Chapter 3

“Did anybody order pizza?” Nick asked at the sound of the doorbell.

Beau Quinton, the Cherokees’ star quarterback, and Tyrone “Ty” Washington, tight end, were shooting pool in Nick’s living-room-turned-game-room. Nick and Coach John Prichard lounged on the overstuffed chairs, drinking beer and arguing about plays flashing on the flat-screen TV centered over the stone fireplace.

“Nope. I’ll see who it is,” Beau offered since Nick’s housekeeper didn’t work Saturdays. Beau stepped back into the room a few minutes later, confused.

“Uh…Coach? There’s a deranged Girl Scout or something selling cookies. Says she needs to see you.”

“Maybe it’s one of the neighbors’ kids. I’ll get rid—”

“Hey, Coach Frasier.”

Nick’s head jerked up. There on the threshold stood Marabelle Fairchild, holding a large wicker basket with what smelled like homemade baked goods. Nick frowned. She’d plagued his thoughts since their last meeting.

“How the hell did you get past the gates?” He glowered, hands planted on his hips. Nick lived in a gated community in North Raleigh, where large, new homes sat on several acres.

“I told the guard I’m your long-lost bastard child who wants to reconcile with the daddy I never knew.” Marabelle batted her big, dark eyes. Beau laughed out loud, Tyrone dropped his cue stick, and Coach Prichard lowered his head, trying to hide his grin.

Nick blinked hard…twice. He didn’t think Tinker Bell could look any worse than the other day, but he was wrong. Dead wrong. Her curls were caught on top of her head with some sort of tie-dyed rag. A Trinity Academy letterman jacket drooped from her small shoulders like a wet blanket, over a man-sized Atlanta Braves jersey. Both tops flopped over baggy jeans. Nothing, with the exception of a pair of clunky brown clogs resembling baked potatoes, fit her tiny frame. She looked like a child playing dress-up in her daddy’s clothes.

“Marabelle,” he growled at her bright face.

“Okay, before your head explodes, I know the guard. He works security at the school part-time. I bribed him with some of my homemade cookies. Please, don’t take it out on him. My cookies are hard to resist.” Marabelle moved farther into the room, holding the basket out as an offering. “Would you gentlemen like some? I made plenty.”

“They smell great,” Beau said, reaching for a chocolate chip right off the top. “Aw, man. They’re still warm.” He shoved the whole cookie in his mouth.

“There’s chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, and coconut cupcakes to die for.”

“Dang, girl. I want a cupcake.” Ty reached into the basket with a shy smile.

“I’ll try the oatmeal raisin,” Coach Prichard added.

All three guys had their hands in Marabelle’s basket of baked goods, and Nick started to see red. “Dammit!” He snatched the basket and shoved it at Coach Prichard. “You’re coming with me.” He gripped her upper arm and swung her around, dragging her from the room.

Marabelle called over her shoulder, “Y’all let me know how you like ’em. Ya hear?”

Nick hauled Marabelle through the spacious foyer and dining room, into a huge, industrial-size kitchen overlooking a wooded lot at the back of the house. Stopping at the large island, he yanked her in front of him, caging her in on both sides with his arms.

“Now, would you mind telling me why you are at my house on Saturday afternoon instead of my office on Monday afternoon?” he said between clenched teeth.

“Because when I called your office on Friday to confirm our appointment for Monday, your assistant told me you had no appointments that day. You were going to be out of the office on a road trip. You…you were planning to stand me up!”

Marabelle’s brown eyes snapped with anger. Nick couldn’t help but gape at her upturned, defiant face. No doubt about it…she had more nerve than sense. He blinked, noticing she wore makeup. Just a little mascara, elongating her already long eyelashes, and some pink lip gloss giving off a faint berry smell. The strangest urge to eat the berries right off her lush lips came over him. Shaking his head, he roughly pushed himself away and faced the windows to his wooded lot.

“What the hell am I going to do with you?” He gave a chest-heaving sigh, asking no one in particular. “You’re gonna dog me until I agree to help out. Right?”

“Wow, you’re not a dumb jock after all.”

“Anybody ever tell you you’re a real smart-ass?” Nick crossed his arms.

She nodded. “Practically every day.”

Nick couldn’t believe her gall. She showed up uninvited and then sassed him as if she had every right. On a deeper level, he probably respected her nerve, but right now, he needed to take charge. He’d admire her temerity later, when he could think straight.

“Listen up, Tink. All I’m agreeing to help with is the celebrity tournaments. I’m not making any commitment to the slave auction—”

“But—”

“No buts. Take it or leave it. We’re going to do this my way or not at all. There’s only one quarterback on this team, and I’m it.” Nick leaned against the driftwood-inspired wood cabinets and crossed his legs at the ankles. “So, what’s it gonna be?” Marabelle huffed, annoyed with his ultimatum, but he didn’t give a shit. He could never be too careful these days.

She gripped the edge of the island top. “Fine. But won’t you even consider—”

“Nope. I call all the plays. Don’t you dare go announcing that I’ve committed to the auction, because I haven’t.” He moved to loom over her again, and she gave a wary step back. “Do we have a deal?”

“Deal.” She nodded.

From the glint in her eyes and the way her mouth twitched to keep from smiling, he knew she was up to something. Nick kept his scowl in place, but on the inside he laughed out loud. He couldn’t wait to see what Marabelle tried to pull next.

“Good. Now, I want to play pool and try your homemade cookies to see if you bake as well as you brag.”

Back in the great room, he made the introductions. “Marabelle, this is my offensive coordinator, John Prichard, and these two pretty boys playing lousy pool are Beau Quinton, quarterback, and Ty Washington, tight end for the Cherokees.”

Beau and Ty both pumped her hand enthusiastically.

“Miss Mary-bell, your cookies are delicious. What else can you do?” Beau asked, winking in her direction.

Marabelle gave Beau one of her amazing smiles and slanted a furtive glance at Nick. “My baking is only surpassed by my cooking,” she boasted. “And today’s your lucky day, because Coach Frasier has asked me to cook in that professional kitchen of his.” Nick snorted at her ability to sell horseshit.

Marabelle turned her back on him and continued to talk as if he didn’t exist. “Bet you guys haven’t had a great homemade meal in a while. So, what’ll it be, boys?”

No one had ever called Nick Frasier dumb. Asshole, maybe, or cocky son of a bitch, but never dumb. He could read scheming Marabelle Fairchild like the jumbotron at the Cherokees games. The longer she snowed these guys, the easier it would be for her to sway them to support her cause. From the looks of things, Beau, Ty, and John were already entranced. Shit. Ruthless didn’t begin to describe Tinker Bell. He’d have to watch her every move.

“Why don’t you surprise us,” Nick said with a challenge in his tone.

“Great. I’ll be back before you have time to miss me.” Marabelle removed her pup tent disguised as a varsity jacket, dumped it on the back of the leather chair he’d occupied earlier, and raced from the room.

* * *

Nick relaxed on a cushioned chaise on his brick patio, finishing the last of a cold beer. The weather in March could be tricky in Raleigh. One day the temperatures could hit seventy-five degrees and the next, there could be snow. But tonight was prime with crisp, cool air and rustling leaves, accompanied by the loud hum of crickets.

Nick smiled, remembering Marabelle in his kitchen, up to her elbows in flour, making homemade biscuits. Flour had covered her face and hair, and she still looked pretty darn cute. True to her word, Marabelle cooked a great meal along with the biscuits—chicken and wild mushroom casserole. The guys ate until they couldn’t move, and Nick had a hard time getting them to leave.

Nick quietly chuckled as he recalled her comment to Ty about improving his footwork if he learned to play tennis. Ty appeared flabbergasted and then surprisingly agreed to a lesson. Marabelle also recommended children’s books on tree sprites and wood nymphs for Coach Prichard to read to his four-year-old daughter, Hailey. Beau had poured on his usual charm and flirted outrageously, which Tinker Bell did nothing to discourage. Nick had no claim on her, but still felt a twinge of annoyance to see her all dreamy-eyed in front of his star player. Nick placed his empty beer bottle down on the brick pavers and folded his hands behind his head as he squinted up at the star-filled sky. His mouth tightened into a severe frown.

Beau was a marquee quarterback, and Nick was lucky to have him, but Q got more prime pussy in a month than most guys did in a lifetime. Beau didn’t need to add Tinker Bell to his long list of conquests. Marabelle Fairchild didn’t fit into the same category with the ditzy, sex-crazed football groupies. She was smart, sassy, and a real ballbuster. Dangerous combination.

* * *

Early Sunday morning, Marabelle went out for a jog in her neighborhood. Not because she loved the exercise, but because if she didn’t, she’d never be able to eat the food she made. She settled into a comfortable stride as she allowed her thoughts to drift back to the night before. Even though Coach Frasier had shot down the live auction, she’d laid the groundwork to convince Beau Quinton and Ty Washington…one cookie at a time. The old adage, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, was her modus operandi. Marabelle used cooking the way some women used their bodies. Her chocolate cream pie could make a man salivate better than any red-satin bustier. At least that was what she told herself. She knew all about her physical limitations, thanks to her mother’s constant harping.

Edna Fairchild was a force to be reckoned with. She specialized in bridge playing, cocktail drinking, and party planning among Atlanta’s high society. She also worked with a vengeance at molding Marabelle, like the perfect tomato aspic served at a Junior League luncheon. And her idea of perfection equaled extreme thinness and a St. John knit suit. Thank goodness Marabelle’s older sister, Phoebe, a clone of their mother, relieved some of the pressure.

Edna had secured her position in the kingdom of her making with money she had inherited from her parents. Because she held all the cards, Edna kept everyone on a short leash, dangling their inheritance like chum over a shark tank, waiting for her daughters—and her husband—to bite. But if you displeased her or didn’t live life according to the edicts of Edna, she threw the chum out or fed it to some other starving fish, like her charities or societies. Wherever she thought her legacy would hold the longest. Because for Edna, it was all about her mark. The mark she left on Atlanta’s society at the expense of all else. Including her family.

Marabelle had dared to walk away from all of it. She’d not only said no to her mother’s choice of potential husbands, but also to her portion of the inheritance. Marabelle did the unthinkable and then packed her bags and moved out. But Edna Fairchild would not accept defeat. She did everything in her power to lure Marabelle home and back under her control.

Marabelle caught herself as she almost stumbled on the uneven sidewalk. She swiped at the wetness around her eyes. It had been three years since she’d walked away, and she had no regrets. Except she missed her dad and sister every day. She didn’t dare visit very often, because her mother always came up with reasons to make her stay. Edna was not malicious, but she’d always been needy and selfish. Deep down, Marabelle knew cutting ties with her mother and her lifestyle was for the best. And since she’d given up her safety net, she couldn’t call for help when her car needed new tires, or when her health insurance went up, or when her roof sprang a leak and needed patching. Not that her parents wouldn’t give her the money. Her dad would drop everything and bail her out at any time, but Marabelle wanted to prove to her mom, once and for all, that she could make it on her own without relying on them for financial support and…without a husband.

The air smelled of pine spiked with early morning damp moss. Thank goodness her ambush of Coach Frasier had seemed to go well. She rounded the corner toward her cute bungalow when her thoughts strayed to last night’s dinner again. Coach Frasier had been a good sport, after he got over the shock of seeing her in his home. Marabelle had held her breath from the moment she’d barged through his front door until she’d opened his two stainless Sub-Zero refrigerators to find something to cook. All her years of competitive tennis had taught her a simple truth: close in for the kill when your opponent is down. Do not ease up on the pressure.

Marabelle started her cooldown from the top of her oak-shaded street. She waved to Lilah Dawkins—her next-door neighbor—sweeping her walk in a pink, printed housecoat under a heavy purple cardigan, giggling at Lilah’s matching pink hair. Lilah sported a different hair color every other week. Marabelle would’ve stopped to chat, but her cell phone rang.

“Good morning!” Beau Quinton chirped on the other end of the line. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Not at all. Just finished my run. What’s up?” Marabelle said, catching her breath and wondering what had prompted this call as she pushed open her front door.

“What would you say to a tennis lesson with Ty and me? And maybe another home-cooked meal. We know you can cook, but can you back up all that big talk on the tennis court?” Marabelle could hear the smile in his voice. “We’ll spring for the groceries, and if you’re really good on the court, we’ll double your going rate.”

Shoving the phone between her chin and shoulder, she reached inside the refrigerator for a water bottle. Hot damn. Win-win. “You’re on, big guy. Meet me at the school. Courts are around back by the playing fields.”

“Three o’clock?”

Marabelle closed the refrigerator door with her hip. “Perfect. And you better bring your A game,” Marabelle added with a laugh.

“Count on it.”

* * *

Beau and Ty showed great promise on the tennis courts, which had everything to do with their exceptional athleticism and Marabelle’s excellent instruction. From the groceries the guys provided, Marabelle made her famous chicken marsala with a side of pasta and homemade tomato sauce, along with salad and tangy lemon vinaigrette dressing. For dessert, Beau surprised her with her favorite ice cream: Cherry Garcia.

Beau and Ty entertained her all through dinner with funny stories about training, practices, and road trips. They described Coach Frasier as tough but fair, never asking them to do anything he couldn’t or wouldn’t do himself. Marabelle carefully mentioned the auction without committing Coach Frasier’s participation one way or the other. With a clear conscience, she could still carry out her duties for the school without breaking her promise to Coach.

“We’d be happy to sacrifice our bodies for a worthy cause,” Beau said with a chuckle. “Our record for pleasing the ladies is unsurpassed.” He winked, and his brown eyes twinkled as he stretched out his long legs and folded his hands behind his head of thick, dark hair.

“In exchange for some home-cooked meals, we’ll do just about anything.” Ty gave a shy smile. With his warm brown eyes and buff physique, Marabelle could see he had no problems attracting the opposite sex.

“You’re kidding, right? Why would you two stud-puppies want to hang around me, when you could have any woman out there?” Marabelle teased.

“None of those gals cook or whale on a tennis ball as hard as you,” Beau said.

Marabelle chuckled. “Well, it’s hard work being beautiful. Do you have any clue what it takes for those women to maintain themselves just so they can appeal to you gorgeous guys?”

“How do you do it then, Miss Marabelle?”

“Do what?”

“How do you stay beautiful and cook?” Ty asked, slaying her with the perfect aw-shucks expression.

“Ty honey, you must have me confused with someone else.” Marabelle lounged on her white slipcovered sofa dotted with lavender-and-green-striped pillows.

Ty smiled. “I think you’re the prettiest thing ever. And I’m not the only one. Coach Frasier does, too.”

“What?” Marabelle straightened, her relaxed pose forgotten. “Coach Frasier thinks I’m a hot mess and exercises great control, I might add, in not strangling me.”

“From where I was sitting, Coach couldn’t keep his eyes off you last night, and he didn’t seem real happy with Q’s flirting.”

“Ty’s right, Mary-bell.” Beau spooned the last of the ice cream from his bowl. “Coach will probably run my butt off in minicamp next week. I’ve a good mind not to show up until he cools down.”

Marabelle clutched a striped pillow to her chest. “You guys need to pee in a cup? Because Coach Frasier thinks I’m a child who doesn’t know how to dress and drives a wind-up car.”

“He does have a valid point on the dressing part.” Beau slanted a dubious look her way, obviously not appreciating the comfort of her school sweats. “With a little sprucing up, you’d be damn near perfect.”

Marabelle studied Beau and Ty’s faces, waiting for the punch line. When none came, she said, “Okay, now I’m going to pay you! You guys are welcome to homemade meals anytime. You’re the best thing that has happened to my ego since the year I won the Southern Regionals.”

“That’s a deal, Mary-bell.” Beau rose, pulling Marabelle up by the hand. He planted a big kiss on her forehead, and Ty pecked her on the cheek.

Marabelle waved good-bye from her front porch and then rushed to the bathroom mirror. Nothing had changed. Freckles, cow eyes, unruly curls, and swollen lips. Yep, those guys need their eyes checked.