I Promise You

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  A tall, ripped man wearing the tightest black leather pants I’ve ever seen struts into the Piggly Wiggly Saturday night.

  Admittedly, I’ve never seen a dude in leather pants, so perhaps there might be some tighter, somewhere.

  Why is his dress shirt unbuttoned?

  My God, he is cut.

  More importantly, where on earth did he come from? He’s obviously not one of the laid-back locals here in Magnolia, Mississippi. They wear flannels and jeans or Waylon University apparel.

  I tug my earbuds out, cutting off “Girl on Fire” by Alicia Keys. True, it’s my theme song, but this can’t be missed.

  I watch as an entourage of three women float through the sliding glass doors with him like pretty made-up dolls, each one long-legged and busty. They’re also all wearing some form of cowhide.

  One of the girls, a platinum-haired beauty in a red leather mini skirt and platform heels, trails behind him, adjusting his white dress shirt as it billows around his trim hips, giving a peek of tattoos and washboard abs with defined hills and valleys.

  The brunette—dang, she looks like a tall Mila Kunis—wears a purple-fringed suede vest, skinny jeans, and strappy stilettos as she holds his hand and preens.

  A willowy redhead with double Ds flanks his left side, her hand on his shoulder playing with the ends of his golden brown hair as it curls from underneath his ball cap. Her honest-to-God black and white cow-printed mini-dress looks amazing, as if it came straight from a New York runway.

  His hat creates a slice of diagonal shadow on his chiseled face, giving me half a view of one bladed cheekbone and part of a full, pouty mouth. Dark stubble covers his diamond-cut jawline, and a pair of expensive silver-mirrored aviators shield his gaze. A golden belt buckle as big as a dessert plate glimmers at his waist.

  There are so many sensory details hitting me at once that my mind spins and my fingers twitch to write. Serena Jensen uncovers secret leather cult inside the Piggly Wiggly. Someone call PETA.

  Wondering if they’re even real—it’s been a long week—I close my eyes and reopen them. Still there.

  My spidey sense is screaming athlete judging by his muscular build and his height, around six foot, four inches. The man is practically towering, a veritable wall. Footballer, most likely—and not a Southern boy, because they wouldn’t be caught dead in those pants. At least not in Magnolia, Mississippi. Maybe Memphis, just two hours away.

  “Must be a full moon or a banging party,” I muse aloud to a crate of seedless green grapes. They nod their agreement, silently reminding me that only weird people talk to inanimate objects.

  “Just tired,” I tell them as I pick up a bunch, put them in a plastic bag, and tie them off. I worked a catering job for the university last night, and I’m beat.

  The man and his harem move farther inside the store, and a regretful pang washes over me. I didn’t always spend my weekends at the grocery. The parties off campus used to be my favorite, especially the bonfire. Crisp fall weather, local bands, and macho games—there’s nothing more entertaining than watching D1 jocks playing tug-of-war over a mud pit. I sigh. The last college party I went to was the bonfire my junior year.

  I’m not that girl anymore. I work and study. I rarely go out just for fun. Nana says it’s because I’m an Aquarius and we internalize heartbreak, taking longer to recover. My birth sign also means I’m offbeat and peculiar. True.

  Mr. Hot Pants stops at the flower center, and the girls pause with him in sync, six eyes riveted to him, bodies on alert, anticipating what he’ll do next. Maybe buy some supermarket roses for them?

  Snapping a finger, he murmurs something I can’t hear, and the blonde rushes to tug a piece of paper out of her purse. She drops it in his grasp then strokes his cheek before settling back into her position behind him, all of it graceful and mesmerizing—as if they’ve done this particular dance before. He whips off the sunglasses and tucks them handle side down inside the pocket of his dress shirt. Staring down at the paper, he smirks, and I think he mouths, Oreos.

  Next to him, the girls await instruction like well-trained greyhounds. They stand patiently as his phone rings and he answers it, talks, and laughs at whoever is there then tucks the phone into the pocket of his pants. His thighs are muscled and thick, bulging against the leather. His stomach is sun-kissed and hard as iron. And, he’s a leftie. “A nice one,” I murmur to the grapes as the outline of his crotch draws my eyes. It’s been a while, and a girl can look, okay? Just don’t touch.

  The moving around with his phone forces the brunette to lose her hold on his hand, and the redhead jostles to his right side and elbows the brunette—ouch, that looked like it hurt!—then pounces to grasp his hand.

  Chaos ensues.

  “It’s my turn, Bambi! You snooze, you lose!” exclaims the redhead with glee.

  “Listen here, Ashley—” snaps Mila/Bambi.

  “Can’t we get what we need and leave without arguing?” grouses the blonde.

  “Girls, please,” comes his deep voice. “No fighting. The number-one rule: all of you get along or I’m not doing this.”

  Rules?

  Oh, oh, he’s precious.

  The sexy beast emits a lopsided smile that’s somehow perfect, an aw-shucks attitude blended with an air of confidence that only comes from a man who’s had women at his feet since he was born. “You’re all beautiful, sweethearts. Breathtaking, the cream of the crop, and, yes, any man would be lucky to have you on his arm.” He tucks his list away. “But, I’m a lot. Being with me is hard, and really, I’m not worthy of any of you.”

  “You are!” they exclaim.

  Is he?

  “Wicked, wicked boy,” I murmur under my breath. I take in the muscular chest, those rippling muscles. “Hmm. I’d turn you into a centaur if I wrote about you.”

  I sneak a bit closer to them, easing behind a display of Little Debbie cakes. I’m not really spying, not truly, just curious. It’s the writer in me; I get ideas from the strangest occurrences.

  He rocks on his heels, seeming to think for a moment as he gazes at the girls. “Fine, if you insist, you must know that I like a girl who loves the game as much as I do.”

  “We do,” they say ardently.

  He puts his hands on his hips, paces around for several moments in deep thought. “I know you love the game, but my girl also needs a good grasp on my stats—even how fast I run the forty-yard dash.”

  “4.7 seconds,” declares Mila/Bambi, giving the other girls triumphant looks. “One of the fastest in the league for a quarterback.”

  He blinks. “But… I know this is a new thing, so don’t get pissed, but she needs to know the running back, tight end, and wide receiver’s stats too. I know, I know, I see it on your faces—something new. Thing is, in the end, stats help me with my game, and you do want me to play pro, right? Make the big money?”

  “But, Dillon, I already know your stats.” Mila/Bambi rattles off percentages and phrases: total plays, passing attempts, completions, yards rushing… It’s like Greek to me, and I get lost during her Ted Talk.

  “Why are you giving us new requirements?” the blonde demands.

  “Because football is a game of numbers. My girl, maybe the love of my life”—he places his hand over his heart—“will live and breathe numbers…for the whole offense.”

  “That’s eleven players!” she replies.

  He nods. “A complete analysis for the past three years will work.”

  His announcement goes over like a lead balloon as the girls glower and give each other baleful looks, maybe fearing one of the others already has these strange stats in her back pocket?

  He continues, “If that’s too much, I totally get it if you want to drop out. My loss.”

  “We can do it!” Mila/Bambi and the redhead say.

  A worried expression flits over his face, quickly hidden. “Are you sure? You’ll have to talk to coaches and assistants to get the numbers and then make an Excel spreadsheet. Are any o
f you a statistics major?”

  They admit they aren’t.

  “Well, that’s just too bad,” he murmurs. “This is going to be a lot of work. I don’t think you have the time to commit to it. You have classes and your own personal lives.” He sighs—extravagantly—his muscled chest wilting, his shoulders slumping as if they’ve just told him his puppy died. He appears so despondent, I half-expect him to wipe a tear from his eye.

  My eyes narrow. He’s a faker.

  “It sounds easy enough. I’m pre-med with a 4.0,” Mila/Bambi declares, and I stifle a sound of surprise. Jersey chasers for the win, I say! Beautiful, intelligent women can fawn over athletes all they want. I’m a believer in women following their own path, and if she’s in some sort of competition to win this guy’s favor, well, who am I to judge?

  Once, I was like her, and I would have moved heaven and earth for a certain musician. I made myself available the moment he called, skipping classes to go to every gig within a four-hour drive of Magnolia. I treasured each moment we shared together, rolling them over in my heart like little jewels, certain he loved me. Newsflash: he didn’t. Not the way I needed. I wasn’t technically a “groupie” because he called me his girlfriend, but it was a very thin line. Part of his appeal was the music.

  “I’m pre-law, and there’s no doubt I can do it,” quips the blonde with a mulish look on her face. “Though I personally hate math.”

  “Dillon, Babycakes, I can switch my major to statistics,” offers the redhead as she poses in her cow-print dress.

  I bite back my giggle at the flash of fear that flits over his face before he covers it up with that disarming, sexy, oh-so-slow smile. “Nah, no need for that, Ashley. You’re a senior—too late to be changing majors. You’ve got a whole future in…” He purses his lips, thinking.

  “Music. I texted you a video of me singing Taylor Swift’s ‘Lover’ last week. Remember? I said it reminded me of us.”

  “Um, yeah.” Another long-suffering exhalation as he stares at the floor for several tense moments then looks up at them. “Truthfully, I’m asking too much for just a date with me. I know you ladies signed up for this tradition we have between the team and the Thetas, and I’m the prize”—he winces—“but maybe you should move on to Sawyer or Troy and convince them to do it. They’re gonna be superstars, and I’m going to be focused on winning games. This contest won’t lead to a relationship—”

  Ashley tosses her red hair and lifts her chin. “The football players voted you as the prize, not Sawyer or Troy, and you agreed in May. We can’t change it and you can’t back out now. It’s not fair. We’ve been at your beck and call since summer camp.”

  His face flattens. “Yes, I’m aware of your presence everywhere I turn.”

  She smiles sweetly, her nails trailing over his muscled forearm. “We’ll get to work on the stats, and you’ll choose the winner before the dance.” Ashley inspects the other girls, and they nod their assent then look back at him.

  He thinks for a moment then plants his hands on his hips, calling attention to long, tan fingers and his taut six-pack. A long, gusty exhale comes from him. “Son of a nutcracker, alright. Until then, no arguing, no name-calling, and no sneaking into my room at night, feel me?”

  They nod and he seems to find his equilibrium, then murmurs something as he touches each girl, a stroke of his hand there, a cheek kiss for another, an ass pat for the next.

  A bubble of laughter escapes me, but it goes unheard as Patsy Cline sings on the PA system, crooning about being crazy about a man. Seems appropriate.

  I pause, nearly dropping the mango in my hand. Wait a minute… Son of a nutcracker? I know that! Where’s it from? It sounded odd coming from him. It’s not a Southern saying—wait, yes! Buddy the Elf!

  I grab my phone from my purse. Dang, this is so perfect! Just what I need for the photo/video bingo challenge we have going in the journalism grad department. It’s going to be hard to top someone’s pic of Professor Whitley getting his bum attacked by a goose on the quad yesterday (excellent for the Animal Attack on Campus category), but a woman-wrangling athlete quoting Buddy checks the Likes to Quote Will Ferrell box. Gah, I just might win!

  Normally, I wouldn’t be so motivated to win the pool, but the prize is five hundred dollars and this girl needs new tires. Not only that, my poor car is falling apart, overhead lights winking off and on, the motor sputtering at every stop sign and red light. I’m driving on a prayer. The newspaper isn’t paying me for the internship, and my catering jobs are scarce. It would be nice to have extra money and not worry about depleting my meager savings.

  Scrambling around in my purse, I finally find my phone and yank it out, only I stumble over a crate of pumpkins—Why are they out in August?—and my cell flies out of my hand, landing under the refrigerated fish section ten feet away. Dashing over, I bend down, butt in the air, I don’t care, and snag it. Phone clasped tightly, I jerk up to my feet—Success!—but Mr. Hot Pants and his entourage have vanished.

  I blow out a breath.

  Shoot.

  Then I smile.

  2

  “Where are the blasted Oreos?” I say loudly enough to get his attention. My hands plant on my hips (just like his did earlier) as I check then re-check the shelves. “Usually, they’re next to the Nutter Butters,” I tell the strawberries in my cart. It’s sad that my friends are either produce or my family.

  “You missed out,” says a deep male voice behind me. “So good, right? They’re my favorite. I mix up how I eat them. The first bite, I nibble, then the next one I take my time, separate the wafer from the white cream, and lick it off.”

  I realize two things at once. One, he said lick, which is gross, and, two, he isn’t flirting with me, not when his voice screams boredom.

  Fine. I don’t want him to flirt with me.

  Nana likes to say, Serena, you don’t like to start trouble, yet somehow it’s always there when you arrive. Might get that as a tattoo, but first, a long sigh comes from my chest as I prepare to annoy Mr. Hot Pants enough to say son of a nutcracker. The fighter inside of me, the one who’s been hurt and trampled by another pretty boy, is roaring to rip him apart, to be cold as ice and let him know I am unaffected by his hot guy aura, but the other side of me is pissed I’m wearing a coffee-stained, holey Four Dragons band shirt and baggy camo pants that make me look like I’m ready for a deer hunt. I admit, lately my sense of style has gone downhill, slammed into some rocks, and rolled right off a cliff.

  My thick hair has a slight frizz to it (thank you, humidity) and is scraped back in an unflattering low ponytail. My vented straw cowboy hat is old and worn, though rakish and a bit sexy in a former life. In my early days at Waylon, I wore it with a little red bikini and heeled flip-flops as I sunned at the lake with my sorority sisters. Now, it just covers bedhead. My oversized glasses are smudged from bumping my index finger into them, and there’s still a pillow crease on my cheek from my late nap.

  So. Honestly, I don’t care. The day I start caring about what some jock thinks about my appearance is the day I quit. I’ve learned the hard way that the only person I should ever try to impress is me. My days of craving the attention of some womanizer are over!

  I set my phone to record video. As surreptitiously as possible, I cant it in his direction as I turn. Visions of my ten-year-old Highlander tuned up with new tires dance in my head.

  From my five-four height, I look up at him.

  Well.

  There’s no need to charm this guy. His girls are tall. I am not.

  This close, about six feet apart, his beauty is pretty much a physical assault to my senses, rich and heady, vibrating with intense masculinity. He’s breathtakingly beautiful, that chiseled face, the divine body, all with an air of smoldering sexiness.

  Should be illegal to be that attractive.

  I check my heart rate: not even a skip. I’m entirely unaffected.

  At some point, he’s moved his cap, and it’s on backward, small t
ufts of brown, almost blond hair shooting from the adjustable band on his forehead. His cheekbones flash under the fluorescent lights, and his bad-boy stubble is thick and dark. I wonder if he has to shave every day to keep that shadow at bay. Framed by thick curly lashes, his eyes are a turbulent turquoise, an ocean of color. They’re serene, yet hinting at a tendency to be stormy. Interesting. He seemed lackadaisical earlier, not a ripple or wave in sight, but here I sense a man whose edges are frayed. The writer in me smells discontent.

  Aw, is it hard to be surrounded by pretty girls who are vying for you?

  His nose is a blade, straight and Romanesque, and his neck isn’t brawny or thick like some footballers, but strong, the hollows sculpted and molded as if those of a statue in a museum. He reminds me of an erotic Michelangelo’s David. And his chest—ugh, man, why don’t you button that up? I can almost see nip! My weakness is tattoos, and his dance over his chest, enticing me. Maybe if I just touched that one little rose—

  Stop, Serena.

  I keep my eyes on his face, refusing to feast.

  He flicks his gaze at me in an uninterested way. Nope, not a pretty girl, his attitude insinuates. He turns his attention to the shelf.

  I watch him for longer than is polite, letting him feel the weight of my scrutiny then giving up when he doesn’t notice. I settle for counting the twenty packages of Oreos in his cart. Pig.

  He darts his eyes back at me with a questioning glance.

  Oh, oh! He was the last one to speak and he’s waiting for me to gush over him!

  My index finger adjusts my white glasses. “Did you know it takes 59 minutes to bake an Oreo?”

  “Mmm, fascinating.” He reaches around me to grab a package of Nutter Butters.

  Just what I expected—I don’t register in his world.

  I grab a Nutter Butter package—he won’t get all of those—and my arm brushes against his. Not one tingle.

  “Each Oreo wafer is baked for exactly 290.6 seconds at a temperature of 400 degrees Fahrenheit on the top and 300 below,” I say. “That’s very precise cooking.”