––––––––

As I drive us back to her place, I stew in my own guilt.

Well, maybe not my guilt, but as soon as she said she’d been left on her wedding day, I knew exactly who she was talking about.

It made me hate that guy even more.

Dean Clark is a showboater, an out-for-my glory-all-the-time type of player. During my rookie days with the Renegades, the asshole nearly got another player hurt badly, because of his all-about-me attitude during the Playoffs.

I always wondered about the girl Dean talked about leaving behind when he moved to Phoenix. About how he dodged the bullet, because she was so clingy and had tricked him into getting engaged so he was going to break things off.

Only, I never understood that viewpoint. In my experience, women who are there from the beginning don’t want to be with a guy only for the money and fame. That’s not to say a good woman doesn’t exist after that point; she’s simply harder to find, because so many do want all the trappings that come along with being the wife of a professional sports athlete.

I suppose the only thing Dean has in his favor is he broke it off before the wedding happened. It isn’t much, but at least Dean was honest with her, while I can’t bring myself to tell her that I know Dean or that he’d talked about her. A lot.

Who in their right mind would ever guess that Dean’s Ashley is my Ashley?

“Did you love him?” I ask, and she starts. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay. You caught me off-guard,” she says, flashing a rueful smile. “Yes, I did love him. We met our sophomore year of college, when I was tutoring student athletes. He tried to tutor me about football, but I never really got into it. That should have been our first clue. My second clue was when we broke up after he started playing for the Renegades—he said he couldn’t focus on our relationship and the game. He also insisted there wasn’t another woman and I believed him—still do. Football is his mistress. I guess things could have been worse and because he’d been so sweet and seemingly torn up about it... when he started coming back around, admitting he made a mistake, I let him back in.”

I can see it perfectly—a guy like Dean meeting a pretty, smart coed like Ashley and snatching her up before anyone else has the chance. Hell, I would have, too. Then later breaking things off with her because he doesn’t have time and is all upfront about it, like a fucking gentleman or something.

“Was he your first serious boyfriend?”

“Yes. I have two older brothers. Growing up, boys tended to stay away from me.” She laughs. “For some reason, they liked breathing out of their noses and mouths.”

The tension that had built up around us slowly starts to recede, like the tide going out to sea. “Yeah, I like breathing like that, too. I’m the youngest of five. Only boy.”

I pull into her driveway and park my truck, then turn to her.

“I bet you were so spoiled,” she says.

“If by spoiled you mean experimented on with makeup and nail-polish, then yes. Although, I did learn I’m more of a summer instead of a fall, which helped me decide who I would play for, solely based on how good the color of the uniforms complimented my skin tone,” I deadpan.

She snorts, then lets out a full-body laugh. “Stop it. Right now. You can’t end our date this funny.”

“Should I end it sadly? I can tell you about the time I was fourteen and all four of my sisters pinned me to the floor and waxed one of my legs to see how bad it would hurt them.”

Ashley laughs even harder, her arms wrapping around her middle as she bends over. “I mean it,” she wheezes. “I’m going to pee on myself if you don’t stop.”

“Or I can tell you about the time they blackmailed me with pictures of playing dolls with them, so they could use my room to sneak out at night. Except somehow, one of those pictures,” I make air quotes, “accidentally got published in the high school yearbook on my senior ad page, with the message, ‘Congrats to our baby sister, Ryana.’”

Tears stream down her face, her sexy dimples on full display. She can barely speak. “No. More. Please.”

Taking pity on her, I keep the rest of my family memories to myself. “Thanks for going out with me tonight.”

As her laughter subsides, the expression on her face turns serious. “It was fun. I had a really wonderful time.” She reaches to open the passenger side door.

“Don’t move,” I order, throwing my own door open and jumping out.

I stride to the other side of my truck and open her door, holding out my hand for her to take. Once her small hand slips into mine, heat arcs between us. I feel it all the way to my groin as we walk to her front porch.

But lust and heat aren’t all I feel. I feel a surge of... guilt for making her go out with me. Especially after I discovered why she avoids men like me.

“Thank you,” she says, once we stop. She cocks her head to one side, auburn strands falling over one shoulder. “So...”

This is extremely awkward. I have to do something before things get worse. “I think we should take Gunner and Bluebelle to Beauregard’s next Friday, around eight in the morning, before it gets too hot. Are you free?” That isn’t what I meant to say. I was supposed to say something along the lines of ‘This was nice, but I was an idiot to blackmail you.’

“Absolutely.” She beams at me, her smile so bright I don’t need a porch light to see it. “Bluebelle would love to see Gunner on Friday.”

I feel her hand move, but not away; in fact, she takes my other hand in hers, making her purse slip to her elbow.

“Ashley, I’m not sure what this is supposed to mean,” I say roughly.

She rises on her tiptoes, then lightly kisses me on the mouth. It rocks my entire body. “What do you think it means?