Chapter 22

“No.” Marabelle sat in her kitchen, wearing Nick’s button-down shirt and a scowl. “I’m not marrying you. I want an affair. I don’t want marriage. You promised an affair and all kinds of sex, and…and…now you’re reneging.”

Nick calmly devoured several pieces of chicken, washing them down with beer.

“For the umpteenth time, we just had unprotected sex, and I will not have my child growing up a bastard. We’re getting married.”

Marabelle recoiled in horror. “But I’m not pregnant!”

“You know that for a fact?” He watched her over the top of his beer bottle.

Her hand flew to her stomach. “No. But chances are remote. It was only one time.”

Nick arched a brow. “Darlin’, I wonder how many thousands of women said that very statement while staring at a positive pregnancy test. When’s your next period?”

Marabelle blushed. Somehow her life felt like a roller coaster, rounding a curve too fast and lifting off the tracks. Holy John McEnroe. She hated roller coasters.

If she ended up pregnant, Nick would be with her every step of the way and do the upstanding thing. He’d be an awesome dad. And somewhere in the far recesses of her heart, that made Marabelle smile. But…

Marriage? Not under those circumstances.

She could’ve said no. He would’ve stopped. She hadn’t wanted him to. She was too consumed with wanting him…all of him. She might be reckless, but she wasn’t stupid. Marriage was hard enough when two people loved each other.

“The thing is, I’m not very regular,” she mumbled. “I’m not sure when…you know.” Her hand fluttered in the air between them.

The intensity with which Nick watched her had Marabelle’s heart thumping erratically. Like he had X-ray vision and could actually see her ovulating. She squirmed in her seat.

“I expect to be the first to know whether you get your period.” Lifting her onto his lap, he wrapped in her in his arms. “And if you’re pregnant…we’re getting married.” His tone dared her to disagree. “Deal?”

Distracted by Nick’s hand sliding up her thigh and under her shirt, stroking her belly, Marabelle focused on not moaning aloud.

“I want to hear you say it, Tinker Bell,” he pressed, giving her a gentle shake.

“Deal,” she whispered.

* * *

Nick hurried home from his meeting at Cherokee headquarters to get changed. Tonight, he was picking up Marabelle and heading out to Harmony, a small town twenty minutes from Raleigh where John and Elizabeth lived, for the ridiculous photo shoot. And he’d promised not to be late. Beau, Ty, Ricky, and Rocker had all agreed to be photographed for the promotional poster. As long as it didn’t border on raunchy, Nick figured he’d participate too.

One puppy-dog look from Marabelle, and he was a goner. Saying no to her was not an option. But after the bullshit publicity shoot, he could finally relax, because Marabelle was his for an entire weekend. No interruptions.

The negotiations regarding the draft had been demanding the past few weeks. Tempers had flared as they’d narrowed down the scout’s choices. The ultimate decision was up to the GM and Marty Hackman, but Nick fervently hoped they’d take the talent evaluator’s advice on potential players. The future of his team’s performance, and his job, hung in the balance. He couldn’t build a winning ball program if he didn’t have strong players, and if he didn’t have a winning season, his building days would be over, because he’d be out of a job. Nick had argued his case. Now all he could do was wait.

But none of that mattered to him right now. Because what he wanted even more than a winning football season was Marabelle. And that shook him down to his very core.

Marty Hackman had pulled Nick aside after the meeting to say he thought it was time to hold a press conference with Marabelle, officially announcing Nick’s engagement, and have them pose for publicity shots. All would go a long way in cleaning up Nick’s bad boy reputation—and wouldn’t hurt the Cherokees’ standing in the community either.

That would certainly make everything official in everyone’s eyes…except Marabelle’s. She was sticking to her affair like tar to the bottom of a car. No amount of coaxing on his part had persuaded her otherwise. A small part of him actually hoped she was pregnant so she’d have to marry him.

Nick hadn’t planned this particular line of attack…unprotected sex was never in his playbook. But what the hell, he’d work with what he had. Nick wanted her with a fierceness that terrified him. He needed her like he needed food and water.

Now the tricky part…to convince her she felt the same way.

Nick knew Marabelle was scared of her feelings for him and was using the “affair” as a protective shield. He’d go along…to a point, but if she dragged her feet much longer, then he wasn’t above using every weapon in his arsenal to get what he wanted. He’d pull out all the stops and use whatever and whoever at his disposal to change her mind.

* * *

Ginger Jones checked her reflection in her rearview mirror one last time as she pulled in the driveway of the two-story English Tudor home. She’d been salivating for years to get a crack at one of the properties that sat on the most prestigious street inside Pine Boulevard. When the call came in from Carol Evans about listing her house for sale, Ginger had practically kicked up her Gucci heels. Because Carol would tell all her friends, and soon Ginger would be the Realtor en vogue to the rich and snobby. Exactly what she wanted to be.

That…and Mrs. Nick Frasier.

Nick was the only thing that eluded her in her well-mapped-out, meticulously constructed, perfect world. The last piece of the puzzle. And Ginger was determined to make him fit somehow…someway.

Ginger’s world hadn’t always been perfect. She’d left the trailer park she’d grown up in and never looked back. She’d put herself through school by waitressing and handing out socks and jocks at the university’s gym locker room. She had even jumped out of her fair share of bachelor party cakes. She hadn’t worked this hard all her life to lose now. This was a simple setback and nothing more. She knew how to go after what she wanted.

And she wanted Nick.

According to Beau, Nick was head over heels in love with that stupid, brassy bitch, Marabelle. Ginger snorted to herself. A temporary lapse in good judgment. It would run its course and fizzle out. Ginger never doubted her abilities to keep a man satisfied. She knew he would be hers…soon, very soon.

Ginger sipped on a glass of Chardonnay while Carol Evans gave her a guided tour of her home. Ginger made mental notes of the home’s nice finishes and painted cove ceilings as Carol kept up a running monologue, detailing her extracurricular activities and charity work. Ginger got the distinct impression she should be duly impressed with Carol’s status in the community. She made all the appropriate comments of praise.

“My latest project at the moment is spearheading Trinity Academy’s gala and auction. Quelle nightmare,” Carol groaned, descending the grand staircase back to the large foyer.

“Nightmare?” Ginger’s ears perked up at the mention of Trinity Academy.

Carol reached the bottom step and turned. “You have no idea. I’m working with a bunch of imbeciles, and the gal in charge of the live auction is a disaster. Don’t misunderstand, Marabelle Fairchild has lined up some great bachelors except”—Carol held her index finger up for emphasis—“the biggest draw of all. How she gets engaged to the guy is beyond me.” Carol heaved a huge sigh.

Ginger almost spewed wine onto Carol’s oriental runner at the mention of Marabelle’s name. Obviously, Little Miss Big Mouth had more enemies than she realized.

This was good. Real good.

Ginger recognized a gift when she saw one. She would get back at that brat, and have Nick all to herself, if it was the last thing she did. She savored another sip of wine, mulling the options over in her head. Carol proceeded to spill juicy details about the gala, Marabelle, and the live auction, until the tour ended on her craft room and fifth and final bathroom.

“Fascinating. You’re saying Nick Frasier is not participating in the live auction because he’s engaged to Marabelle?” Ginger asked with a touch of innocence as Carol led her back to the formal living room.

Carol nodded. “Yes. It’s such a shame and a waste. Our profits would more than double if we added his name to the list. I’m not lying when I tell you this girl has nothing. I hear she’s a wonderful teacher and deserves a promotion, but her wardrobe is atrocious and her manners are appalling and she’s certainly not much to look at with all that curly hair…”

“She certainly isn’t,” Ginger mumbled under her breath.

“…but somehow she’s got something on Coach Frasier…”

“She certainly does,” Ginger murmured into her glass of wine.

“…I wish I knew what it was, so we could work around it. Coach Frasier was the whole reason behind this year’s gala. I mean, I’m happily married, but lemme tell ya, that man is wicked hot.” Carol’s New Jersey accent started to leak out. “Marabelle doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. Whatcha gonna do?” Carol shrugged her Chanel-clad shoulders. “And Coach Frasier seems to really like her. Oh well.”

Ginger always made it a point to get to know her clients, warts and all. She’d sized up Carol Evans and realized she could be a formidable enemy or friend. Ginger wanted to make sure it was the latter. Carol sat next to her on a Queen Anne sofa, nibbling a sugar cookie from a silver platter the housekeeper had produced.

Ginger settled her half-empty wineglass on a linen cocktail napkin. “Carol, today just happens to be your lucky day. Not only can I sell your house and make you a lot of money, but I think I can help you with your Marabelle problem.”

Carol’s brows arched. “Really? I’m listening. What exactly did you have in mind?”

Ginger slid a contract across the mahogany coffee table toward Carol. “First, read this and sign on the bottom. Then you and I can have a productive chat about Marabelle Fairchild.”

Indecision flickered across Carol’s face as she glanced at the contract.

“I assure you, it will be worth your while,” Ginger encouraged. “According to Twitter and the rest of social media, this engagement is a publicity ploy. Something Marty Hackman has cooked up to increase ratings and goodwill for the Cherokees.”

“Well, of course, we’ve seen the tweets too, but I’m not so sure. Now Facebook’s holding a contest on guessing the wedding date.”

Ginger gave the contract a nudge. “Trust me. I have personal knowledge of Nick, and I can safely say there will be no wedding.” To Marabelle at least.

* * *

Nick waited in Marabelle’s living room while she zipped up her overnight bag for the weekend. The hum of small wheels rolling down the hallway signaled she was finally packed and ready to go.

“I’m so glad you finally agreed to come tonight.” Marabelle parked her bag by the front door. “Thank goodness Elizabeth agreed to host this photo shoot. One more thing ticked off my to-do list,” she said with a big sigh.

Nick adjusted his white linen pants. “Yeah, the sooner it’s over, the sooner we can get out of there,” he rumbled.

Marabelle ran her hand along his long-sleeved, light-blue linen shirt…the stupid “outfit” everyone had agreed on for the publicity poster. Hell, it beat standing there in nothing but boxer briefs.

“We can’t be rude. Elizabeth has gone to a lot of trouble. She’s even holding a meeting for the committee from hell to finalize the event.” She wrapped her small hand around his wrist.

Nick tucked a curl behind Marabelle’s ear, allowing his finger to trail down her neck. “She’s great that way.” He loved the silky softness of Marabelle’s skin.

“Absolutely. So, please don’t be difficult tonight,” she pleaded.

Nick slowly backed Marabelle up against her front door. “Don’t push it, Tinker Bell, I haven’t even decided if I’m going to participate.” He had to give the pretense of still being in charge, when nothing could be further from the truth.

“Wait. You already promised. Are you backing out?”

He curled his hands behind her head and pulled her in for a long, slow, burning kiss that frustrated more than quenched.

Nick sighed against her plump lips. “If the photographer wants us to stand on our heads with our asses in the air, I’ll go along, if it will make you happy.”

She leaned back, lips wet, casting him a doubtful look. “No questions asked?”

“Only one…did you get your period yet?” He slid his hand under her short jean skirt and up her bare thigh.

Marabelle gasped, clamping her hand down on his arm. “No!”

He let a wolfish grin unfurl. “Good, I’m glad.” His fingers inched up, unimpeded, brushing her panties, slipping beneath the elastic.

“S-stop. And stop asking… I… Don’t…start something…”

“You’re wet,” Nick rasped as his fingers rubbed between the juncture of her thighs, “and hot and…soft…” Her grip slackened, and her breathing turned choppy. His dick shot to full attention. He wanted to strip her naked and sink into her now, claiming what was rightfully his.

“Christ. We can’t do this now.” He let out a ragged breath and reluctantly reined in his lust. He pressed a hard kiss on her mouth, removed his hand from her wet heat, and squeezed her hip until control returned to his body.

“Let’s get this over with.” He yanked on the handle of her overnight bag. “I want you in my home and in my bed…soon,” he growled.

* * *

On the drive over, Marabelle admired the small town of Harmony and its picturesque Main Street. Nick pointed out the funky diner called The Dog, short for Dogwood Diner and Grill, where he and John met for dinner sometimes. It had become a local draw with its colorful interiors and karaoke/roller derby nights.

“Maybe we’ll go one night. How are your pipes, Tinker Bell?”

“I probably sing about as well as you play tennis. But I can skate. What about you, Coach?” Marabelle asked.

“I’m more of a spectator. But the owners, Cal and Bertie Anderson, are always looking for new talent. I bet you’d look sexy in those short derby outfits. Tight, short, hot pants and low-cut top, showing lots of cleavage.” He chuckled.

Marabelle shot him a wry look and snorted. “Yeah, sure. I’ll wear that outfit as soon as you wear it.”

Inside Elizabeth’s cleared living room, Nick and the players gathered around in varying shades of pastels and linen, looking like a bunch of Easter eggs. Elizabeth said the outfits contrasted nicely with their masculinity and set off their toughness to perfection. Whatever that meant.

The photographer continued to fuss over their positions, shooting frame after frame, adjusting the lighting, and positioning the guys until he seemed satisfied with Nick standing front and center, holding a football, and the guys angled off on each side of him.

The photographer motioned for Marabelle to check the photo on the digital camera.

“Wow. This is gonna make an awesome poster.” She graced the photographer with her smile. “Just for kicks, why don’t we take one without shirts—”

“That’s a wrap. Come on, guys, let’s move the furniture back in place,” Nick said over hoots and whistles and Elizabeth’s musical laughter.

After adjusting the sofa according to Elizabeth’s instructions, he hustled Marabelle to the door to make a quick escape. He’d given John and Beau enough ammunition to use against him because it was obvious to a blind man he couldn’t keep his hands off her, and he didn’t want to embarrass either one of them any further. With other women, it had all been an act. He knew the difference now. With Marabelle, there was no acting involved…he was whipped.

Elizabeth escorted them to the door. “Marabelle, the gala committee will be meeting here Wednesday afternoon. Will you be joining us?”

Marabelle nodded. “You still okay with hosting the meeting? It’s a lot of work, and the Blondie Twins can be like two ticks with no dog between them.”

“She’s right on this one. Those two give new meaning to the word bitch,” Nick said.

“And Miz Cartwright is sweet but comes up with the zaniest ideas,” Marabelle added.

“Don’t worry about me. I can handle it. This event is going to be spectacular. I’ll make sure everyone is on their best behavior,” Elizabeth said, her game face in place.

“Better you than me.” Nick heard the relief in Marabelle’s voice.

* * *

“That went rather well, don’t you think?” Marabelle asked for the third time, standing inside his kitchen. Nick could hear the nerves talking. She had chattered and rambled the whole way home. This would be the first time she’d stay with him the entire weekend. Like a real couple. Like a real engaged couple. He knew it scared the hell out of her, because it scared the hell out of him.

Nick dropped her overnight bag by the door and waited in silence.

“You want me to make something? I do a really great gooey calzone. It’ll beat any pizza you order.” Marabelle ran her hands over the soapstone countertops.

Nick could think of a thousand things he’d rather she slid her hands over, starting with his chest and ending in his pants, but he kept quiet. She needed to adjust to being in his home with him for two full days.

“Gooey calzone sounds perfect. We’ll eat in front of the TV,” he offered. The tension in her shoulders eased. “Let me change out of this fruity outfit, and I’ll be down to help.” He picked up her bag and headed toward the stairs, wanting to bottle the memory of her standing in his kitchen.

Nick finished his calzone and half of Marabelle’s as they sat in front of the flat-screen TV and surfed the channels.

“Wait. Don’t change that. I wanted to hear the secret ingredient,” Marabelle said. Nick had changed the station away from the Food Network and landed on a rerun of What Not to Wear.

“You need this more. Pay attention. You might pick up some valuable pointers,” he teased, tossing the remote in her lap and then gathering up dirty dishes. “Cherry Garcia? You interested?” Marabelle nodded, cringing at clothes being tossed in a large garbage can.

After ice cream, Nick switched to the Travel Channel where they were doing a piece on island destinations. Marabelle sighed at the aerial views of various exotic locations with first-class resorts.

“I’d love to get away to some faraway island and do nothing but sunbathe, swim, and drink piña coladas.”

He grinned, brushing a kiss against her sweet-smelling temple. “I had no idea you were an exhibitionist. You know they sunbathe nude on those islands.”

“Not all of the islands.” She twisted to stare up at him.

“Pretty much.”

“What about Bermuda? I want to go there and see the pink sand. And I want my own private villa with my own private infinity pool overlooking the water. Then maybe I’ll sunbathe nude.” She settled back against his chest.

The idea of Marabelle sunbathing nude captured his imagination. “Remind me to call my travel agent first thing in the morning.”

She answered by turning slowly in his arms, rubbing her breasts against his chest. “I can think of something better I’d rather do,” she whispered, sealing her lips over his.

Nick turned the tables and flipped Marabelle onto her back as he followed her down.

“Is this what you had in mind?” He kissed the column of her neck.

“I was hoping you could do better,” she said through gasps, her arched back asking for more. Nick chuckled, brushing his stubble into her soft, creamy skin just above her barely-there lacy bra.

“Pay attention, Tinker Bell,” he said for the second time, “you’re about to get your first lesson in sofa sex.”