Chapter 7

Nick pressed End on his phone and smiled. He’d called Mrs. Crow, the headmistress, to inform her the gala had his support because of his fiancée, Marabelle. He hated to be responsible if anything bad had happened with Marabelle’s job. The stammering on the other end of the line didn’t go unnoticed, but he stuck to his story.

Nick stared out the windows at the practice field. He’d arrived early for work, since sleep had eluded him. Half the night he’d spent thinking about crazy, funny, soft Marabelle and their perfect, hot kiss. And the other half trying to figure out what made her so appealing. The beautiful women of his past, with movie-star breasts, cover-model faces, and mile-high legs, skidded across his mind. More than he cared to count. But he couldn’t come up with one who intrigued him the way Tinker Bell did.

And all that ugly crap she wore didn’t disguise her real beauty. Her milk-chocolate eyes sparked to life when she spoke, and her long, curly brown hair felt like silk to his touch. Most women he knew worked out to sculpt their bodies to perfection, but Nick had reveled in Marabelle’s curves. The perfect combination of toned versus softness…in all the right places. Nick liked a woman to feel like a woman, not rock-hard from hours with a trainer.

Marabelle’s feisty personality had captivated him, and he sure needed the distraction. Especially now. The latest debacle with Jenna Williams, and even before that his nightmare relationship with his old girlfriend, had taught him a heavy lesson. Lola had made Nick’s life a living hell when he played ball in Miami. He bore the relationship scars to show for it. Cured for life, Nick didn’t do serious relationships.

His high-profile job was a real pressure cooker, and he had a young, eager team to mold into champions. Last season, the offense had held strong, but the defense, plagued with injuries, had sputtered repeatedly. The Cherokees lacked execution and consistency. Not for long. Not if he could help it.

Swiveling his chair around to face his desk, he tapped the keyboard to his computer, pulling up his emails. Yep. Marabelle posing as his fake fiancée was perfect. No strings attached. No expectations. No drama. Marabelle showed zero interest in a relationship. Hell, she showed zero interest in him, and he was okay with that. Eventually, the press would die down, and he and Marabelle could go their separate ways. In the interim, he’d enjoy arguing and bantering with her. A little levity could go a long way. And if Tinker Bell was anything, she sure was funny.

* * *

Marabelle dropped her forehead, along with her cell phone, on top of her desk and sighed. She’d made dozens of calls and left dozens of messages for the celebrities on Nick’s list. Her head throbbed from the drama of the fake engagement and, oh yeah…that kiss.

She’d played right into his big, warm, sexy, capable hands like any starstruck groupie. How she’d walked away last night when she really wanted to stay and continue what he’d started, she had no clue. Face it…she wanted to jump his gorgeous, rock-hard body.

And it wasn’t merely his incredible good looks—although they were mighty fine. He reeked of charm, good looks, and intelligence, but the greatest of all had to be his charm. His charm, coupled with his mouthwatering sexuality, put her at a huge disadvantage.

Marabelle’s desk vibrated from her buzzing cell phone. She palmed it, hoping for a return call from a celebrity.

Nope. Even better. Her dad.

“Hey, Daddy! When are you coming home?” Edgar Fairchild worked for a large manufacturer, handling most of their marketing abroad.

“Funny you should ask. I’ve been summoned. Your mother’s hosting another benefit at the country club and expects you and me to be there,” he informed her.

Edgar and Edna Fairchild had not lived together since she had turned ten. At the time, Marabelle had easily blamed her mother for driving her dad away, but as she matured, she started to see things in a different light. Ed had a way with women, with his tall stature and handsome features. Marabelle favored him in looks, but not height, sharing his dark-brown hair and eyes. Even after marrying the prettiest girl in Atlanta, he’d still managed to keep a few on the side. To keep the peace, they’d lived apart for years. He and Edna had never divorced, because Edna wouldn’t stand for it and Edgar couldn’t afford it.

“Gah. Seriously?” Marabelle moaned. “Daddy, I can’t go. I hate her parties. I hate me at her parties. Please don’t make me do this.”

“Marabelle, if it was up to me, I would never make you attend another one of your mother’s outlandish benefits. But I’m warning you, she’ll be calling, and you know how she gets. I suggest you buck up and make the most of it. Besides, misery loves company. If I have to, you have to.”

Marabelle slumped back in her chair like a recalcitrant child and frowned into the phone. Another one of her mother’s ploys to control her minions. If her dad had refused, then Marabelle would have flat out said no. But she couldn’t let him suffer Edna on his own. “Okay, Dad. When is it?”

“In two weeks. How about I send you something wonderful to wear from Paris? Will you feel better?” Ed always treated Marabelle special…when he was around.

“No thanks, Daddy, I’m fine. I’ll scrounge up something. How bad can it be?”

Ed chuckled. “Marabelle, it pains me to say this, but real bad.”

* * *

“Tinker Bell, we need to talk.” Nick caught up with Marabelle on the courts the next afternoon shortly after the gala committee meeting. She was in the middle of running drills for the team. She growled in his direction like a feral cat, but that didn’t deter him. He opened the gate to court one and forged ahead.

“I have nothing to say to you.” She continued to feed balls like a machine, with a death grip on her racket.

He watched the boys hitting behind the baseline. “Now, honey, is that any way to talk to your intended?”

“Get back on your court and keep drilling,” she ordered the boys as some of them started to gawk and work their way over to him. She threw her racket in the basket of balls and grabbed his arm to pull him off the court.

Nick allowed himself to be turned and then stopped. “Where’re we going, Thumbelina? Behind the bleachers to neck?”

“Fat chance. Away from the courts. Those guys have a fanboy crush on you, and I don’t want them to hear us.”

Nick strolled next to her toward the bleachers. “I think their crush is on you, not me.”

Marabelle stopped, eyes snapping as she dug her small fists into her hips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means…those teenage boys have the hots for their tennis coach.”

Marabelle’s eyebrows shot so far up they got lost under her tennis hat. “Are you insane?” She put up both hands. “Don’t answer that. What kind of fiancé are you? You don’t write; you don’t call. I’m sitting on pins and needles here. This charade has gone on long enough,” she whispered fiercely.

Nick bit back a grin. “Awww, it’s only been two days. Have you been missing me?”

“Of course not. That’s not what I meant.” Nick started to chuckle. “I don’t think I can keep up this lie. In case you didn’t notice, those committee members want to lynch me,” she said, eyes flashing. “They’re very upset that the man of their dreams has taken himself off the market and gotten engaged to me.”

Nick had shown up at the meeting unannounced, and walked in on complete pandemonium with a lot of hysteria thrown on top. He’d managed to settle everyone down. Pledging a shitload of money will do that. Marabelle should be kissing his ass for saving hers.

“And that’s a problem because…” Nick shrugged.

“Because now the entire committee thinks I’m a slut. Hazel Cartwright asked how long I’d been ‘boinking’ you.”

“Really? Well, maybe we should—”

“Look, can’t we pretend we had a big falling-out and broke up? I’ll tell everyone you dumped me for…for Jennifer Aniston. That’s totally plausible.”

Nick hated to burst Marabelle’s bubble, but he needed her more than she needed him. Marty Hackman loved the idea of his “engagement” and told Nick not to fuck it up…his exact words. And Nick had no intention of disappointing the gruff, cigar-chewing owner of the Cherokees. If he asked Nick to join hands and sing Joni Mitchell songs, then he would do exactly that.

Nick placed his hand over his heart. “Tinker Bell, I’m wounded. Besides, Jennifer and I didn’t get along all that well.”

“You’ve actually dated Jennifer Aniston?” Marabelle drew back as her mouth formed a perfect O.

“We went out a few times. What’s the real problem here? I think the committee bought our story. We had them eating out of our hands.”

“Eating out of your hand. Look, it’s time we go our separate ways.” Marabelle ticked off on her fingers. “You do what you do best…date groupies. And I’ll do what I do best…make my mother’s life miserable. It works.”

Nick gave an exaggerated sigh and rubbed the back of his neck. “Anybody ever tell you you have no sense of adventure? You need to get out more.”

“I’m adventuresome. I’m all about adventure. Adventure is my middle name.”

Nick shook his head. “Huh-uh. My mind is made up. We’re engaged, and you’re just going to have to accept it. The sooner you do, the sooner we get to the good stuff.” He waggled his eyebrows at her scowling face.

“How can someone so gorgeous be so wicked and depraved?” Marabelle wondered aloud. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”

“Honey, I’m not picking on you. I’m playing with you.” Nick allowed his gaze to roam over the tennis sweats swallowing her petite body. “I can’t wait to play doctor and get to the part where I undress you,” he said in a husky voice, moving in close and invading her space.

“Oh my God…you’re impossible.”

“Sh-h-h, you’re drawing a crowd.” Nick pointed at nobody over her head.

Marabelle whipped around to see who was listening, and Nick took advantage by gathering her in his arms.

“Marabelle, honey, stop fighting. Trust me.” He slipped his arm around her waist and lifted her up on her toes.

Then he kissed her silly. Or did she kiss him silly? Because the second his lips met hers, he forgot what they were arguing about. He’d never had to work this hard to get a girl on board. Frustrated didn’t begin to describe his feelings. Maybe he was losing his touch. He lifted his head, and Marabelle’s whacked expression matched his. Nah.

“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he murmured.

Marabelle lowered herself and licked her bottom lip as if tasting him there. “Mmm. Okay. We’ll pretend. But only when others are around. And no sex.” She narrowed her eyes to slits. “I’m no groupie. I worship only from afar. It’s safer that way.”

He pressed another hard kiss to her lips, wishing he could scoop her up in his arms and take her home. “Get back to work. I’ll call you later.”

“Yeah, right,” she mumbled. Nick watched as she trotted back to the courts, wondering how he was going to survive the next few months.

* * *

Marabelle chopped fresh vegetables for her favorite chicken stir-fry as fast as any professional chef, thinking how her life would’ve made a good reality TV show, when it suddenly dawned on her. Coach Sneaky had never agreed to her “no sex” ultimatum. He was cocky and confident he had her under his thumb. Thumbelina, my ass.

Marabelle stopped chopping before almost cutting off her finger. Dammit. She needed her wits about her. She had no intention of being his pawn. She blew out a breath. Juggling Coach Naughty, the hyped-up committee, her teaching job, and now her mother’s latest ploy to convince Marabelle to drink the Kool-Aid had her on edge. Marabelle craved reassurance, along with a good bottle of pinot noir. She smiled, ready to pour a glass and call Paula, her BFF, when her phone rang right on cue. Snatching it up, thinking it was Paula, her smile faded at the name on caller ID. She was surprised it had taken her this long.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hello, dear. Have I caught you at a bad time?”

Does the sun set in the west? Yes. “No, I’m making dinner.”

“Are you cooking for a man? For that Carl fellow?”

Marabelle let out a tortured sigh. “No, Mother. I’m not cooking for Clay.”

“I’m glad. He was not your type.”

Because he didn’t bring in seven figures and own a yacht named “Who’s Your Daddy.” Good thing her mother didn’t know about Nick. Marabelle had no doubt he could be her type, and her mother would be whistling the “Wedding March” and tossing out bushels of birdseed.

Edna started in on her usual blah-blah lecture. “Are you still determined to make it as an elementary school teacher?” Edna made it sound as if Marabelle panhandled on the corner. “You know, if you were living in Atlanta, I could help put your life in order.”

Marabelle’s chest tightened. She also happened to be a pretty good tennis coach, but that skill never registered with her mother. She shoved the phone between her chin and shoulder and transferred the crisp stir-fry onto her dinner plate. She sat down to eat, knowing that anything she said to defend her choices would fall on deaf ears. Edna lived to criticize. And since Marabelle always came up short on whatever her mother deemed acceptable, she became Edna’s project in need of rescuing.

“For a capital city, Raleigh is so, so lacking. Maybe if you secured a real teaching job at the university.” According to Big Edna, no CEO or gazillionaire was looking for a simple kindergarten teacher. “Or maybe if you joined the Junior League. I understand Sally Kingston has reached out to you numerous times, and you have not responded. Your lack of interest is very embarrassing, dear. I don’t know why you’re insisting on this ridiculous course of action. If hurting me is your goal, you have succeeded admirably.” Edna sniffed.

And then there was the guilt, mounting like garbage at the city landfill. Edna turned guilt trips into gold medal events.

And she was off. “You are my daughter, and you know I love you, but if you can’t come home for me, then do it for your sister. She misses you terribly.” Marabelle missed Phoebe too. But Phoebe was not wasting away because Marabelle didn’t live in Atlanta. Her social calendar was brimming with activities, stamped with Edna’s approval, of course. Marabelle sighed, sometimes wishing she was more like her sister, allowing Edna to orchestrate her life to her heart’s content.

“…and you haven’t dated a decent man since I set you up with that chiropractor…oh, what was his name? Such nice, strong hands—”

“Uh, Mom,” Marabelle interrupted the tirade. “Is there a point to this call? Because we’ve been down this road before, and the scenery is boring.”

“Marabelle, your manners are deplorable. Another bad habit you’ve picked up.” Edna’s voice dripped with disapproval. “I’m calling about the fabulous party I’m hosting at the country club to benefit the restoration of Magnolia House on Peachtree. I insist you be here for it. You know, they say Scarlett O’Hara stayed in that house when she was in Atlanta.” Edna’s voice lowered as she dropped that piece of juicy news. Oh brother.

“Mother, Scarlett O’Hara is a fictional character in a book. She never existed.”

“Fiddle dee dee. What matters is for my whole family to be here to support me and make this party the talk of the town.”

Marabelle speared a perfectly cooked piece of red pepper, thankful her dad had already warned her.

“Sure, Mother, I wouldn’t dream of missing it.” Only because she’d get to see her dad. Marabelle gritted her teeth. She pushed her plate away, having lost all enjoyment in her meal, while Edna rambled on about the benefit, clothes, shoes, bridge, marriage, and, oh yeah, procreating. She always managed to sneak that into the conversation. Marabelle seriously eyed the butcher knife as a means to end her own misery.

“You need to catch a man while you’re young, darling.” Her mother’s favorite mantra.

“Oh, God, I would rather stick hot pokers in my eyes.”

“I heard that! Now listen up, I’ve already sent you some suitable clothes. Don’t dare come home with your…your atrocious wardrobe. How a daughter of mine can have such terrible taste in clothes is beyond me. Sometimes I wonder if you weren’t switched at birth.”

“Nice thought…even for you, Mother,” Marabelle grumbled. And that comment only rubbed salt in the wound. The one where she questioned if her family knew she existed. If they ever cared about her as an individual, not simply an extension of her mother’s legacy.

“Oh, darling, perk up. This party might be just the thing for you. There’s a handsome man, the son of Mavis and George Stone. You remember the Stones, dear—”

“Oh! I almost forgot,” Marabelle interrupted, inspired.

“What is it?”

“I’m engaged!” A loud thunk sounded on the other end of the line.

“Mother? Mother?”

Well, that went well.