Chapter 9

“The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round…”

Marabelle’s head went round and round. She tried hiding a grimace as her students sang with the music teacher. She hadn’t heaved—yet—and she swore on her nonna’s grave that she would never drink peach-flavored beer again, if only she survived this day.

The painful hangover had nothing on her case of acute embarrassment. She barely stifled a groan as she cursed her own stupidity. Ms. Simmons, the music teacher, shot her a death glare…again. Maybe Ms. Simmons would be more sympathetic if she knew what a complete fool Marabelle had made of herself the night before, when she jumped the world’s hottest bachelor and clung to him like Velcro tabs on running shoes.

She tried hard not to relive the precise moment when she’d kissed him like some sex-starved, repressed nymphomaniac. She could only imagine what he thought of her today. “Desperate and pathetic” probably topped his list.

Her cell chirped, prompting another glare from Ms. Simmons. She bent down to her desk drawer, careful not to jar her throbbing head, and fished for the phone in her handbag. Paula’s name lit the screen, and Marabelle cupped her hand over her mouth to speak with her.

“Hey,” she whispered.

“You all right? I was worried about you last night, but I figured you were in very capable hands. I was right…right?”

“Oh God, Paula. I’m dying here,” she moaned. “Do you remember how much I had to drink?” She moved closer to the windows for more privacy.

“Four or five beers. Who cares? Did you get it on with Coach Frasier? Who, by the way, is so-o-o gorgeous. Tell me you had amazing sex last night so I can live vicariously through you.”

“What kind of girl do you think I am?” Marabelle tried for outrage but sounded more like wounded bullfrog.

“A badass slut.”

“I know. I am a slut. I couldn’t be more embarrassed.”

“So you took advantage of that prime piece of eye candy?”

“Worse. I threw myself at him. Thank goodness he put a stop to what could’ve been the second-most embarrassing moment in my life. The first being when my mother made me enter the Little Miss Peachtree Beauty Pageant.”

“Sounds cute. What was wrong with that?”

“I was thirteen but looked four. The other contestants were at least a foot taller. The judges thought I belonged at the toddler pageant down the hall. I was humiliated, but Edna kept pushing for that crown.” Paula had heard the horror stories of Edna and knew how Marabelle didn’t stack up against her family.

“Okay, your childhood was a nightmare. But it’s over, and it’s time to stop worrying about what anyone thinks and just go for it. You’ve been handed a golden opportunity here…” Marabelle rubbed her pounding forehead. Paula continued, “Any normal, red-blooded female would not be waffling about grabbing that slab of beefsteak love. Do not, I repeat, do not let the sisterhood down.”

Paula had been Marabelle’s personal cheerleader since the day they’d met, and today she just wanted to gag her with a tennis ball.

“You don’t understand. Women are like the subway to him. He misses one and another one comes along. I don’t want to be one in a long line of trains.”

“You’re full of crap. You’re scared. That guy could not keep his eyes or hands off you last night, and it’s not like you were all glammed up. You have landed a hot one. Don’t screw it up!”

“Gotta go,” Marabelle whispered. “The music teacher is singing ‘Down by the Banks of the Hanky Panky.’ And it’s sounding a little too coincidental.”

By dismissal, Marabelle had finished her third Diet Coke and had popped the last of her Advil. After releasing the kids to their mothers, she looked around her quiet classroom to see only Brandon Aldridge remained behind. He shoved his grubby hand inside the guinea pig cage at Chester cowering in the corner.

“Brandon, is your nanny coming?”

“Dunno.”

“It’s three o’clock. Let’s head to the office and call.” Brandon pulled his hand from the cage and banged the door shut. Chester shuddered.

“I don’t have to go to the office. I can call with my phone.” He reached into his navy uniform pants pocket and pulled out the latest iPhone.

Good Lord. Could he be any more spoiled? To gain his attention, she bent down. “That’s great, but you’re not allowed to have a cell—”

“Hello there.”

Marabelle jerked her head up and regretted her action, because not only did her head feel like exploding, but the reason for it was framed in her doorway.

* * *

“Uncle Nick!” Brandon raced over and jumped in his arms.

“Sorry I’m late, buddy, did you have a good day?”

“Uncle Nick, Ms. Fairchild says I can’t have my cell phone,” Brandon whined.

Fairy-girl slowly rose, looking green around the gills. Nick almost chuckled aloud. He knew she’d be suffering from drinking that nasty peach shit last night.

“I did not say he couldn’t have it. I was trying to explain he’s not allowed to bring it to school. It’s school policy.”

“See!” Brandon wailed.

“His mother gave it to him before she left for Europe, so he could call her.”

Brandon scrunched his nose at her, but Nick regained his attention and said, “But you have to follow the rules, bud. Your teacher is right.”

Brandon rubbed his cheek with his dirty paw. “What if I want to call my mommy?”

“You can call her when you get home. Do you understand?”

“Yeah…can we get ice cream now?”

“Sure. Give me a minute while I talk to Ms. Fairchild.”

Brandon scrambled out of his arms and ran from the room. “I’ll be on the playground!” he yelled from the hallway.

Marabelle shuffled papers at her desk, doing a good job of avoiding looking at him.

“How do you feel?”

“Fine. I feel fine. Why shouldn’t I feel fine?” she said in her frosty schoolteacher voice.

Great. Attitude. He stepped in front of her desk and leaned forward on both fists, putting a stop to the busy paper rustling. “Oh, I don’t know…maybe because you had quite a few beers last night and were all over me like a cheap suit, with your tongue halfway down my throat.”

Her eyes squeezed closed. “Ooh. I’m very sorry about that. I didn’t mean to put you in an uncomfortable position.”

“Honey, I’m not complaining.”

Her eyes popped open. “Nevertheless, I was out of line, and I apologize. I don’t want you to think I’m taking this fake engagement seriously. I’ll never drink peach beers again. Scout’s honor.” She held up two fingers on her right hand. “And I’m sorry about the…uh…tongue thing.”

He hadn’t meant to come off like a prick. He found Marabelle refreshing. The women from his past would’ve been more than pissed that he put a stop to the action last night. “I’m teasing. It wasn’t all one-sided; I was a willing participant.”

Mesmerized, she leaned toward him with her lips parted in invitation, and Nick didn’t need to be asked twice. He met her halfway, lips mere inches apart when Brandon came bursting through the door. Marabelle jumped back, eyes wide.

“Uncle Nick, can we go now? I want some ice cream.”

He hesitated, studying her flushed face before he straightened, wishing they were alone in his house, preferably in his bed. “Sure, buddy. Ms. Fairchild, would you care to join us at the Dairy Queen for a dipped cone?”

“Uh…ohmygosh, what time is it?” She glanced at the plastic blue Swatch watch around her wrist. “We have a tennis match this afternoon. I need to get to the courts. Thank you anyway.” She began to gather papers and shove them in her knapsack.

“What time does the match start?”

“Um…warm-up is at three thirty… Where are my keys?” She rooted through her top pencil drawer. Nick reached across her desk and tugged on the lanyard around her neck, jingling her keys. His fingers brushed her plump breast and lingered a second too long, delivering a magnetic jolt up his arm and down to his dick. She must’ve felt it, too, because her breath caught.

He gave his best slow, sexy smile.

“Th…thanks. I’m not myself today.” Her voice was low and husky.

“Come on, Uncle Nick. Let’s go!” Brandon tugged on Nick’s other hand.

“Good luck with your match. I’ll call you later,” he said as Brandon pulled him from the classroom.

“Uh-huh. Sure. Thanks.”

* * *

Nick didn’t show for the tennis match—not that he’d promised—and Marabelle tamped down her disappointment. So why did he ask about it? And why did he keep popping up and almost kissing her and then not kissing her, but smiling like he knew what she looked like in the buff? Marabelle was so rattled and hungover she couldn’t remember the tennis lineup. After a shaky start, Beau and Ty surprised her by showing up to watch her guys win. At the end of the match, they congratulated all the boys and did the signing routine for both teams.

After everyone had left the courts, Beau and Ty remained behind and escorted Marabelle to her car. Beau draped his arm around her shoulders and said in a casual voice, “Mary-bell, you own anything that, you know…fits?”

“Why?” Her eyes narrowed.

“Ty and I want to take you out to celebrate your win. We want you to look real pretty.”

“You guys want to spend Friday night with me? Don’t you have hot dates?”

“Yeah, that would be you.” Ty laughed.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Come on, Mary-bell…make our day and wear something sexy,” Beau wheedled.

She opened her car door and smirked. “Sure, I’ll go, but I can’t guarantee the sexy thing.”

Beau grinned. “Pick you up at eight.”

* * *

Marabelle stared at her image in the full-length mirror in her final and fourth outfit. The box from her mother had arrived, with an assortment of St. John knit suits and cocktail dresses that would’ve been perfect if she were seventy-five and going to a funeral. But for a casual night playing pool with some really hot football players…not so much. Marabelle did own attractive clothes that fit, but they remained relegated to the far corners of her closet, rarely seeing the light of day. Anything resembling an ensemble made her think of her mother and how much she didn’t want to be her.

Not tonight. Beau and Ty had been great to her team today and very generous in supporting her cause. She wanted to look nice for them. Heck, she may never get this opportunity again: dating not one, but two smokin’ hot guys. Okay, dating might be a stretch, but her company tonight would be a huge improvement over exchanging recipes with her elderly neighbors. She critiqued her low-rise blue jeans embroidered with blue flowers, and smoothed her turquoise-and-brown long-sleeve knit shirt that buttoned up the front. Both hugged her petite frame. Yeah, so they fit. Her lips curved into a small smile. She slid a thick brown belt with chunky silver buckle through the loops and slipped her feet in a pair of Michael Kors brown leather wedges to add an extra three inches. She finished with a silver heart necklace and hoop earrings, then grabbed her small Fendi bag—a gift from her dad—and scurried to answer the knock at her door.

“Hey. You wanna come in?” she asked, a little out of breath.

Beau Quinton stood on her threshold and stared with his mouth agape. He took an exaggerated step back to check the house number.

“Q? You okay?” He looked more than okay in worn jeans, tight blue polo shirt, and dangerous five-o’clock stubble.

“Am I at the right house? I’m looking for Mary-bell Fairchild, she’s about yea-high”—he held his hand up to indicate her five feet—“and she’s a real bad dresser.”

She performed a quick twirl. “What do you think?”

“I’m thinking you look good enough to eat.” Beau’s gaze lit with heat.

“Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you.”

He gave her a lascivious grin. “You could get in a whole lot of trouble looking like you do, funny girl.”

“We’ll never know unless you take me out. Ready to go?”

“Hell, yeah!”

* * *

Corbett’s Sports Bar, located between Raleigh and Chapel Hill, smelled of stale cigarettes, stale beer, and smoked fish products. And from the way Marabelle’s wedges stuck to the beat-up wood floor, she assumed half of what she smelled had probably ended up on the bottom of her fashionable shoes. But this was where the cool people went to grab a beer. Not that she came close to being in the same league as the football groupies and sex trophies, advertising their wares as subtly as used car salesmen at a Labor Day sale. But it did her battered ego good to notice the envious looks when she walked in with the hottest quarterback in the South. Beau and Ty made a great production of introducing her around and lavishing her with outrageous compliments. Marabelle enjoyed her fifteen minutes of fame. If she had walked in wearing nothing but Saran Wrap, she still would’ve been no competition for the women who circled the bar like carnivores ready to pounce on fresh meat. They gave new meaning to Jimmy Buffet’s song “Fins.”

Beau, being the biggest draw of the evening, asked Marabelle if she would stash some of the phone numbers written on cocktail napkins, business cards, and thongs in her handbag. His pockets were already stuffed. She agreed only if Beau would get some players to sign up for her auction, as she shoved a scrap of red lace the size of a rubber band in her handbag.

Big Bad Barry Rocker, a tackle for the Cherokees, said he’d be honored to participate in the auction. Marabelle gulped as she mentally measured the width of his neck against her waist. His neck came out thicker, and his ham-sized hand engulfed hers. As scary as he looked, he had a great attitude and would be a huge asset to the auction.

Yes! The auction was looking good. As long as she kept her eyes on the real goal and not on a certain someone’s broad shoulders, steel-blue eyes, and tight butt. Beau introduced her to four other potential candidates, and she pocketed three more lacy concoctions that wouldn’t fill a thimble. Lordy, she needed to rethink her own underwear.

Later, Marabelle sat drinking a soda, watching as three tenacious groupies attached themselves like suction cups to Beau and Ty. Ty squirmed uncomfortably when a beauty with sprayed-on jeans sat in his lap and nibbled his ear. Beau, the quintessential stud, held court with a platinum blond named Starr and a Latin beauty named Selena. Both simultaneously rubbed against him, trying to engage him in a game of tonsil-hockey. Eeewww!

Beau managed to push his broad shoulders between the two ladies and asked, “Mary-bell, how ’bout a little pool?”

“Sure. But I have to warn you, I hate to lose.”

“Q, honey, I don’t want to play pool,” Starr pouted. And Marabelle didn’t want to sit across from these obvious groupies like a third wheel. She feared her inferiority complex would reach an all-time low.

Beau patted her thigh. “I know, baby. That’s why I’m playing Mary-bell.”

Starr gave Marabelle a less-than-friendly once-over. “Q, who is she anyway?”

“Is she your girlfriend?” Selena asked. “You keep talking to her.” Selena had whining down to an art.

“No, no. Mary-bell and I are just friends. She’s Coach Frasier’s girlfriend.” Marabelle tried kicking Beau under the table, but her short legs wouldn’t reach. She shot Beau her fiercest glare. The less said about her and Coach Frasier the better.

Starr and Selena looked at each other in shock. “You mean the one everyone’s been tweeting about? But what about Ginger?” they both chorused.

Good Lord, she was probably a Twitter hashtag…wait, what? “Who’s Ginger?” Neither sex-bunny paid Marabelle any mind.

“Ginger’s meeting us tonight. Nick will be here too.” Starr directed her remarks at Beau.

Huh? Marabelle straightened in her chair on high alert, sloshing soda over the side of her glass. She gave the bar a quick once-over to see if Nick had miraculously appeared.

Beau extricated himself from the clinging groupies and grabbed her hand. “Forget it. Come on, Mary-bell, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Ty peeled off the bunny plastered to him. “Wait up…think I’ll join ya.”

* * *

Nick stopped by his office to pick up some papers and return a few calls, after taking Brandon to Dairy Queen and then to the park to throw the football. Instead of sitting still the way he’d asked, Brandon ran up and down the halls, yelling at the top of his lungs. Nick couldn’t believe how out of control his nephew had become. Damn, Marabelle must have an abundance of patience and energy to deal with eighteen five-year-olds every day.

Nick raked his fingers through his hair, remembering the searing kiss they’d shared the night before. He hadn’t been able to think of much else all day. As kisses went, it was damn near perfect. It had started out slow and worked its way up to steaming. Which explained why he’d almost lost all control and made love to a sensual, inebriated Marabelle. He’d wanted nothing more than to throw her on her white puffy bed and bury himself inside her. Something about her sent his normally ironclad control right out the window. Without trying, she had captivated his interest. Nick enjoyed her quirky sense of humor and, God help him, even her quirky sense of style.

But he needed to be careful. Nick didn’t want to hurt Marabelle, and this fake engagement could do just that. Keeping his reputation aboveboard, and not landing on the front of BuzzFeed or TMZ.com in any more compromising positions was paramount to his career right now. Too much was at stake. His team and staff were all depending on him, and he didn’t plan to let them down.

Chantal poked her head in the door. “Coach, you had a couple of calls earlier. Ty said he and Beau would be at Corbett’s tonight in case you wanted to join them. And Ginger called and said the same thing. Your cell phone must be off.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He noticed several missed calls and texts and nodded at Chantal. “Yep, it was off. Thanks, and have a nice weekend.” Brandon stood on his head on the leather sofa in Nick’s office, banging the backs of his legs against his office wall, rattling the plaques and framed pictures. Nick sighed. “Come on, Brandon, let’s get you home.”

Fans and players accosted Nick as soon as he pushed through the door at Corbett’s. He threaded his way to the bar, pumping hands, adjusting to the fog of cigarette smoke visible through the dim lighting. Toby Keith’s “Beer for My Horses” played in the background, and he could smell Corbett’s famous smoked fish in the kitchen.

Nick reached the large, marine-lacquered bar, where the bartender handed him a cold one on the house. He held court as he drank his beer and fielded questions about the upcoming football season and draft. Not his favorite pastime, but he realized most guys dreamed of coaching football. He made vague statements like “the GM saw the draft as not ‘fixing’ any weaknesses, but building long-term strength for the team,” and he agreed with that philosophy. He nodded at a few other well-intended coaching suggestions, when he looked up and spied Ginger Jones heading his way.

“Ordinarily, I’d love to talk sports all night,” he drawled, “but right now I’m in the mood for some feminine companionship. You boys understand, don’t ya?” He winked. The men surrounding him laughed as they cleared a path.

Coach Prichard had introduced Ginger Jones to him back when he’d recently moved to the area and had needed a Realtor. She’d been very thorough in locating the right kind of house in the right community that offered him the privacy he desired. They dated with a mutual understanding of the score. Nothing permanent or exclusive. Once in a while, he would need a date for some stuffy function, and Ginger fit the bill nicely. It had worked, but Nick hadn’t been with her in over three months, due to his busy schedule, but mostly because he didn’t have any interest in becoming her latest acquisition. Yeah, and those damning pictures with Jenna Williams had sobered him up real fast.

Ginger, along with Marty Hackman and a few others, had some issues with the whole “he said, she said” story. Even though Jenna made a public apology—after some very convincing coaxing by Nick’s attorneys—the seed of doubt had been planted.

Yet, as Ginger snaked her way toward him, he figured what harm could there be in having a few beers and catching up on old times? It beat talking about his team with a bunch of guys who liked playing Monday morning quarterback.

“I didn’t think you’d come. Wasn’t sure you received my messages.” Nick checked Ginger out with detached interest. She wore a black knit dress with a wide black patent leather belt cinching her small waist. The scoop neck revealed the tops of her breasts, and the red stilettos enhanced her long legs. Nick caught the look of steely determination in the tension bracketing her lips. He compared Ginger’s overall polished look to Marabelle’s disheveled one in his mind. And surprisingly, Marabelle came out on top.

He brushed her cheek with a kiss. “Sorry. I was babysitting my nephew. Didn’t get the message until late.”

“I’m glad you could make it.” Ginger sounded casual, but a flicker of displeasure lurked in her gaze.

Purposely avoiding eye contact, he asked, “Can I buy you another drink?”

“Mmm, in a moment.” She placed her half-empty glass of vodka tonic on a nearby table. “Looks like your fans are going nuts on social media again”—he guided Ginger with his hand on her elbow to the back room with the pool tables—“something about you having a girlfriend.” He stopped, afraid of where this was going. “Some old schoolteacher, real short with curly hair.”

“It’s a long story.” Nick was not in the mood to explain his fake engagement to Ginger or anyone else. The less the word “fake” was mentioned, the better.

“Interesting. How well do you actually know this girl? Because according to Starr, she’s been plastered to Beau’s side all night.” Ginger gestured vaguely with her hand.

Nick’s brows slammed together.

“What?” As if on cue, he heard Beau’s hoot of laughter. Nick’s head jerked up in time to see his star quarterback in the poolroom, leaning over a cute, heart-shaped ass in tight jeans. Both stretched across a pool table as Beau helped direct the next shot with the cue stick. The shot must’ve been executed correctly, because Beau yelled “Oh yeah!” and the tight jeans next to him squealed.

His nostrils flared as Nick stood rooted to the floor, watching the exchange unfold. He would know that heart-shaped ass anywhere. It had been embedded in his brain ever since the first day he’d met Marabelle Fairchild. What the hell? What was Marabelle doing with his famous quarterback…again?

Cool fingers touched his arm. “Nick, what’s wrong? You look like you’re having a heat stroke.” Nick barely heard Ginger over the loud roaring in his ears. Marabelle and Beau were hugging and giving each other high fives. And then it hit him like the first sack of the season.

Marabelle was wearing stylish clothes that fit. Clothes that clung to every one of her succulent curves. Tight jeans, and a knit top molded to her generous breasts, exposing a sliver of curvy belly, just enough to tease and tantalize.

He shoved his empty beer bottle at a passing waitress. “Everything’s fine as soon as I wipe up the floor with Beau Quinton.”

* * *

Ginger Jones looked from Nick to Beau and then to the girl squeezing Beau around the waist. She refrained from rolling her eyes, because this had to be someone’s idea of a really poor joke.

Her gaze zeroed in on long, curly hair and a petite but curvaceous figure. She’d calmed herself by thinking men found that sort of look attractive, but she had nothing to worry about. Until she spied Nick’s furious expression. The reaction of a jealous lover. And that would never do. Oh no. Not at all. Ginger didn’t care what people spouted on Twitter. She had intimate knowledge of the real Nick Frasier, and this whole thing smelled of a poorly orchestrated publicity stunt.

“Uh, Nicky, why don’t you and I slip out of here? Go back to my place and have a drink.” Ginger smoothed her hand on his hard chest, trying to redirect his attention her way…where it belonged. Not on the little ball of fluff jumping up and down with Beau.

His fury tensed beneath her hand like a spring ready to uncoil. For a nanosecond, she felt only relief, glad his anger wasn’t directed at her, but just as quickly she felt insulted. He had never acted jealous over her when she’d dated someone else. Men! He needed reminding that Ginger was standing before him, willing and waiting.

Using her killer body to block his path as he stepped forward, she forced him to grab her by the arms to prevent plowing her over. She seized the opportunity to mold herself to his front.

“Nicky, baby, don’t make trouble. They’re not worth it,” she whispered in his ear. “She’s made her choice. Let’s get out of here, and I promise to put a smile on your face,” she murmured, kissing his neck.

* * *

Marabelle looked up from her celebration, and not ten feet away, she spotted a tall guy embracing some leggy strawberry-blond. At first glance, he appeared to be another good-looking jock snagging a sex bunny. But then her gaze traveled from his ostrich-skin cowboy boots and long, jean-clad legs to the signature blond-streaked hair. And her gaze locked with Nick’s steely blue, furious eyes.

For a moment, time stood suspended. Everything in the bar faded away. Then the bubble burst when Beau slipped an arm around her, and all hell broke loose.

“Hey!” Marabelle shouted, shoving fists on her hips. The statuesque lingerie model nuzzling Nick’s neck stopped and peered at her with one eyebrow elegantly arched. Marabelle brushed off Beau’s arm and stomped forward in righteous rage.

“Excuse me, but what do you think you’re doing?”

Lingerie model pressed even closer to Nick in an attempt to shield herself from Marabelle.

“Are you talking to me?” she asked in a choked voice.

“Uh, yeah. And I’d appreciate it if you would unwrap your long-legged bony self from my fiancé!”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Unhand my man!”

A crowd started to gather near the pool tables to check out the commotion. Some unevolved bar bum started to chant “Cat fight! Cat fight!” and others joined in.

Bony model spoke to Nick through tight lips. “Why is she ranting at me? Nick, do something.”

Nick removed her talons from his shirt and pushed her gently to the side, never taking his gaze off Marabelle. He fought either a grimace or a smile; she couldn’t tell which and didn’t care. Marabelle crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to be intimidated by the chanting, rowdy crowd.

“Tinker Bell—”

Nick broke off what he was about to say when Beau placed his hands on Marabelle’s shoulders from behind.

“Mary-bell, you okay?” Beau asked, squeezing the tops of her shoulders.

Nick’s hand whipped out, quick as a snake, and yanked Marabelle in front of him. Startled, she yelped.

“She’s fine,” Nick snarled.

Nick and Beau stared each other down like two outlaws facing off for a high-noon shoot-out.

“With all due respect, Coach, I’d like to hear it from Mary-bell,” Beau dared, his laughing brown eyes appearing flat and cold.

The bar crowd picked up on the new tension, closing in to witness the showdown between the coach and the quarterback. Marabelle could hear wagers being tossed around in the background. Nick secured her firmly to his side.

Marabelle barely breathed as she felt the tautness vibrating off his body, but managed to squeak, “Beau, I’m fine, but thanks for asking.”

“Q, take Ginger to her car, and be sure she gets home okay. I’ll take care of Marabelle.” The steel behind Nick’s low voice did not go unnoticed, and alarm bells went off. Marabelle shot a quick glance toward Ginger, the apparent girlfriend.

Beau didn’t budge. “Coach, Mary-bell came out with me tonight, and I should be the one to see her home safely.”

The crowd grew even larger at the potential throw down between Nick and Beau. Marabelle didn’t want to be the reason for either man putting their career in jeopardy. “Guys, um—”

Nick cut her off, his fury barely repressed. “Q, I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Marabelle is with me.” What he left unsaid spoke volumes.

Complete silence descended over the crowd. Nick’s order hung in the air like a case of dynamite ready to explode at any second. Ty and Rocker stepped up, flanking Beau on either side.

“Like I said, Marabelle is my guest and my responsibility, Coach.” Ty clamped his hand on Beau’s shoulder to keep Beau from saying or doing something he might later regret. Marabelle had never seen this fierce side of Beau. She’d grown up on the tennis court, the sport of ladies and gentlemen, not the gridiron, where men played for blood…literally.

“Quinton, this is not up for discussion.” Nick’s tone was clipped and clear.

Ty pushed on Beau’s shoulder to keep him in place. “Coach, in all fairness, we’d like to hear from Marabelle. We invited her tonight, and we need to make sure she’s okay with this,” Ty stated firmly.

“Yeah. She’s our friend, too,” Rocker added.

Marabelle gulped. How did one small, poorly dressed schoolteacher get four huge, good-looking guys all defending her at once? Not in her wildest dreams had she ever imagined this scenario. She slipped out from under Nick’s grip, only because he finally loosened his hold, and took a hesitant step.

“Beau…Ty…please, it’s all right. Coach here—”

Nick spoke in her ear, soft but deadly, “Do not undermine my authority, or you’ll live to regret it.”

She gave a jerky nod and took a deep breath.

“Listen, guys, the coach and I have a mutual understanding… He protects me…from myself, and I protect him from pesky, obnoxious women.” Marabelle shot Ginger the universal back-off look.

Smiling at all three players, she continued, “It’s mighty sweet of y’all to stick up for me.”

“Everyone satisfied?” Nick demanded.

Ty and Rocker took their time before nodding.

Beau did an immediate about-face and grinned like a sly fox. “Mary-bell, anytime you need me, you holler, ya hear?”

“That won’t be necessary. She’ll have me.” Nick’s words were more threatening than reassuring.

Beau shrugged off Ty’s hand and actually laughed.

* * *

Ginger Jones stood stunned, witnessing the entire confrontation with pure disbelief topped with a little fear and a ton of jealousy. She shook off the first two feelings, but the jealousy got the best of her. Ridiculous. I will not be ignored. She hadn’t clawed her way to the top to be toppled over as if she didn’t matter. No one was going to stand in her way when it came to the man she wanted. Especially some loudmouth, nobody schoolteacher.

She brushed past Beau and confronted Nick. “What is going on here?” Her future had flashed before her eyes, and she refused to accept it. She wasn’t about to lose the hottest bachelor in town without putting up a fight.

Nick rubbed his hand over his jaw. “Listen, Ginger, please allow Beau to see you home. I’ll call you later and explain.”

Ginger pinned him with a suspicious glare, but since she had no intention of lowering herself to a public scene, she nodded and leaned in to give Nick a kiss on the lips.

“I don’t freakin’ believe this!” Marabelle bellowed. “I thought I told you to back off.”

Ginger flinched. This tacky schoolteacher resembled a ferocious bull out to gore her to death, but before Marabelle could paw the ground and charge, Ginger’s breath caught in surprise.

Marabelle was instantly off her feet. Thank God. Nick had grabbed her by the waist and hauled her back before she could inflict any harm.

“Put me down! I can take her. I’m stronger than I look.” She tried swinging her arms, but Nick held her upside down against his hip as easily as a football.

Fingers of alarm skittered up her spine as Ginger stared horrified. She couldn’t believe that…that obnoxious girl wanted to fight her in a bar. Keeping the lunatic in her sights, Ginger backed away.

“Time to leave. We’ve put on quite a show for one evening,” Nick said, looking none too happy at all the cell phone cameras flashing in his face. He marched toward the entrance, head ducked. Some guys applauded his caveman tactics, hooting their encouragement. Loudmouth Marabelle didn’t go quietly.

“You can’t carry me around like a football.” Nick ignored her cries. “Wait! I need my handbag. It’s Fendi!” Nick slowed just enough for Ty to toss the bag over. He caught it with his other hand, never breaking stride, and exited the bar with Marabelle secured against his side.

Ginger’s eyes narrowed to slits as she clutched Beau’s arm. This evening had not turned out as planned, and she had that stupid, stupid girl to thank for it.

* * *

Marabelle flopped along Nick’s side as he jostled her out the door. He made tracks and got as far from the entrance and prying eyes and cameras as possible. He couldn’t believe the shit that had just gone down. Dammit. Being engaged to a local schoolteacher was not supposed to be this volatile or damaging. This was supposed to be a touchdown, slam dunk, spiked ball in the end zone.

He stopped halfway through the parking lot and dumped Marabelle on her feet, and she came up swinging.

“You can’t…just…pick me…up and…carry…” she said, swatting at him with girly hits. Nick seized both her hands in his.

“Stop. Before I turn you over my knee and spank your ass,” he said in a rough voice.

“You wouldn’t dare!” She glared at him, the blood returning to her head, and her cheeks filling with color.

“You have no idea.” He turned and towed her behind him, giving her no choice but to skip along to keep up with his long stride. Of course, Marabelle being Marabelle, she wouldn’t leave well enough alone and go quietly.

“I was only doing my job. I could’ve taken her. She’s all legs and long hair. She’s not built to fight like I am.” Nick stopped moving, because he’d reached the passenger side of his Range Rover, but he also stopped swearing under his breath, because just listening to her idiotic logic made him want to laugh. Too busy trying to wiggle free, Marabelle didn’t notice the smile tipping one side of his mouth. But then knowing that pictures of his near-run-in with Beau were being posted to Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and every other social media outlet, all humor fled the vicinity.

“You off your meds again? Who do you think you are? Muhammad Ali?” She stopped struggling and lifted her head, brows furrowed. Nick shook his head. “Have you looked at yourself lately?” Her earnest expression didn’t surprise him. Nothing about Marabelle surprised him anymore. He rolled his eyes heavenward. “You should be sitting on your tuffet with pink bows in your hair. You’re not a badass; you’re a pain in the ass.”

Marabelle’s shoulders slumped. The fight leaked out of her like a bike tire going flat. “I resent that,” she mumbled.

Now he felt crappy about robbing her of her feistiness. Nick could read the dejection in her face as plain as he could read a second-string defense. He got the distinct feeling that she dealt with rejection a lot, and he didn’t like it. Marabelle truly believed she could fight like a guy and win. “Mind telling me what the hell you were doing in there?” Marabelle’s head snapped up, and big brown eyes flashed with anger. Atta girl.

“Exactly what you told me to do. Beating off that bimbo clinging to you like kudzu. The point of this fake engagement, remember?” Her eyes blazed as she spoke. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I understood our agreement to mean I keep all women from coming on to you, and you allow me to have my live auction with the eligible players out there.” She made a derisive noise. “That skinny lingerie model was all over you like honey on a hot biscuit.”

Marabelle’s outburst did all kinds of fascinating things to her heaving chest, momentarily distracting him. But even though he enjoyed more than a glimpse of the goods peeking over her blue lacy bra, it led him right back to his original source of anger. He knew damn straight that Beau and every other guy had been ogling the goods, too. His tightly controlled emotions snapped like a dry twig, which put him right back where he’d started.

Pissed off.

“I’m talking about you and Beau. What the hell were you doing with him when you’re supposed to be engaged to me? Don’t tell me you’re not attracted to him, because I noticed you changed the way you dress. Just for him!” His eyes flicked to her navel and the smooth skin exposed between the hem of her shirt and the waistband of her low-riding, awesomely tight jeans.

“Of all the asinine…are you kidding me? You’ve been driving me crazy about the way I dress. Now you’re all in a snit because I look nice for a change?” Her hands talked as much as her mouth, exposing even more of her cute belly. Everything she did messed with his head.

Nick wanted to spank her. Kiss her. Strangle her. Then kiss her until neither one of them could think of anything else. He needed to get his head back in the game and start calling some offensive plays.

“I’m pissed because I came out tonight to have a few beers, and I see my fiancée and my quarterback practically doing it on the pool table,” he snarled down at her.

“I…you…you take that back!” Marabelle hauled back and hit him right in the gut with her fist. Nick gave a slight grunt.

“Ooowww! Jeez. What do you eat for breakfast, nails?” She shook her hand as if it stung. “That hurt,” she whimpered.

“When are you going to learn?” He cradled her small hand in his, inspecting it. “I’d kiss it to make it all better, but I’m still too angry at you.”

As some rowdy partiers spilled out of Corbett’s on their way to their next stop, Nick yanked open the car door and pushed her into the passenger seat, tossing her handbag inside. He quickly got behind the wheel and took off before he became the subject of more social media fodder.

* * *

Stony silence filled the car. Marabelle massaged her hand and wondered how in hell her life had gone from mundane to insane in only a week. She still hadn’t forgiven Coach Neanderthal for carrying her out like a sack of potatoes in front of the whole world.

Clearly this engagement was not working out. But it was match point, and she couldn’t afford to double fault. She needed him way more than he needed her. The success of the auction depended on his total cooperation and participation. And her promotion was hanging in the balance.

And speaking of balance, Marabelle always felt off-kilter after a phone conversation with her mother. She’d felt defeated and depressed listening to Edna’s litany of horrible activities and all the things wrong with Marabelle’s life.

But tonight with Beau and Ty, she’d felt…um, kinda cool and necessary. Like they really appreciated her. And not because she was some voluptuous hot mama, but because she was feisty and sassy. Maybe it made her pathetic, but she really reveled in all the attention. Especially the intense, laser-like attention from Nick…as if she mattered. Finally Marabelle focused on the road and realized they were driving in the wrong direction.

“Where are we going?” Signs for North Raleigh flashed by on the boulevard. She lived south.

“My place,” he said.

She straightened. “I don’t want to go to your place. Take me home.” She tried to sound calm, but she was freaked-out.

“Sorry. You and I are going to have it out. And then I’m going to give you the beating you deserve,” he explained very succinctly, not once glancing in her direction.

Gulp. “You’re not serious…about the beating part.” She gnawed on her thumbnail. She caught Nick watching her out of the corner of his eye. As looks go, it wasn’t good.

“Dead serious. I’d love nothing more than to wrap my hands around your neck right this minute.”

She removed her chewed-up thumb from her mouth. “There’s nothing between Beau and me.” His eyes got that scary, narrowed look, and she hurried with an explanation. “Beau and Ty watched us win our match today, and they wanted to take me out for a celebration. End of story. Besides, you said you were going to call and never did,” she accused.

“Un-freakin’-believable. Don’t blame your behavior tonight on me.”

“Uh-huh. Who was locking lips with Ginger?” She poked him in the right arm with her index finger. “You owe me an explanation. Word on the street is you guys are dating. Now how do I fit in, Coach? Because I have to tell ya, still not interested in a threesome.”

“I bet if Q was the third person, you would be,” he grumbled low. Marabelle noticed his white knuckles as he strangled the steering wheel, thankful it wasn’t her neck…yet.

“There’s nothing between Beau and me. Can you say the same about you and Ginger?”

“We dated. Past tense. It’s over. Ginger is not the issue.”

“Try telling her that.” She slumped back in her seat.

Beau Quinton did not tingle her insides, nor did he make her want to climb in his back pocket and stay there. Only Nick did that. But it would be a cold day in hell before she ever gave him that juicy bit of information.