Chapter 4

The next afternoon, Marabelle rapped her knuckles on the office door at Cherokee headquarters. The thick wood door intimidated her almost as much as the hulking guy lurking behind it. She’d been announced by Chantal, his blond, busty secretary, who sat behind an illuminated reception desk with the Carolina Cherokees logo etched in the center. The last time Marabelle had seen such a perfect, plastic-looking person, she’d been standing in the Barbie aisle at Toys “R” Us, buying carnival prizes for her students. Chantal, all lit up, confirmed what Marabelle already knew about Coach Frasier: he was a professional jock who liked his arm candy to stand out.

Marabelle furtively glanced down at her khaki golf skirt and Nike tennis shoes, grimacing at the yellow handprint—courtesy of Brandon Aldridge—on her navy cable-knit sweater. Too late for regrets, she plowed through the door.

“Oh man. This is wrong on so many levels.” Nick shook his head as he stood from behind his massive mahogany desk and pointed at Marabelle’s outfit. Instead of jeans and cowboy boots, he looked even more imposing wearing a gray cashmere sweater and tailored charcoal slacks with black Gucci loafers.

“What?” But she already knew.

“Tinker Bell, I wish TLC’s What Not to Wear was still on the air. I’d love for Stacy and Clinton to get a hold of you and your god-awful wardrobe.”

Marabelle glanced at her sweater, buttoned up the front, and smiled at the fact that it could’ve housed a small family. “There’s nothing wrong with my wardrobe, well, except for the handprint. It’s…it’s very functional,” she lied.

Nick pointed a finger at Marabelle’s hair wadded on top of her head. “Why’d you stab your hair? Trying to kill it?”

Marabelle touched the #2 pencils she’d shoved in her hair like chopsticks. “What are you, the fashion police? And how do you know anything about What Not to Wear? Is Monday Night Football aware of your habit of watching fashion shows?”

Suddenly Nick towered over her, and she couldn’t figure out how he had moved so effortlessly. “When you’ve stayed in as many hotel rooms as I have, you watch a lot of things. I’m confident in my sexuality and sure know a damn bit more about fashion than you.”

Marabelle gave an unladylike snort. “My kindergartners know more about fashion than I do. Even Clay knows more about it, and he’s a terrible dresser. Obviously, it’s not important to me.”

Nick gave her a puzzled look. “Who’s Clay?”

Marabelle waved her hand dismissively. “At one time, a boyfriend, but not really. Ex-boyfriend doesn’t seem right. A friend. A friend who happens to be a boy.”

“Friend with benefits?” Nick scowled down at her.

“No. Not anymore. We only slept together twice, and I sucked at it, so we decided not to go there again.” Marabelle slapped a hand over her mouth. “Did I say that out loud?” she said, the words muffled behind her hand.

Nick stood frozen in place; his expression changed from scowling to one of complete astonishment. “You ‘sucked at it’?” he said as if he had trouble forming the words.

“Crap,” she grumbled. “Busted.”

“How do you know you sucked? Maybe he sucked and you’re a sexual dynamo.”

Face heated, Marabelle brushed past Nick, plopping her navy-blue JanSport backpack on one of the tan leather guest chairs in front of his desk and pulling out several folders.

“Yeah, right. Anyway, it’s no big deal. I’m aware of my limitations. Now—”

“Maybe you haven’t slept with the right person.”

Nick’s husky voice now warmed the back of her neck. Maybe she hadn’t slept with the right person. Maybe Nick was the right person with his big, warm hands and—Oh, shut up!

With a nervous laugh, she said, “Don’t tell me you’re volunteering for the job, because I have to tell ya, you’re still not my type.”

“You finally admitting you’re gay?”

Marabelle’s head jerked up. Nick was no longer behind her but on the other side of his desk, flashing his mind-numbing, lopsided grin. Rockin’ roller coaster loop went her stomach. Okay. She needed to tread with great care. This highly competitive athlete wielded his sex appeal like a weapon to lure any and all unsuspecting women foolish enough to fall under his spell. And for some inexplicable reason, he’d set his sights on her. “Nah. It’s some allergic reaction to sex and relationships in general. I can’t tell you how frustrated my mother is on this topic. She has support groups to help her cope. From what I hear, I’ve been written up in medical journals as a lost cause.”

Nick could’ve melted Marabelle into a puddle of simple syrup right there on the plush red carpet with his sizzling gaze. Then he burst out laughing as he dropped into his leather desk chair.

“What am I going to do with you?” he said, still chuckling.

Marabelle smiled and rubbed her hands together. “For starters, you could give me the names of the celebrities I can contact for the tournaments.”

He motioned toward the chairs. “Take a seat, Tinker Bell, and try not to mess anything up.”

Nick had agreed to lend his name as the major sponsor to drum up excitement in the community for the event. He read off names and numbers—from a list supplied by Chantal—of all the celebrities he felt comfortable asking for favors. Marabelle spied Keith Morgan’s name on the list, one of the world’s top tennis players, and could hardly contain her excitement.

“You have to persuade Keith Morgan to come,” she gushed. “Do you know him personally?”

“He trains in Miami. I knew him when I lived there.”

Marabelle’s gaze wandered to the large picture window behind Nick with a view of the practice field. “He’s, like, my all-time favorite player. I’d die to be on the same court with him, like, I might not be able to hit the ball…”

“Jeez, Tinker Bell, like, you’re getting all junior high on me over Morgan,” he mimicked.

“For him, I will wear a tennis skirt.”

Nick dropped the pen he’d been using to take notes. “Well, I’ll be damned. I might pay him to come, just to see that.”

Marabelle turned back to her notes. “He’d bring in major bucks for the live auction,” she rattled off without thinking.

“I thought I told you I wasn’t discussing the auction right now. Maybe never.”

“But…but Beau and Ty already agreed to do it. They think it’s a great idea.”

“Excuse me?” Coach Frasier’s voice got scary soft.

Marabelle wished she could insert her size-six Nike tennis shoe with foot attached into her mouth. “Before you chew me out, I can explain.”

“This I’ve got to hear.” Tap, tap, tap went his pen on his desk blotter. Nick’s lips had thinned into a grim line, and some sort of tic appeared around the right side of his jaw.

Hidden in the folds of her skirt, Marabelle’s hands twisted as she told him about yesterday’s tennis lesson and dinner, and how she accidently let it slip about the auction, but they’d gladly volunteered without any persuasion on her part.

The tapping pen stopped. “You mean to tell me Beau and Ty had dinner with you again last night?”

The disbelief in his tone struck a nerve. “You’re missing the point. They don’t need to ask your permission to eat, do they?”

Nick rested his forearms on his desk. “You expect me to believe Q contacted you? Not the other way around?”

“As hard as it is for you to believe, Coach High-n-Mighty, some people actually enjoy my company.” Marabelle leaned forward, with her forearms on his desk, closing the space between them.

“I don’t doubt that for a minute. What I do doubt is that you didn’t plot this meeting somehow.”

“I most certainly did not!” Marabelle resorted to her best schoolteacher voice. “Just ask Beau. I cannot believe you’re being so bullheaded about this.”

“Look, we had a deal, and you broke it by going behind my back and soliciting my players when I specifically told you not to.” Nick stood as he spoke and planted his fists on the desk, doing a fine imitation of Hank from King of the Hill.

“You didn’t specifically say not to contact your players. You said you didn’t want anything to do with the auction.” Marabelle rose from her chair.

His eyes narrowed. “Uh-huh. You knew what I meant. A deal’s a deal. If you don’t agree to stop your covert tactics right now, I’m withdrawing all my support and my money.”

“Fine!” she shouted at his scowling face.

Marabelle and Nick were standing nose to nose over his desk when Chantal poked her head around the door.

“Coach Frasier? Is everything okay in here?”

“Yes. Thank you. That will be all for today.” Coach Frasier’s disapproving gaze remained on Marabelle.

Chantal gave Marabelle a suspicious look before closing the door.

“Tinker Bell, I’m going to hold you to that.” Nick’s face was so close Marabelle could feel his hot breath skim the side of her cheek.

Nick rounded his desk and jerked his thumb toward her things. “Grab your bag and papers, and let’s get out of here.”

“But we haven’t discussed your nephew. He’s the reason for the yellow paw print on my sweater.” Marabelle gathered her notes and legal pad, shoving them in her backpack.

“Good for him. Now you can burn it.”

“You know I teach four- and five-year-olds. Not all of us can look as put together as Chantal.” Nick guided Marabelle out of the office with his hand on the lower part of her back, warming her down to her toes.

He leaned close and whispered, “I think there’s more to it than that.”

Marabelle was too distracted to process his meaning, because her mind was busy devising ways to bottle and sell his delicious, spicy-lemony scent.

“Where are we going?” she asked when she realized they weren’t heading for the parking lot.

“Training room, and then we’re going to grab a bite to eat.”

“We are?” Marabelle halted her steps. “You’re presuming… What if I have a date or something?”

“Don’t tell me you have another date with Beau, because you’re gonna have to break it,” he bit off in a clipped tone.

Marabelle sighed. “Stop worrying about your team. I don’t have dates with anyone.” No point in pretending she lived a party-girl lifestyle.

Nick led her toward a large state-of-the art training room. Shiny, stainless steel equipment sparkled in front of floor-to-ceiling windows. Several players with their trainers spied Coach Frasier and stopped their workouts to call him over. The smell of sweat hung heavy in the air, and the repetitive clinking of weights as the athletes pushed their straining muscles held Marabelle’s undivided attention.

Near the entrance, Marabelle saw Beau Quinton off to the right. She drifted closer as he lifted a large set of free weights. He caught Marabelle staring at his bulging muscles and winked. Beau set the weights down with a thud and ambled over, wiping his face with a white towel draped around his neck.

Marabelle’s mouth went dry. Her gaze followed a drop of sweat as it slid its way down Beau’s chest and rippled over his six-pack. “Oh my,” she breathed.

“Mary-bell, what’re you doing here? Missed me already?”

“Q!”

Marabelle peeled her gaze off Beau’s rock-hard abs in time to see a determined Coach Frasier storming their way.

“What’s up, Coach?”

“You have dinner last night at Marabelle’s?” Nick blocked Marabelle’s view of Beau’s glorious torso with his broad back and shoulders.

“Yeah, she cooked another awesome meal. Why?” Beau said from behind the white towel as he dried his face.

“She discuss her idea of a live auction with you?”

“Yeah, she might’ve mentioned it,” he hedged, pulling the towel from around his neck.

Marabelle scooted around Coach Pain-in-the-Ass. “Hey. I’m right here.”

Nick continued to ignore her. “Forget about it. Marabelle’s having second thoughts, but she could use a signed football and jersey from you.”

“Sure. Whatever Mary-bell wants.” Beau grinned at her.

“Wait. I never—”

Nick snagged Marabelle’s wrist, turning and pulling her behind him like an errant child, as he called over his shoulder, “One more thing, did you arrange for the dinner last night or did she?”

“I did. We’re meeting again next Sunday. Why?” Beau replied.

“No reason. I’ll be sure to be there.”