Eligible Receiver (Men of Fall Book 3)

by S. R. Grey

  “Oh, I won’t,” I assure her, meeting and holding her gaze. “Not in football… or in any other areas of my life.”

  I mean her, and she knows it.

  Quickly, she looks away.

  But even as she does, I detect the tiniest hint of a smile.

  Things continue to go well, but we eventually leave the pizza place.

  As Becca drives me back to the restaurant parking lot so I can fetch my car, the subject of her work comes up. She tells me how she’s hoping to straighten up and organize the wedding consultant bridal shop that she shares with Jodi.

  “It’s such a mess,” she says. “It has been for a while. Our desks are piled high with papers, and the whole space is just so damn unorganized. We recently started carrying wedding dresses, so there are boxes all over the place.”

  “Sounds like you’re expanding,” I remark.

  “We kind of are. We never planned to get so busy so fast. But business is great.”

  Chuckling, I say, “That’s a good problem to have.”

  “It sure is. That’s why we figured why not strike while the iron’s hot and add a product line.”

  I like that she’s not just pretty, she’s smart and business-minded.

  We arrive at the Italian restaurant and pull into the lot. I direct Becca over to where my SUV, a black Lincoln Navigator I usually refer to as “the Nav,” is parked.

  When she pulls in next to my vehicle, I come up with an idea on how I can help Becca and be supportive of her business.

  As she’s placing her car in Park, I ask, “Do you and Jodi plan to get things in the shop organized anytime soon?”

  Becca sighs. “I’d love to, but I don’t think it’ll happen as quickly as I’d like.”

  “Yeah, why’s that?”

  “Well, we’ve been talking about organizing since the fall, yet we still haven’t made a move. Jodi was supposed to get Caleb to help, but I don’t think she ever asked him.”

  Quickly, I say, “I’ll help.”

  She looks over at me, her eyes lighting up. “Would you really, Lars? That’d be great.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I reply. “In fact, I’d love to help.”

  Apart from wanting to be a good “friend,” I’m up for any opportunity to spend more time with Becca.

  She looks super happy, but then her face falls.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  Sighing, she tells me, “I can’t ask you to help with organizing. It’ll take hours, maybe even a whole day.”

  “That’s not a problem,” I assure her. “My days aren’t exactly packed at the moment.”

  “Ah, right, it’s the off-season. I forgot.”

  “Yeah,” I go on, “so you should definitely take me up on my offer while I’m still free.”

  She cocks her head, smiling. “You really want to help?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay, then let’s do it.”

  “It’ll be good,” I say. “We’ll make it fun.”

  Before we call it a night, we make a plan for me to meet her at her shop on Sunday morning.

  Becca says, “We’re closed that day, so that’ll work out perfectly.”

  “Great. I’ll see you then,” I reply.

  I keep it to myself that I’ll be counting down the days till Sunday.

  Shit, I have to laugh.

  Who’d ever expect I’d be this pumped to clean up a bridal shop?

  Missing Out

  Lars is fantastic. I’m glad we’re going to be friends. Grabbing pizza last night with him was so much fun. And now I’m really pumped we’ll be spending Sunday together straightening up the shop.

  Yay!

  It needs to be done, and there’s no one else I’d rather do it with.

  Come to think of it, there are a lot of things I’d like to do with Lars.

  Too bad I can’t.

  Since I should clear the plan to straighten up the shop with Jodi first, I bring it up to her the next day. We’re at our business, seated on the floor in the back by the dressing rooms, unboxing a new line of designer wedding gowns that just came in.

  Jodi is one step ahead of me, though, when it comes to Lars.

  Seems she wants to talk about nothing but him.

  “So where did you guys go last night after you left the restaurant?” she asks as she’s opening a huge box of dresses. “When Caleb and I took off, we noticed your car was gone, but Lars’s SUV was still there.”

  “Yeah…” I shrug. “…I drove.”

  “Where did you go?” Jodi presses. “Did you guys grab something to eat somewhere else?”

  “We actually did,” I confirm. “We got pizza.”

  She nods approvingly. “Ahh, something casual. Good thinking. That’s less stress than a fancy dinner. I should’ve suggested that to begin with. Anyway, how did it go?”

  “It went great.” I start smiling like crazy. I just can’t help it. “We got along really well.”

  Lifting a billowy dress out of a box, Jodi raises a brow. “Does that mean you kissed him again?”

  “No!” I grab the dress from her and place it on a hanger. “We decided it’s best if we stay friends.”

  Jodi snorts. “Friends, huh? Is this his idea or yours?”

  “It’s mine,” I snap, huffing.

  I’m trying to remain resolute in my decision, but Jodi knows me far too well. Even she can see I’m not thrilled with the direction I’m taking on this.

  “Becca,” she says on a sigh. “What the hell kind of stupid idea is that? You like Lars, right?” I nod weakly, and she goes on. “I thought so. I mean, clearly you liked him enough to attack him at the movie theatre.”

  “Hey!”

  Jodi ignores me, adding with a sly wink, “You also know for sure now that he’s not a serial killer.”

  “Ha ha.” I roll my eyes.

  She thinks she’s so funny.

  But Jodi grows serious when she says, “Come on, Becca. Be honest. What’s the real problem here?”

  Ugh, I hate that I can never hide anything from her.

  But really, I kind of do want to talk about my misgivings with someone.

  After all, she is my best friend.

  “Okay, here goes nothing.” Placing my head in my hands, I admit, “The fact that there is no problem is the problem.”

  “Huh?” I look up to find Jodi frowning. “What does that even mean, you goofball?”

  “It means I want to protect my heart, okay? Lars is a gorgeous pro football player. He can have anyone he wants.”

  “But he wants you,” Jodi states quietly.

  I shake my head. “No, he just wants to fuck me at this point. I’m sure that’s the truth of it. He doesn’t know me well enough to want me for me.”

  I know I have her there, so I underline my point by standing and forcefully hanging up the dress I’ve been clutching onto. I place a plastic covering over the damn thing, rather noisily, to add exclamation to what I’m saying.

  By the time I sit back down on the floor, Jodi is staring at me concernedly.

  “What?” I ask. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “You know, you’re scaring me,” she says, leaning back on one of the unopened boxes. “I don’t want to see you missing out.”

  “Missing out?” I chortle. “Yeah, right. Missing out on heartbreak and despair? Yeah, no, I think I’ll pass.”

  “Becca, it’s not heartbreak and despair I’m talking about. Sure, there’s always a chance you could get hurt. It’s that way for everyone when you open yourself up to love. But what I’m talking about is something else entirely, something applicable to you in this situation.”

  “Jeez, you’re so dramatic.” I blow out a breath. “Enlighten me, Jodi, please. What am I potentially missing out on?”

  Holding my gaze, she says, “Possibility, Becca. You could be missing out on real possibility.”

  Shit, she’s got me there.

  Drowning in Dresses

  By two
o’clock on Sunday afternoon, I’m fucking drowning in wedding dresses. I’ve never seen so much lace and silk and something Becca tells me is called “tulle.”

  What the fuck is tulle?

  Of course, she finds all of this hilarious.

  Laughing, as she stands above where I’m seated on the floor of her shop, surrounded by mounds of wedding gowns, she says, “I should grab my phone and take a picture of this.”

  “Don’t you dare,” I warn.

  “Aw, come on. We could put it on your Instagram and title it ‘Marriage Material.’”

  Whoa, what?

  We look at each other.

  Becca is blushing like crazy.

  But I start smiling.

  “Thanks for the compliment,” I say.

  Scrambling to recover from her faux pas, she says, “Er, uh, I was only trying to think of something witty.”

  Yeah, sure you were.

  That’s okay.

  Let her play it cool.

  When I try to catch her gaze, Becca pretends to be deeply interested in a tag on a dress.

  Stirring the pot a little, I ask, “Whatcha looking at?”

  Still examining the tag, even more closely now, she mumbles, “I’m just checking out the SKU number. I think this one is wrong.”

  Ha, yeah right.

  I bet you a million dollars it’s fine.

  But, whatever.

  I drop the subject and let her check out the supposedly incorrect tag in peace.

  She looks so cute standing there in her tight blue jeans and black hoodie over a white tee, pretending to be preoccupied. There’s a hint of pink shading her cheeks, making her even more desirable.

  Damn it.

  If we weren’t “just friends,” I’d pull her down onto these dresses and do unspeakable things to her right the hell on top of the fucking “tulle.”

  But, as she so often likes to remind me, we’re just buds.

  Clearing my throat in an effort to garner her attention, I let Becca in on a secret. “Hey, just for the record, I actually don’t have an Instagram account.”

  She lets go of the tag and folds the dress over her arm. “You don’t?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, we definitely need to remedy that.”

  Wait, whoa, what?

  “Uh, I don’t think so,” I state firmly. “I like my privacy far too much.”

  Tossing the billowy dress at me—of course I catch it—she says, “You’re no fun.”

  “That’s it.” I stand, dropping the dress and stepping out of the mound of tulle hell. “No fun, you say?” I raise a challenging brow. “I’m about to show you how much fun I am.”

  I lunge for her, but she’s quicker than I anticipate, spinning around and doing what Becca Nadeau does best—running away.

  Running Still, but Slowing Down

  I run from Lars.

  I’m so good at this.

  I have an advantage too, since we’re in my store and I know where to hide.

  Hiding is another one of my specialties.

  Scampering to a storeroom that’s down a short hall, I rush inside the small space, slamming the door behind me and locking it.

  Just in the nick of time too.

  Lars is on my ass.

  Had he caught me, who knows what I would’ve done?

  I could have lost my resolve.

  I mean, damn, he looks sexier than ever today in his dark jeans and black and red flannel shirt he has on over a gray pullover.

  Good thing I made it to this storeroom.

  I don’t care what Jodi says. Possibility or not, I’m playing it on the safe side.

  Knocking on the door, Lars calls out, “Hey, no fair. You can’t lock yourself away from me.”

  “Yes, I can,” I retort.

  There’s a pause, and then Lars, in a much softer voice, says, “Becca, what do you think would happen if I were to catch you?”

  “Nothing,” I lie.

  In my head, I’m confronted with the truth.

  I think you would kiss me.

  And I’d let you.

  I’d like it too.

  And then our whole friends-only pact would shatter.

  Jodi and her good advice be damned, I can’t let that happen.

  Clearing my throat, I try to make a joke. “Hey, bud,” I warn, leaning against the door. “I’m competitive like you, meaning I’m all about winning. Letting you catch me would equate to surrender.”

  I swear I hear him murmur, “You may like surrendering to me, Becca.”

  Damn, would he just stop?

  Sighing, I call out, “If I open the door, are you going to be good?”

  “That depends on your definition of good.”

  “Lars…”

  “Yes, yes, okay.” I hear him blow out a long breath. “I’ll be an angel.”

  When I open the door, he’s making a little halo circle above his head.

  Pushing him out of the way—hey, any excuse to allow me to touch that hard bod of his—I say, “Smartass. Now let’s get back to work on those dresses.”

  In the days and weeks that follow our Sunday spent cleaning and straightening up the wedding consultant shop, my friendship with Lars really begins to blossom.

  We somehow manage to put our attraction on the back burner, meaning we focus solely on getting to know one another.

  I visit his home, which is freaking large and impressive, a suburban stone monstrosity, and he comes over to my much more modest tiny blue frame house in the country. At both our homes, we binge-watch shows on Netflix, and he shows me highlight films from last season.

  Even though the Comets had a losing record, they won a couple of their final games. They had a backup quarterback at the helm by that point, but Lars still played phenomenally.

  One highlight he shows me has him turning and catching a forty-yard pass as he’s running up the field.

  I watch with bated breath, scooting to the edge of his buttery soft leather sofa, just as Lars runs into the end zone for a touchdown.

  “Woohoo.” I raise my arm and pump my fist in the air like the game’s going on right now. “Way to go. That was the last thirty seconds of the fourth quarter.”

  “It was,” he modestly agrees.

  Patting his knee, I state, “Well, then you saved the game. Good job.”

  Lars shrugs and looks down at my hand.

  I yank it back, and he pretends to brush away imaginary lint from his jeans.

  He is so cute.

  Usually it’s me blushing, but now it’s him.

  “I was just doing my job,” he mutters humbly.

  I chortle, “You did more than that. You totally won that game for the Comets.”

  Quietly, he says, “I guess.”

  I scoot closer and nudge his arm with mine. “Hey, no guessing about it, okay?”

  Staying close like this, we watch more game footage.

  I actually enjoy myself more than I expect too. And I pay more attention to the players’ faces, especially Lars’s.

  A few days later, I ask him if we can watch more games.

  “I like watching you play,” I bravely admit.

  He raises a brow. “You do?”

  I nod. “Yes, very much.”

  He looks so pleased as we settle in on his sofa like we did the other night. “Then, sure. Let’s do it.”

  He queues up a game.

  And I watch and watch…

  A short while later, after observing how consistently freaking amazing Lars is, I ask him, “Why don’t you play in the NFL?”

  From a few feet away on the sofa, he shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess because I’m twenty-nine, and the NFL views me as a little too old to start over.”

  “That’s crazy. Though…” I eye him saucily. “You are four years older than me. That kind of does make you a bit over the hill.”

  Holding my gaze intently, he says silkily, “I’m hardly over the hill, babe. Though I’m sure I’m far more experien
ced than the guys you usually, uh, hang out with.”

  Gulp.

  I know exactly what he means by “far more experienced” and “hang out with.”

  His deep brown eyes scorch into me, and I have to look away.

  Quickly, I change the subject.

  And so it goes…

  When I’m over at Lars’s house, or when he’s at mine, we don’t just watch TV. Sometimes we sit and talk for hours. We’re stuck inside for now, but I tell him I can’t wait for the weather to get nice so we can hang out on my back porch.

  “It’s really peaceful and quiet back there,” I explain. “That’s one advantage to living off the beaten path.”

  “Indeed it is,” he agrees. “I look forward to it.”

  Spring get here soon!

  On the nights we’re together, once in a while we drink a couple of beers or hard seltzers. I try to keep my imbibing to a minimum, though, since it lowers my inhibitions. I find myself all too often wanting to reenact our theatre make-out session. That’s even when I’m sober. But if I’m tipsy, it’s all I can do not to jump the man.

  Too bad that can never happen again.

  I don’t think it will, anyway.

  Lars is so well-behaved these days.

  Well, for the most part.

  He does sometimes say things laden with innuendo.

  Still, I don’t want to be the one to blow it.

  That’s why I start thinking maybe we should go out more often. Hanging around in my house and his, with our bedrooms so near, is too tempting.

  At this point, for me more than for him.

  Help!

  We definitely need to get out more.

  So when Lars comes up with a road trip idea, I’m all in.

  Excitedly, I ask, “Where should we go?”

  We’re in his living room, and as he leans back on the sofa next to the chair I’m seated in, he says, “I was looking online the other day and I noticed Niagara Falls isn’t all that far from here. Have you ever been there?”

  I shake my head. “No, but you do realize the falls are not all that close? It takes about five hours by car to get there.”

  Leveling me with a you’re-no-fun roll of his eyes, Lars says, “Isn’t that the point of a road trip? Getting there is half the fun.”