“Good God—no! You are not my type.” She flapped her hands as if to brush him away, swaying back to regain her equilibrium.
“What do you mean, I’m not your type?” Coach Frasier boxed her in with the door to her back. “Are you gay?”
Of course he would think that was the only logical reason not to want him. This close, the intoxicating smell of spice and lemon filled her nose. Marabelle’s mouth watered. If he’d been a dish, she would’ve eaten him on the spot.
She chose to refocus on his face instead of his edible broad chest, and almost groaned at the unfairness of it all. Swallowing her frustrated sigh, she said, “Why is it that every time a woman says she’s not interested in a man, she’s automatically assumed to be a lesbian?”
“Because she usually is.” Amusement lifted the corner of his mouth.
“Hardly. Because your inflated ego cannot fathom that a woman might not be interested in you.”
Coach Frasier moved back, allowing Marabelle to draw air into her deprived lungs, but her breath clogged her throat as he pulled keys from his pocket.
He can’t leave now. He jiggled the keys in his hand. “Ms. Fairchild, as stimulating as this conversation has been, you haven’t said anything compelling to convince me to sell my friends and myself for the cause. I’m afraid I need to be going, unless there’s something important you have to tell me about Brandon.”
Marabelle’s hard-earned independence flashed before her eyes. If she didn’t get his cooperation, her mother’s prediction of failing would come true.
Unthinkable.
* * *
“No, wait,” Marabelle said.
Nick peered down at her hand on his forearm, and she released him as if embarrassed. Man, he’d been working too hard if that innocent touch caused heat to shoot from his arm straight to his groin.
Marabelle reached for a folder on top of her desk. “I know I’m not the best salesperson for the job, but if you would take this packet and read it over, I think you’ll change your mind.” Hope shimmered in her huge brown eyes and Nick felt like crap crushing it.
What the hell. He gave a quick nod and took the glossy marketing packet, slapping it several times against his thigh.
Then Marabelle smiled. Really smiled, lighting her entire face, and Nick felt dizzy. A megawatt smile capable of making him forget about her abrupt personality, hideous outfit, and the fact that she was probably gay.
Spellbound, he said against his better judgment, “Okay, Tinker Bell. I’ll read your packet.” Her smile turned high beam, like the sun breaking over the horizon. “I’m not making any promises,” he quickly amended, still unable to avert his gaze.
“Got it. So, when can we meet to discuss the prospects?”
Nick hesitated and then glanced at the keys he’d palmed. “Uh…I’ll call you.” The oldest line in history, and it failed miserably. Marabelle’s megawatt smile faded like a lightbulb growing dim. He needed to get the hell out of here before he made promises he didn’t want to keep.
Nick extended his hand. “Tinker Bell, it’s been interesting, to say the least.”
“Coach Frasier, I’m afraid I can’t let you go.”
“What?” Nick’s hand hung in midair.
Suddenly, he watched in shock as Marabelle threw her back against the classroom door, spread-eagle, barring his exit. “You’re going to have to agree to another meeting before I allow you to leave.”
Nick’s jaw dropped. Allow me to leave? “Or what? You threatening me?”
Marabelle’s chin shot up a notch as she remained plastered to the door. “Y-yes. You gotta go through me if you want out this door. Or…we could be civilized about this and you can agree to another meeting.”
Nick rubbed his hand over his face. “Did you forget to take your meds? Because I outweigh you by at least a hundred and ten pounds, and I don’t want to hurt you.”
Marabelle physically gulped. “Yeah, but I’m tenacious, not to mention desperate.”
“Tinker Bell, I’m warning you. Move away from the door.”
Her stubborn chin quivered but she ignored his threat. “Promise to meet me next week.”
Professional football players had more fear than this crazy fairy, or maybe they just had more sense, because Marabelle Fairchild shook in her little Nike shoes, but she was sticking.
At some point, Nick had made up his mind to meet with her again because she’d been the most interesting weirdo he’d ever encountered and she made him laugh. And lately, there’d been a shortage on laughter in his life. But no way could he let her think she could take him.
Nick cursed low. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you.” Dumping his keys back in his pocket and tossing the gala folder on top of a small desk, he wrapped his hands around her waist, lifting her away from the door. Marabelle flung her arms around his neck and coiled her legs around his hips, clinging to him as if he were a life raft in a turbulent sea.
“What the—?” Nick’s jolt matched the utter shock written on Marabelle’s face.
“Promise me and I’ll let go!” she blurted.
Nick froze. This was no girl he held in his arms. Womanly curves teased his hands through her hideously bulky clothes. She was luscious and soft in all the right places. The urge to peel away the layers to see what lay beneath flexed his fingers. Flashes of hot-pink panties covering a heart-shaped ass replayed in his head.
Nick’s entire body stiffened…including his cock. Marabelle’s eyes flared even wider.
“Marabelle.” He tried disengaging her arms without hurting her, but she squeezed tighter.
“Please,” she begged.
“Monday afternoon. My office. Same time,” Nick gritted through his locked jaw. Anything to get her out of his arms before he did something really stupid.
Her stranglehold loosened and she slowly slid her legs down his rigid thighs.
The betrayal of his own body pissed him off. He pushed away temptation a little more roughly than he intended. “Agreed?” The tic in his right jaw flared to life.
Unaware of his tenuous control, Marabelle nodded. “Thank you so much, Coach Frasier. Sorry about my strong-arm tactics, but I had to make you see reason. I swear you won’t be sorry.” Nick watched as her face morphed into an innocent cherub, making him instantly leery.
“I already am,” he snapped. “Is it safe for me to leave now, or are you hiding a hand grenade in your desk drawer?”
“No. But I almost forgot.” Marabelle lunged toward her desk and scooped up a manila folder sitting on top. “This is the progress report on your nephew. We can discuss it on Monday when we meet. Monday afternoon. Your office. Same time, right?” she confirmed.
With the folder in his hand, he reached for the door. “Until Monday, Ms. Fairchild.” Then he touched the bill of his cap in a mock salute and walked out.
Acknowledgments
So many people to thank and so little space. As always, a team of people have helped, not only with this book, but with putting up with me in the process.
First and foremost, a million thanks to the many bloggers, reviewers, book lovers, and wonderful readers who have encouraged and supported me along this writing journey. You make me keep my fingers on the keyboard.
Thank you to the team at Sourcebooks, including Cat Clyne and Deb Werksman, for their editing skills, and for the staff’s support in making sure Vance and Katie got their HEA.
To my agent, Nicole Resciniti, for being the calm voice of reason.
Paint Boss One and Two…by believing in my ability and sticking with me through my illness, you saved my family and me. I give thanks every day for you and my job.
And PFA, thanks for always talking me off the ledge and for sharing Lenny when the chores need to be done.
Thanks, Inz! For your name and inspiring your character!
And finally
to my many friends, my husband, and family, especially my son and daughter…my love for you will never waver.
About the Author
Michele Summers writes about small-town life with a Southern flair. When not making up stories, she has her own interior design business in Raleigh, North Carolina, and Miami, Florida, where she lived for over twenty years. Both professions feed her creative appetite and provide a daily dose of humor. These days she also stays busy herding her two teenage kids. Michele’s work has won recognition from the Beacon, Dixie First Chapter, Golden Palm, Fool For Love, Rebecca, and Fabulous Five contests. She is an active member of the Heart of Carolina and Florida Romance Writers chapters of RWA. You can contact Michele at her website, www.michelesummers.com, where you will also locate her other social media buttons.
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Sweet Southern Bad Boy Page 32
