Chapter 8

Nick had been in grueling meetings all day with the owner, Marty Hackman; the general manager; and several team attorneys. They had argued over personnel and players’ contracts, and at the end of the day, nothing had been settled. Before Nick could head home for a cold beer and dive headfirst into bed, Marty stopped him and gave him another earful about walking the straight line of respectability. Nick reassured him—for the umpteenth time—he was indeed still engaged.

The loss of respect and confidence Marty had displayed toward Nick began to eat at him. Even more than that, Nick started to feel angry. Instead of making smart decisions about the draft, Marty had become hyperfocused on Nick’s personal life, making it his life’s mission to reform him. As head coach, Nick wanted Marty’s respect, not his advice on dating.

Nick admitted his track record with women was iffy at best. And Jenna’s topless stunt hadn’t won him any trophies. But damn, he didn’t want all his hard work and grueling hours playing and coaching to be forgotten in favor of the stupid, f’ed-up choices he’d made. Or for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Nick wasn’t proud of much in his personal life. The women who made up his world took full advantage of elegant meals, expensive gifts, first-class trips, and great sex. The arguing always came later, when he got bored and the novelty wore off. And the novelty always wore off, because he never wanted to take the relationship to the next level. For good reason.

Memories of Lola and their ugly break-up scene back in Miami after two years of dating came crashing back. All because Nick had made the huge mistake of lingering too long. Lola had wanted one thing: a star quarterback with lots of money. It didn’t get any deeper than that.

Since then, Nick had always made it perfectly clear just where he stood in a relationship—halfway out the door. Marriage was great, just not for guys like him.

At the moment, his fake engagement with Marabelle was the closest thing to normal he’d experienced since his middle school crush on Anita Ridgeway. A solid, normal relationship had a peaceful ring to it. Nick wanted someone to be with him, not because of his career, celebrity status, or money, but because of him. Nick the person, not the football star.

He stood at the kitchen island in his empty house, eating the Cuban-style steak his housekeeper had left, picturing the other night when Marabelle had cooked a great meal and made his house feel like a home. Suddenly he had the strongest urge to see her and smell her sweet scent. He wanted to argue with her and get her all riled up; then he wanted to kiss her until they were both breathless. Nick fished his cell phone out of his pocket and punched in a number.

* * *

“I’m not kidding. These kids couldn’t find their way if you left a trail of Krispy Kreme donuts.”

Marabelle sipped her peach-flavored beer and listened to her best friend chatter about clueless college freshmen. Paula Carver worked at the university admissions office. She and Marabelle had met two years back at All-Nites, a granola, eco-friendly bar in downtown Raleigh, over flavored beers. Tonight they had settled into their favorite scarred booth toward the back for their usual bitch-and-moan session.

Paula’s dark eyes twinkled behind her stylish horn-rim glasses as she played with her long, silky, jet-black hair gathered in a ponytail. They both giggled over funny stories and relaxed in each other’s company.

“I spoke with Clay and told him to meet—” Marabelle’s cell rang, and she held up a finger for Paula to hold her thought. She slid from the booth with a palm pressed against one ear and her phone against the other.

After she’d hung up, Paula said, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong?”

“I can’t seem to catch a break,” she said as she slumped back into the brown vinyl booth.

“What? You look as if someone killed your cat.”

Marabelle’s gaze scanned the bar. “Is Clay coming tonight?”

“Yeah, he’s meeting us here. Why?”

“Making sure all is in place,” Marabelle said, a grim note in her voice.

“What are you talking about?” Paula blinked, wide-eyed behind her glasses.

“A story you won’t believe. I don’t believe it, and I’m living it.” She started from the beginning and brought Paula up to speed on the situation with school, the fund-raiser, and Nick.

“This guy is the football coach for the Cherokees? And he used to be a famous quarterback?” Paula had finished the last of her pear-flavored beer and set her mug on the table. It came as no surprise that Paula hadn’t heard of Coach Frasier. She didn’t know a football from a tennis ball, and she didn’t care.

Feeling flushed, Marabelle flapped the front of her black sweater to create a breeze.

“Yes, and he’s on his way here tonight…to see me. Did I mention he’s God’s gift to women?”

“Yes, you made that quite clear. Again, why is he staging this phony engagement?” Paula flagged down the waitress with the pierced nose, tattooed arms, and green-streaked hair.

Sweat prickled her forehead, and Marabelle blotted it with a cocktail napkin. “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe he doesn’t trust me. I get the sense he’s hiding something, and this fake engagement is a big deal.”

“But he’s pledging lots of money and helping you reach your goal. Who cares why he’s doing it? Maybe he’s really into you.”

Marabelle fiddled with her organic beer coaster. “Not a chance. Girls throw themselves at him. All. The. Time. He’s even dated Jennifer Aniston—”

“Hold that thought.” Paula craned her head over Marabelle’s. “Don’t look now, but the best-looking guy in the whole world just walked in the door.” Marabelle whipped her head around. “I said don’t look!” Paula hissed.

Marabelle locked gazes with none other than Nick. Her breath hitched like the first time he’d set foot in her classroom. “That’s him,” she whispered out of the side of her mouth.

“OMG. If you don’t want him…I do,” Paula said.

Marabelle shot her friend a disapproving look. “I thought you were immune to guys like that.”

“I was until I saw him.”

Coach Studly parted the crowd like Moses parted the Red Sea. People cleared a path for him while openly gawking. His worn jeans fit him like a second skin, contrasting nicely with his burnt-orange cashmere sweater, and polished off by his signature cowboy boots. He looked like a GQ model in a room full of Fashion 101 rejects. Marabelle slunk lower in the booth, wishing she had put a little more effort into her own outfit.

“Tinker Bell, what a surprise,” Nick teased as he approached their booth.

“I told you not to come.” She glared up at him. “Ow!” Paula had kicked her under the table. She fluttered her hand in Paula’s direction. “Uh…Nick, Paula Carver. Paula, Nick Frasier.”

“Nice to meet you, Paula Carver.” Nick brushed the back of Paula’s extended hand with a kiss. Paula’s face lit with a goofy grin, and she nodded at Nick’s oozing charm.

“Another one bites the dust,” Marabelle mumbled. “Paula, close your mouth, you’re drooling.” The waitress brought their flavored beers, and Nick ordered an organic unflavored one. Marabelle watched him hand over his platinum credit card to cover their bill.

“The perks get better and better,” she said to a starstruck Paula.

He slid into the booth next to Marabelle, draping his arm around her shoulder, wearing a badass grin. “I think a hello kiss is in order. I am your fiancé.”

Yeah, right. “We don’t need to pretend in front of Paula. She knows the whole sordid story,” Marabelle said, trying for cool when she felt anything but. Her belly quivered, and her chest grew flushed, a common occurrence whenever Nick came near.

Paula still gaped at him, and other patrons watched from where they sat. Some recognized him right away; others seemed to be speculating. In the dimly lit bar, he stood out like a beacon in the night, casting a harsh light on the Birkenstock, tie-dye wearing, granola-eating, geeky crowd.

He dipped his head closer. “Good. Then Paula won’t mind if we practice.” Before she had time to object, his lips captured hers. His kisses were like warm, salty French fries. She couldn’t stop with just one.

Nick pulled back, leaving Marabelle dazed, but his right arm remained, tucking her into his side as if she belonged there. He started a conversation with Paula, who was so dazzled she could give only one-word answers.

Nick looked just as comfortable at All-Nites among its artsy crowd as he did on the football field. Marabelle wondered what it felt like to be that confident and comfortable in one’s own skin. She’d felt out of place most of her life, always choosing the path least traveled, gaining her mother’s disapproval along the way. Nick seemed to have been born with gobs of confidence and a healthy dose of ego on top.

The surrounding smells of stale beer and wheat germ permeated the air, but from Marabelle’s advantageous position, Nick’s fresh, spicy scent filled her head. A few curious patrons ventured forward to speak to him. In Nick fashion, he charmed as he stood to talk football, taking his unique scent with him. Marabelle had settled in to watch the show, when Paula caught her attention and pointed to the front door. Turning, Marabelle saw Clay Spencer standing in the entrance.

Clay stopped to clean his wire-rim glasses with a handkerchief. Good. He was practically blind. Maybe he hadn’t seen them yet. Marabelle scooted out from the booth to cut him off at the pass, while Nick entertained his fan club with stories of the glory days.

“Hey, sorry I’m late.” Clay pecked her on the cheek, shoving the handkerchief back in his coat pocket.

Marabelle grabbed Clay’s arm and tried to guide him back out the front door. “No problem. You look beat. Let’s take a rain check. We can do this another night.”

“Nah, I’m here now. Wow, you look awesome.” Clay’s gaze lit on her baggy boyfriend jeans, black V-neck sweater over white tank top, and Converse tennis shoes. Once again, she’d opted for comfort. Her most feminine accessory was a pair of large silver hoop earrings.

Marabelle chuckled at his lack of style. “Time to get those glasses checked, but thank you anyhow.”

His lips curved into a slow smile, and then his gaze darted past Marabelle. “Hey, is that Nick Frasier?”

She resisted smacking her forehead. “Um, where?”

“Talking to Paula. Yeah…that’s him. He’s heading over.”

Oh goody. Marabelle latched onto Clay’s arm and pulled hard. He wasn’t nearly as big as Nick, but he wasn’t budging either. “Clay, listen. Your office called, and they said you left your computer on—”

“I want to meet Coach Frasier.” Clay peered over Marabelle’s head.

“No, no, you don’t. No substance beneath his perfect facade. Just your typical dumb jock,” she lied.

Clay gave her a you’ve-lost-your-marbles look. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Just remember one thing…” Marabelle paused for effect. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“You’ll see.”

* * *

Out of the corner of his eye, Nick watched Marabelle fast-talking with a shaggy, nerdy-looking guy near the entrance. It took him a minute before the pieces fell into place… This must be Clay, the Casanova in the sack. A scowl formed as he felt an unfamiliar clenching in his gut. He chalked it up to the organic beer he’d been drinking. It certainly had nothing to do with Marabelle talking to another guy.

Nick excused himself and made his way over. He could see the panic written on Marabelle’s face grow wilder as he approached. Sheesh. He hated to spoil her fun, but Junior needed to be set straight.

“Hey, Tinker Bell, who’s your friend?” He purposely placed his hand on the small of her back to declare ownership. Marabelle pantomimed, resembling a Persian cat ready to expel a fur ball, toward the disheveled nerd. Nick ignored her signals. “Nick Frasier.” He extended his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Coach.” The nerd pumped his hand. “Clay Spencer. How do you know Marabelle?”

Marabelle’s expression went from twisted Persian cat to killer Doberman as she snarled. Nick held back a laugh. Messing with Marabelle had become one of his favorite pastimes.

“You haven’t broken the great news, pumpkin?” he asked, plucking her away from Clay and into his embrace. “What Tinker Bell hasn’t told you is that I’ve asked her—”

“To be his personal chef!” she exploded. Clay stared as if she was a few tools short in the toolbox.

“You’re giving up teaching?” Clay asked, confused.

“No. Maybe. It’s just that…” Marabelle tried to wiggle free, but Nick held her snug against his chest. He gave a short grunt as her elbow connected with his stomach, but he didn’t release her.

“Poor little thing. She’s still in shock. We’re engaged, and she hasn’t gotten used to the idea. Isn’t that right, precious?” He buried his lips in her silky curls.

“No! Clay, listen. Coach Crackpot here is joking, and I’m caught in the mid—”

Clay’s face went from baffled to pure happiness. “Wow! That’s great! Congratulations. I never knew you two were dating. I’m so happy for you.”

Nick finally released squirming Marabelle, making her stumble forward. Clay caught her before she fell.

“Happy for me? I thought you’d be upset. What about…what about us?” Her voice trailed off.

Clay glanced at Nick and must’ve recognized the glint in his eyes. Smart man. “We knew we were never going to be together. We tried it once, and it didn’t work.”

“Twice, but who’s counting,” she muttered. “But…but what about our friendship?”

“I’ll always be your friend. That’s never going to change. Okay?” Clay gave Marabelle a gentle hug.

Then Clay pinned his sharp gaze on Nick. “And from now on, we won’t be seeing any more inappropriate pictures of you with other women, right?” Clay spoke with conviction, as if he could do something about it otherwise. Nick had to admire the guy’s nerve. It took guts to stand up to someone who could clearly take him down without much effort.

“Absolutely,” Nick said without flinching.

Marabelle started to choke. “Wh-what?”

Nick pounded her back. “You okay there, honey?” Marabelle continued to sputter. “We could all use a drink. Clay, what would you like? I’m buying.” He signaled for the waitress to bring another round as they made their way back to the table. Nick was in no mood to discuss his predicament right now. He could still feel Marty Hackman’s hot breath down his neck. He needed Marabelle on board and playing her part, not spilling the truth to anyone with ears. Her penchant for setting the record straight could get his ass fired.

After her fourth disgusting peach-flavored beer, Nick noticed Marabelle couldn’t hold her liquor worth a damn, which explained her small hands curled around his arm and her lack of wiseass comments.

“It’s getting late.” He turned to Paula and Clay. “I need to get Little Miss Lush here home.” He pulled Marabelle from the booth. Paula volunteered to drive Marabelle’s car, and Clay would follow in his.

“I can dr…drive myself.” Marabelle stumbled into him, bumping her head against his chest.

“Tink, you’re sloshed. Let me get you home,” he said, balancing her with his hands on her shoulders.

Eyes unfocused, she blinked up at him. “I’m all yours, Coach Hottie.” Nick suppressed a huge, satisfied grin. Now he was getting somewhere.

Out in the back parking lot, he opened the door to his green Range Rover.

“Hey, this isn’t your Porsche.”

“No shit, Einstein.” He steadied her as she climbed in.

Marabelle made it halfway and then giggled. “I’m stuck.”

Her heart-shaped ass was only a foot away, tempting him to cop a feel. Nick swallowed hard as he placed a hand on her bottom and pushed.

“Oh.” She settled in, wiggling her cute behind onto the hard leather seat.

Nick never envied a bucket seat more. Okay, this was going to get tricky. He reluctantly reached over to buckle her seat belt. Shit. His arm brushed her breasts. As he snapped the buckle in place, she slid her fingers around his neck, threading them through his hair. Hot breath brushed the side of his face, and she whispered, “You always smell great…like lemon and spice.”

Then she licked him.

Damn. His cock shot from semierect to nail-pounding hard. It took every ounce of willpower not to respond to her tongue’s invitation. “Not now,” he ground out. “Time to get you home.” He unwound her arms from around his neck, and Marabelle’s head flopped back. Rounding the hood of the car, Nick took in huge gulps of air. He could do this. Think about water ballet, or Uncle Harvey’s eleven toes.

Nick followed Paula driving Marabelle’s Honda out of the lot, glancing at his drunk passenger as her head lolled his way.

“Did I ever tell you that you have great hair?” Marabelle said.

“No. But you did call me Coach Hottie.”

Marabelle’s peach-flavored beers kept talking. “I wasn’t always a hot mess. Growing up, I looked perfect. It was a requirement from my mother.”

That explained the total opposite look she embraced now. “Who says you’re a hot mess?”

She shrugged. “It’s not important. I make up for it with tons of personality. If I were beautiful, it’d be too much. Don’t you think?” She had twisted in her seat to face him.

At the moment, his thoughts were X-rated, starring a certain fairy. But Nick had a long-standing, self-imposed rule: he never touched drunk women, no matter how much they begged. “What I think is those disgusting peach beers must pack a wallop. You’re gonna have a bitch of a hangover in the morning.”

“Oh, I don’t get drunk. I barely drink.” She blinked her chocolate-brown eyes at him.

He gave a quiet chuckle. “That explains a lot.”

Nick followed Paula into Marabelle’s driveway. Paula locked the Honda and jogged up to his window. “Do you need help getting her inside?”

“Of course not. I’m perfectly fine,” Marabelle said, wrestling with the seat belt that had somehow gotten tangled up with her bulky sweater.

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll be okay as soon as I get Houdini here unbuckled.”

Paula tossed the keys to him and hopped in Clay’s car idling behind them. Nick gave a quick wave and climbed out to rescue Tinker Bell. He leaned in from the passenger door and brushed her fumbling hands aside.

“See what happens when you wear clothes that don’t fit? What if the car caught on fire? You’d be toast.” He untangled her sweater and unfastened the seat belt.

“I suppose it would be safer if I were naked.”

“Works for me!”

“I’ll take my chances.” She half snorted, half hiccupped.

“Come on, let’s get you inside.” He pulled a squealing Marabelle into his arms and carried her toward the house.

“Put me down. I can walk on my own.”

“That’s debatable.” He climbed her front porch and unlocked the front door, pushing it open with his shoulder. A table lamp had been left on inside, and Nick caught his first glimpse into her private world. To his left, he spied a small but cozy living room with shabby white sofa and chairs framed by pale-green walls, and to his right, an even tinier kitchen with white cabinets and butcher block countertops. He caught a whiff of something homemade, like beef stew, and his mouth automatically watered. Warm oak floors flowed throughout except for the kitchen, where red-and-white vinyl tiles created a checkerboard pattern. Everything appeared miniature compared to his large, sprawled-out home, from the little kitchen table with four mismatched chairs to the hand-painted, half-moon table next to the front door.

“You don’t happen to live with seven dwarfs, do you?”

“This coming from the Jolly Green Giant,” she said with a smirk.

“Hey, Thumbelina, lead me to your cradle,” he teased.

She squirmed in his arms. “You can put me down now.”

Nick tightened his hold and headed down the only hallway toward Marabelle’s bedroom. “Not until I see what leaf you sleep under.”

“Look, Prince Charming, the wicked witch is dead, and I’m no longer under a spell. Thanks for liberating me though.” Again, she tried wiggling out of his arms.

He flicked on the overhead light in her bedroom. Just as he’d suspected: a white puffy bed with pink and lavender pillows and pale-pink walls that glowed like the inside of a conch shell. Next to the window sat a chair and ottoman covered in a yellow-and-pink fuzzy fabric that reminded him of an old-timey bedspread. A pair of light-blue skimpy panties with matching bra had been tossed over the back of the chair. Tinker Bell may have bad taste in clothes, but she sure made up for it in great underwear.

He released his arms, allowing her to slide slowly down his body.

“Uh, thanks for the lift. I can take it from here.” Marabelle sounded breathy but made no move to step out of his arms. Her sweet scent of lavender and vanilla surrounded him. He gazed down at her expectant face, and the low heat he’d been fighting all night fanned into roaring flames. Her lips parted with a small gasp.

“Damn, Tinker Bell,” he groaned, just before rocking his mouth over hers.

As kisses went, this one was close to perfect. Just the way he liked it: long and sensual and wild. Her hot mouth tasted of peach and desire and something even sweeter and innately her. Nick pressed for more. Marabelle moaned deep in her throat and arched against him, her fingers threading through his hair. He grabbed the ass featured in all his fantasies and lifted her up against his raging erection. She answered by pushing her hips into him, flattening her full breasts against his chest, trying to get as close as humanly possible. Fine by him. He wanted nothing more than to be skin to skin. He suddenly remembered his rule of conduct and didn’t want their first time to be a drunken night of lust. Stopping this now was imperative, before he lost his last thread of control.

Hellfire. Nick broke the kiss and lifted his head, breathing unevenly as he fought for air, watching a sleepy, satisfied look spread across Marabelle’s upturned face.

“We can’t—we can’t do this now.” His voice sounded rough.

Marabelle gasped and jerked away. “Ohmygod!” Her hands flew to her red cheeks. “I’m so sorry. Please—”

“No.” He grasped her hands and held them between his palms. “I meant we can’t do this now, because I don’t take advantage of drunk women, no matter how tempting.” Her gaze flew to the obvious bulge in his pants, and her face turned from red to shocking crimson. He groaned. “Marabelle, you have no idea how difficult this is for me. But when I make love to you, I want you to remember it.”

“Oh.” She blinked, trying not to stare at the package she’d been humping just seconds ago.

Nick gave a ragged sigh and kissed her forehead, gathering her close until the tension slowly ebbed from his body. “Come lock the door behind me.”