Chapter 12

Marabelle stood plastered against her kitchen cabinets. Three huge guys she’d never seen before helped themselves to more chili. Besides Beau, Ty, and Rocker, she counted at least four more guys in the house alone, and that didn’t include the ones in her backyard. Not to mention the groupies. What had she expected with a house full of football players? Music blared from several Bluetooth speakers as this cozy get together mushroomed into what resembled an unchaperoned high school party.

Not one to lose sight of an opportunity, Marabelle talked two more players into participating in the auction.

Ricky DiMarco gave a great Jack Sparrow pirate impression, with his dark hair and eyes. He only needed a black patch and hook, and he’d be a dead ringer. He cornered Marabelle in the hallway and surprised her by asking if he could take tennis lessons, because there was this young debutante he wanted to impress.

“Ricky, if you really want to snare a Raleigh debutante, you’d better cut your hair and ix-nay the two-carat-diamond stud earring.”

“Aw, man. You don’t understand. My job is to strike fear in the defense on the field, and this look scares a lot of people.”

Marabelle patted his arm. “Including young debutantes.” He’d certainly be her go-to guy if she ever found herself in a street fight.

At the eruption of a loud squeal, they turned toward the front room, where Rocker twirled Lilah Dawkins above his head.

Marabelle pushed Ricky. “Go. Go! Instill fear and get her down from there.”

Lilah and Betty Koonce had crashed the party to whoop it up with the professional football players. Both laughed and kicked up their orthopedic heels as Rocker took turns bench-pressing them.

Marabelle fed, cleaned, advised, and rejected three different spicy propositions before she grabbed a metal spatula and pushed her way through the front room, searching for Beau so she could beat him senseless.

“Great chili, Marabelle.”

“Love those cookies.”

“Hon, do you have any dollar bills?” Lilah asked.

“Huh?”

“Singles, so we can tip the guys who are gonna strip for us.”

“Strippers!”

“Like the Chippendales, ’cept better,” Betty said, barely able to contain her excitement.

Marabelle squeezed her eyes closed and groaned. “Ladies, please do not entice these men to remove their clothes. Lord knows, they don’t need any further encouragement.” Lilah’s crinkled face held a look of pity. Marabelle switched tactics. “What will our neighbors think?”

“Who cares? They’re HOT!” Both women left for the backyard with a spring in their steps.

“Beau Quinton is a dead man,” Marabelle muttered under her breath. “With my luck, I’ll get arrested for hosting an orgy.”

Above the music, she heard banging from the front door. “Whatever happened to a calm game of Pictionary or Scrabble?” she cried, yanking the door open.

Nick stood on the other side with his hand half-raised.

“Oh, thank God.” She grabbed the front of his sweater and hauled him inside. “You’ve got to do something.”

* * *

Nick stared down at Marabelle’s hands, one fisted in his sweater and the other holding a metal spatula.

“What exactly did you have in mind, darlin’?”

“Tell them no stripping and no bench-pressing humans.” She leaned into him to gain his full attention. Hooting and clapping filtered in from the backyard. “Hear that?” Her brown eyes grew wild. “Make them stop,” she pleaded.

He gave a cursory glance at his surroundings. “What am I supposed to do?”

She babbled as she waved the spatula. “Wh—Take charge. Kick ass. Do something!”

“Hey, Marabelle? Lilah and Betty ran out of singles and wanna know if they can use these as tips,” Ty said, holding a platter of homemade chocolate chip cookies.

“See?”

Nick plucked her hand from his sweater and shook his head at Ty. “No.”

“Yes!” Marabelle pumped her fist.

“Not until I get a couple first.” Nick grabbed two cookies from the tray. Ty smiled and returned to the backyard.

“Wait.” Marabelle gestured wildly with the spatula. “What’s the matter with you? You love to boss people around. You’ve done nothing but boss me around since we met.”

Nick watched her come unglued as he savored one of her cookies.

“What happened to ‘I don’t want you entertaining the guys’? And your warning about—” Her head snapped up, and the lightbulb went on. He chewed, giving her the I-told-you-so smirk.

Her eyes narrowed. “Fine. I’ll take care of it myself.”

Tinker Bell squared her shoulders and stormed through the tiny kitchen toward the backyard, wielding nothing but the spatula. This he had to see. Nick pushed through the backdoor to the outside. Everything appeared relatively tame compared to wild parties he remembered during his playing days. He caught sight of Tinker Bell shutting off the blaring music.

“Party’s over. Everyone go home and go to bed. Preferably your own.”

The partiers started to moan and boo. Guys dancing with half their clothes off slowly stopped.

“We were just gettin’ to the good part,” some old lady said as she stood on top of a picnic bench and waved a cookie.

“Everyone. Out. Now.” Marabelle punctuated each word with a wave of the spatula.

The guys picked up their discarded clothing and helped the two women down from the bench, who mumbled something about Marabelle being a party pooper. Beer cans were tossed in the garbage, and her yard returned to some semblance of order.

“Thanks, Marabelle.”

“You rock.”

“Call you about tennis.”

The two old ladies slinked across the yard when Marabelle called out, “Miz Dawkins, Miz Koonce, what do you have in your hands?”

They stopped, hesitated, and then held up men’s boxers. “We won these fair and square. No way we’re giving them up.”

Nick laughed and Marabelle shot him another stink eye.

After the last of the revelers had disappeared into their cars, Nick guided Marabelle back into her kitchen.

Looking over her shoulder into the empty backyard, she said, “I can’t figure out what happened to Beau.”

The disappointment in her voice irritated him. He’d be damned before he’d watch her moon over Beau Quinton. Nick plucked the spatula from her hand, tossing it on the counter. Pulling a surprised Marabelle hard into his body, he threaded his fingers through her curls.

“Screw Beau,” he growled, lowering his head for a rough kiss. He loved the way her body felt pressed against his. Lush and curvy in all the right places. Even through her bulky sweatshirt and jeans. He tried to remember that she had a sassy mouth and a badass attitude, and he didn’t trust her worth a damn, but his body wasn’t listening. The soft mewling sound she made shot through him like a bolt of lightning. He forgot all about what he didn’t like. He forgot about everything except her hot mouth and the crushing kiss.

Nick wanted more. Sliding his hand to the curve of her butt, he deepened the thrust of his tongue, grinding his hips more intimately into her heat. And it still wasn’t enough.

“Marab—oh my.”

Nick and Marabelle jerked apart as if someone had turned the garden hose on them. Marabelle gasped. Her face flamed with desire…then embarrassment.

“Sorry to interrupt. Saw the light on.” One of the old ladies who had been dancing on the bench peered through the screen door to the kitchen.

Wobbly on her feet, Marabelle grabbed the countertop. “Uh—Miz Dawkins, is there something you need?”

“I wanted to thank you for a wonderful evening.” Mrs. Dawkins extended a clear plastic container with an apple pie underneath.

When Marabelle made no move to take it from her, Nick intervened, opening the door, introducing himself, and thanking her for the delicious-looking pie. Lilah Dawkins batted her gooped-up eyelashes at him and told him the pie came from the farmers’ market. Nick kept up the small talk, giving Marabelle time to pull it together.

“Y’all go back to what you were doing now. Forget I was ever here.” Lilah sent Marabelle a conspiratorial wink. He helped her out the door, making sure she crossed the yard safely.

Marabelle got busy gathering up dishes and filling the sink with warm water.

Shit. Perfect timing. Nick sighed heavily and moved from the kitchen into the front of the house, picking up empty beer cans along the way. He knew Marabelle needed space. He was willing to give it to her, but not for long. Dammit, she got under his skin like no other woman. And the solution to the problem was mind-numbing sex over and over until he got her out of his system. Or until he was ready to admit…he was in way over his head. Shit.

Nick returned to the kitchen with a handful of dirty plates and bowls, and placed them on the countertop. “Everything’s put away in your living room.”

“Thanks. I’ll finish the rest,” Marabelle said, not meeting his gaze as she continued to rinse dishes under the running water.

“You okay?”

“Sure.”

He squeezed her shoulder. “Okay. New subject. Why are you afraid of sex?”

Her head popped up. “I’m not afraid of sex.”

“Uh-huh.” He cupped her stubborn chin and gave her a level stare. “Afraid you won’t be able to resist me?”

She gave a nervous laugh, jerking her head away. “I’m stronger than you think.”

“You know it’s okay to be turned on. Even with a jock. It wouldn’t be the first time.” He chuckled low.

“Yeah? Could be a big letdown. For me. Maybe you’re lacking…in some way.” She shot him a cheeky grin.

Nick snorted. “I’m not. And you’re not lacking in anything except practice.” A flicker of surprise mingled with hope chased across her face. Marabelle appeared beautiful and fragile, and he couldn’t remember wanting a woman more. If he didn’t leave now, her old kitchen table might get a workout, and her neighbors an eyeful. “When we finally make it to the bed, we’re gonna set each other on fire. Get used to the idea. Now, I’m beat and need to head home.”

“Oh. Your trip. How’d it go?” She wiped her hands on a clean dishtowel.

Nick couldn’t resist looping an errant curl behind her ear. “We’re going to see some improvement with Brandon…hopefully soon.”

She beamed. “That’s great news.” Hard not to like someone as genuine as Marabelle when it came to her kids.

He nodded. “Yeah, it is great news.” Leaning down, he brushed her lips. “Sweet dreams, Thumbelina.”

* * *

Monday, Marabelle had spent part of recess on the phone trying to derail her mother from all things wedding. Edna focused a good portion of the conversation on bridesmaid dresses. That’s when Marabelle knew she was up a creek without a paddle.

After work, Marabelle caught Beau Quinton loading empty coolers from the party into the back of his black Escalade when she pulled into her driveway. She had less than three days to come up with an iron-clad reason her fiancé was not coming with her. Something her mother would believe without hesitation.

“Q, we need to talk.”

“Mary-bell, sweetie, I can explain about last night.” Beau wore a clean Cherokees T-shirt, sweatpants, and a false expression of remorse. Marabelle eyed his slightly damp hair and wondered if he’d finished showering after a workout.

She shook her head. “Never mind. I’ve got a problem and need to run something by you.”

“You in trouble, Mary-bell?” Beau released the cooler in his hands, ready to do battle on her behalf.

Marabelle’s heart warmed. “Not the kind of trouble you’re thinking.” She glanced around to see which of her nosy neighbors had tuned in. No one appeared out in the open, but she could’ve sworn Lilah Dawkins’s lace curtains fluttered in her front room. “Have you had dinner?” Beau’s eyes lit up. “Go inside, and I’ll whip something up while we talk.”

Rubbing his hands together, he said, “I’ll do anything for some of your home cooking.”

“Hold that thought.”

Marabelle pulled together ingredients for chicken piccata while Beau popped a cold beer left over from the party. Dredging the chicken breasts in seasoned flour, she explained to Beau that her mother was expecting her to attend her benefit with a fiancé in tow.

“And you want me to ask Coach Frasier for you?”

“No. I’m too embarrassed to even mention this to him. Once again my big mouth ran away from me, when like an idiot, I mentioned the word ‘fiancé’ to my mother. She’s not going to let this go until Nick is either kidnapped by aliens or lost at sea or something.” She dropped the chicken breasts in the pan of hot olive oil.

“I don’t see the problem. He’s your fiancé and the perfect solution. Just ask him.”

“Yeah, nah. I’m not ready for a real engagement, and he will never be ready for the social dysfunction that makes up my family. We make the Kardashians look downright boring.” Beau chuckled. “Please don’t mention this to him,” Marabelle pleaded, not wanting this kink to create any more confusion in an already complicated situation. This fake engagement was turning into anything but easy. “Isn’t there something big and important going on in the NFL this weekend that you can’t miss? Something my mother will believe or confirm if she decides to Google the information?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against her cabinets. “Not really. We’re starting off-season workout programs. Draft’s not until the end of the month.”

“The draft…good one. I know Nick’s concerned about it, and he’ll need to be here for critical meetings. Perfect. Thanks, Q. Good enough to sound really important, but nothing she can snoop about or track online.” She flipped the breasts in the pan, pleased with this great excuse.

“Mary-bell, you’re making this way more complicated than it needs to be. Just ask him to go with you.”

Marabelle wished it was that easy. Paralyzed, she couldn’t take that step. It felt too real…and even permanent. And believing in the fairy tale only got you burned in the end. She removed the chicken breasts, dousing the pan with chicken stock, fresh lemon juice, and capers. “It’s better my way. Nobody gets confused or starts believing in things that aren’t real.”

Usually so affable and easy to read, Beau’s blank expression was making Marabelle nervous. “What are you thinking inside that beautiful head of yours?”

* * *

Something she didn’t want to hear. Beau couldn’t stop thinking that Coach Frasier would be seriously insulted, not to mention hurt, if Mary-bell didn’t take him to her mother’s benefit. Marabelle seriously underestimated Coach’s attraction to her. Beau shook his head. How could she be so lost, confused, and lacking in self-confidence? A plan had begun to form, and Beau hoped like hell he’d still play football for the Cherokees when it was all over.

“I’m thinking you’re making a big mistake,” he said, rubbing his scruffy chin.

She served him a heaping plate of al dente pasta and chicken seasoned with lemon juice and capers. “Okay. But you have to agree that it’s my mistake to make. Swear to me you won’t mention this conversation.”

He stalled, sniffing his food. “This smells great.”

Marabelle’s plate hit the table with a clatter. “No food until you promise,” she said in her schoolteacher voice.

“Yes, ma’am. I promise…” To not tell Marabelle what he had planned. He pulled out Marabelle’s chair.

Marabelle craned her neck, peering up at him. “Thanks for understanding, and to show my appreciation”—she pointed to their plates—“this meal is in your honor.”

“If it tastes as good as it smells, we’re even.” Beau slid into his seat. He shoved a huge bite in his mouth and chewed. “Mmm.” Swallowing, he nodded. “Delicious. Hell, Mary-bell, I’ll marry you tomorrow, problem solved, if you promise to keep cooking,” he added between bites.

Marabelle laughed, twirling pasta on her fork. “You don’t need a ball and chain just to get some home cooked meals. If you provide the ingredients, I’ll make meals for you and the guys anytime.”

“You got yourself a deal.” He winked and then attacked his food.