It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars #1)(55)

“The way I figure it is this,” he went on. “Mankind is aggressive by nature, you agree with that?”

“Mankind maybe, but not necessarily womankind.”

Bobby Tom obviously had no interest in sexual politics because he ignored her comment “Football lets out man’s natural aggression. If it weren’t for the NFL, we’d probably have gone to war with Russia half a dozen times in the last forty years. See, that’s the way Americans are. The minute we get crossed, we’re natural shitkickers. Pardon my language, Phoebe, but everybody knows kickin’ ass is part of our national conscience. Football gives us a—whadya-call? A safe outlet.”

He was actually making a convoluted sort of sense, which was when she knew the first margarita had gone to hear head. She picked up the second one, and licked another spot in the rim.

He clasped her arm and gave her a pleading look. “So, are you gonna be there for me or not tomorrow, ’cause I’ll tell you God’s truth—you’re a fine woman, and I know you don’t want a loss to the Sabers on your conscience.”

“I’ll be there,” she sighed.

“I knew I could count on you.” He gave her an engaging smile. “I like you, Phoebe. A lot. If we weren’t business associates, I could really go for you.”

He was so boyish and darling, she smiled right back at him. “Isn’t life a bitch?”

“You said it.”

Even without a margarita glow, Bobby Tom Denton was easy to be with. They talked about Mexican food, whether sports teams should be named after Native Americans, and Bobby Tom’s resemblance to Christian Slater. She took more time with her second margarita, but even so, she was definitely feeling a buzz when he leaned over and brushed her mouth with his.

It was a light, friendly kiss. Respectful. A mark of comradeship and well-being. The kiss a twenty-five-year-old man gives to a thirty-three-year-old woman he’d like to go to bed with, but knows he won’t, and doesn’t want to spoil the friendship, but still wishes it could be more than a friendship.

Phoebe understood.

Unfortunately, Dan didn’t.

“Denton!” His voice shot through the quiet of the bar like a Confederate cannon over a smoldering battlefield. “Doesn’t that high-priced wristwatch of yours tell you you’ve got exactly three and half minutes to haul your butt up to your room or miss curfew?” He loomed over their table in his jeans and a denim shirt that was open at the throat.

“Howdy, Coach. You want to hear the funniest doggone thing? I was just explaining to Phoebe here how you’ve always been a little bit flexible about curfew. And then you show up. If that isn’t—”

“Two minutes, forty-five seconds! And I’m fining you five hundred dollars for every minute you’re not in your room.”

Looking hurt, Bobby Tom got to his feet. “Dang, Coach, what’s got you so riled?”

“You ran three bad patterns on Friday. How ’bout that for starters?”

Bobby Tom peeled some bills from a wad in his pocket and slapped them on the table. Then he gave Dan a long, shrewd gaze. “I don’t think this has anything to do with bad patterns.” He tipped the brim of his Stetson toward Phoebe. “See you on the sidelines tomorrow, Miss Somerville.”

“See you, Bobby Tom.”

As he disappeared, Dan barked at her like a drill sergeant “My room! Now.”

“Uh—I don’t think so.”

“When you start playing games with the best wide-out in the AFC, you’ve stepped clean over the line. Now unless you want our dirty linen aired in public, I suggest you start moving.”

Phoebe reluctantly followed him out of the bar and into the lobby. She knew she should remind him that she was the boss, but as they stepped inside the elevator and began to travel in weighted silence up to the seventh floor, she found that she couldn’t work up any steam.

He’d certainly worked up a full head, however, and the heat from it was burning right through her short, turquoise knit shift. Luckily for her, she didn’t care. The two margaritas had left her with a cozy sense of well-being that made her want to puff out her lower lip and tell him not to be such an old fuddy-duddy.

She hadn’t known their suites were so close until he stopped in front of the door across from her own. He unlocked it and gave her a none-too-gentle push inside. Then he shoved his fist, index finger extended, toward the brocade-covered sofa.

“Sit.”

Although her brain had begun to issue the most alarming warnings, the warm tequila haze enveloping her made it impossible to take them seriously, so she gave him a mock salute as she followed orders.

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t you get cute with me!” He splayed one big hand on his hip. “You stay away from my players, you hear me? These men are here to win football games; they’re not your personal love toys, and I don’t ever again want to see anything like I saw tonight!”

And that was just the beginning. He ranted and raved, turning red in the face just as he did on the sidelines when he was yelling at a ref. Finally, he paused for breath.

She gave him a lopsided smile and slipped the tip of her index finger into her mouth. “What’s the matter, puddin’? Didn’t you ever kiss a girl in a bar?”

He seemed stunned, as if he’d never before been sassed by a woman. God, he was cute. Cute and sexy and hunky and mean. Uhmm. Grrr. . . . It would take a lot of woman to tame a man like him.