Beauty and the Baller(12)

I’m not sure I can handle being alone with him. Not without some armor, and by armor, I mean a kick-ass dress and stilettos. Maybe that would get his attention.

He takes my elbow before I move, surprising me. I let him guide me and Sparky past staring girls in bikinis, through the french doors, into the den, and down a hallway to a door. He opens it and ushers me inside. I step in as he stalks around me to a big oak desk, crosses his arms, and leans on it, a flat expression on his face. “Now we can chat without either of us causing any more chaos tonight.” He looks at Sparky.

I ignore him and gaze around.

It’s a trophy room—an office but huge, maybe twenty by twenty feet. There’s a lot to take in. Shiny golden football statues sit on a shelf on the wall behind him, and holy football legends . . . there’s the Heisman.

Framed photos of him are on the right side of the walls, him and his team accepting the Super Bowl trophy. I see Tuck and wince. Ouch. There’s a memory . . .

The left side of the room is full of memorabilia. Signed movie scripts under glass with lights on them, autographed posters of the Star Wars actors, Funko Pop figurines, a model starship. It’s like the galaxy threw up.

In the back is an elaborately carved pool table, a movie screen, and several theater-style recliners. My eyes flare when I see a life-size Chewbacca and Darth Vader in the corner side by side, looming at each other. I huff out a laugh.

“Is something funny, Ms. Morgan?”

Ignoring him, I leave Sparky to waltz around the room, heading to the trophies, grazing my fingers over the Heisman. About fourteen inches tall, it’s smaller than I thought it would be.

“Go ahead. Pick it up,” he says.

Biting my bottom lip, I pick up the trophy and gasp at the heaviness, then carefully set it back on the shelf.

“It weighs forty-five pounds. Cast bronze,” he says gruffly. “I nearly dropped it when they gave it to me.” There’s a hint of emotion in his voice, and I recall the way he accepted it at twenty-one, his jawline sculpted perfectly, a devilish light in his eyes, a man born in the inner city who climbed to the top, ready to take on the world and win.

What must it feel like to lose it all?

I throw a look at him. “It’s only given to one player out of hundreds and represents talent, integrity, diligence, and perseverance. Do you still have those qualities?”

His tone is dry. “My talent is gone, sadly. I wasn’t aware my integrity was in question. It’s this party and your annoyance with it. Please say your piece, and we’ll be done.” He moves his hands in a “Give it to me” motion.

“I said it already. You’re a jerk.” I wave my hand at the hairy monster in the corner. “How tall is that thing?”

“That thing is Chewie. He’s seven feet, five inches. He’s a Wookiee, a mechanic, a smuggler, and Han Solo’s copilot. Darth Vader, the man in black, is the bad guy. He’s six-eight. Would you like to see my Princess Leia?”

I start, then spin around. “Where?”

“In the closet.”

Now that just hurts my feelings.

He heads to a door near the back, and I trail behind him.

The door opens, and I blink, my heart flipping over. My costume didn’t look that good. “You don’t make out with it, do you? Like those blow-up dolls? A synthetic partner?”

“No,” he says on an exhale. “I like real women.”

I cock my head, studying the wax Carrie Fisher look-alike.

“The bra is copper, and the bottoms have a metal plate at the front and back.” He fingers the links around her neck. “The chain and collar bound her to Jabba the Hutt.”

“Who?”

He glares at me. “A big ugly alien crime lord who captured Leia. She used it to kill him. Any more questions?”

“I know who they are,” I say rather defensively. “I’ve never watched the movies, though. I’m a unicorn.” I smile at him. Just because.

“Fascinating.”

“You’re a geek.” A grumpy geek god. I always knew it. I kind of liked it. Not anymore.

“Unapologetically. Now . . .” His words trail off as I leave him. I hear him huff as I pass a glass case mounted on the wall—what the . . . ? I back up. There’s a golden snake cuff inside the case, looking small next to a poster of the white-clad Princess Leia.

That cuff is mine. I reach out to touch—

“Ms. Morgan, please don’t touch anything.”

I place my finger on it, smear it, and then turn around. “Oops.”

“You’re trying to antagonize me.”

“Your brain is, like, super amazing.”

“Why make the effort to be rude, Ms. Morgan? Is there something about me you don’t care for?” His eyes glitter at me.

Oh, I like poking at him. A lot. He’s kind of infuriating, but underneath . . . my skin shivers. He’s a wild man. Vicious. A beast. I remember.

I smile knowingly at him.

He blinks, then frowns. “Have we met before?”

Someone knocks on the door, and it swings open, Miss Texas poking her head in. She poses in the doorway and gazes at Ronan. “We’re about to light the candles and sing ‘Happy Birthday.’ Are you ready?” She gives me a cool glance, then checks the dainty Rolex on her wrist. “It’s getting late, and some of the guests are wanting to get started.”