Beauty and the Baller(29)

“I do whatever it takes to win.” He pulls us to the center of the store and throws a wave up at Allie, who sparkles at the attention.

“The entire town is in love with you,” I mumble.

“Not you,” he replies. “Which makes this even easier. You don’t even like me.”

Oh. I’ve had time to process seeing him and that Awful One-Night Stand. Yes, my self-respect—and heart—took a beating that night, but perhaps I’ve softened . . . he was still grieving. I suspect he still is. That kind of pain can ease, but it never quite goes away.

He leads me to a table near Melinda and Paisley’s, then presses a book into my hands, one he grabbed off a display on our way to the front. “Speaking of books, here’s one of my favorites, The Art of War by Sun Tzu, a Chinese military strategist. Take it. It was written in the fifth century and has thirteen chapters, each one devoted to a skill set related to war tactics. Now people use it for business, lifestyle discipline, legal strategy, whatever. I use it for football. For life, really. You’d be surprised at the wisdom.”

“Who? What? And you think I talk too much? I probably won’t read it, but thanks?”

His face transforms with that genuine smile, and I inhale a breath.

“What?” I ask after a few moments pass.

“You’re surprising,” he murmurs.

“In a good way?”

“You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Very vague,” I grouse. “I’m not obtuse. I’ve heard of the book, of course. I have a BA in art history from NYU.” A degree I’m still paying for.

“‘The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy so they can’t fathom our real intent.’ We’re using that one today. You ready?”

“Got it. Confusing the enemy. This sounds violent,” I say as he pulls us closer to their table, then stops under one of the big lights hanging from the ceiling.

Then . . .

With an adoring look—whoa—he takes both my hands in his.

His plan clicks in my head. “Ronan, no, this is not a good idea—”

He ignores me, his fingers lacing with mine. “Babe, thank you for the coffee date.” Warm and deep, his voice carries over the store.

There’s a long silence; then I hear a gasp. Melinda. I glance over, and Paisley meets my eyes and drops her fork, her face paling. She breathes my name. Yeah, that’s right, sweetheart; Nova is back in town, my eyes say. Ignore the T-shirt. My clothes are coming . . .

I look up at Ronan, my voice low. “Technically, I never got my coffee. Your big body bumped into me.”

“You bumped into me, babe.” He smiles as his hands move up my arms to my throat. It’s a tantalizing, possessive action. He lets one rest there, holding me as our eyes cling. I feel the pulse in my neck throbbing. I picture how it must look: me in his hat, us in the middle of the store, our chests nearly touching, his fingers toying with the neckline of my ancient T-shirt.

Intimate.

“I think that’s enough,” I murmur as I bat my lashes. “She’s probably going to sneak in my house and murder me after this.”

“I won’t let her. Plus, don’t you want Paisley to think you’re banging the hot football coach?”

“Who said you were hot?”

His eyes glitter at me. “You, Nova Morgan, may not like me, but you think I’m sexy. I know this.”

“You’re an egotistical ass.”

“Hmm. I think you like that too. Let’s test a theory.”

“What theory?”

“A primal one,” he purrs as he drags his thumb over my bottom lip.

I’m too shocked to move. It feels like I’m back at the Mercer Hotel, his undivided attention laser focused on me.

My breath quickens. In for a penny . . . “All right. Quit stalling, and get it over with.”

“I’m making sure they see us. Be patient.” His fingers trace up my jawline to my hair, rubbing the strands through his fingers.

“Oh, I can feel people looking.” My body is hyperaware of everything, especially him. I don’t drop his gaze, but I know Allie is looking. Maybe the mop boy.

He bends down into my neck and bites my earlobe. “You smell like apples.”

I gasp. “Perfume . . . reminds me of home . . . long story about Mrs. Meadows’s trees . . .”

“Hmm.” He tilts my chin up, and his eyes are that hot, stormy color. Oh . . .

He takes my mouth hesitantly, with small brushing kisses. One, two, three times, testing and tender. He wraps his arms around my waist and slants his mouth differently, deepening the kiss. I pause, tempted to push him away, but instead part my lips, my tongue touching his. Sparks ignite inside my body. His fingers slide around and cup my scalp as he kisses me, tasting, exploring every corner of my mouth. Heat rushes over my skin, and my hands, which hadn’t known what to do, move up his broad chest and tangle in his hair.

He steps back, his chest rising rapidly.

We breathe for a good five seconds.

“Not bad for a fake kiss,” I manage.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he announces with me still in his arms. “My place.”

My gaze darts over to Melinda and Paisley. Both are staring, mouths slightly ajar. Melinda has a flush on her face, her eyes brittle, and Paisley blinks at me in disbelief.