Marabelle straightened her shoulders. “Give me a break. Like I’m telling you something you haven’t heard since coming out of the womb. You and I both know that every single woman and half the married ones would sing ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ naked on the fifty-yard line at the Super Bowl just to go out with you.”
“Now that sounds promising. Would you?”
Coach Frasier moved so close, the glittery blue of his eyes showed flecks of steel gray. An involuntary shiver ran up her spine. Marabelle knew what the feeling meant and didn’t like it. At. All.
Sweet Southern Bad Boy Page 31
