Beauty and the Baller (Strangers in Love #1)(15)

It’s just been me and Mama and Sabine for fifteen years, the Mighty Morgan Girls, and I try to cling to that thought, to be strong . . . like Mama.

She’s going to be a lot to live up to.

We’re different flowers from the same garden, but we’re perfect together.

My throat tightens with grief, with fear that I’m not enough, at the trust I heard in Sabine’s words . . .

We’re going to be okay.

Maybe if I keep saying it, it will be true.





Chapter 4


RONAN

My dreams wake me up, twisted and dark, and my hands clench the sheets as images flit through my head: a stormy night, lightning hitting the road, my Tahoe slamming into a bridge and then rolling down the embankment, Whitney’s scream piercing my ears—then her in my arms. She begged me to help her, to let her live, and I could do nothing as the light went out of her eyes. The memory crawls over me, and I sit up and scrub my face with hands that shake.

There haven’t been any thunderstorms here lately, yet something brought that dream on . . .

My dog, possibly an Irish wolfhound, puts his head on my shoulder, disrupting my thoughts. He showed up at the back door the day I moved in, mangy, skinny, and ugly, with no collar. I figure someone dumped him in the nice neighborhood. Or maybe he just found me. I give him a pet. “Morning, Dog.” He licks my hand, then rolls back over and puts his head on the pillow next to mine.

After I shower, my phone rings—Lois asking if I want to have breakfast at Waffle House and suggesting I focus on a rushing game against Wayne Prep next week. I hum a noncommittal reply, decline breakfast, and get off the phone.

Later, after I’ve gotten my workout clothes on and had a cup of coffee, another booster calls and invites me to First Baptist. “It’s the biggest church in town,” he tells me, “and oh, by the way, my daughter is just lovely and would love to meet you.”

My jaw grinds. I bet she would. The women are coming out of the woodwork to lock me down.

The people love me, but they’re meaner than a big-ass linebacker making a tackle when it comes to getting me a girlfriend.

Dog bumps into me, nearly knocking me down as he dashes to the french doors and barks. I hush him and follow his gaze out to the pool and see a naked cat standing on a chaise lounge. The thing is screeching like a banshee. Dog growls, and I push him back and go outside. The cat sashays over to me, rubbing in between my legs. Then it darts for the french doors to glare at Dog through the glass. Brave little bastard. I snatch him up by the scruff of his wrinkled pink skin—weird as hell—and read his fancy collar.

“Hello, Sparky,” I say in a dark tone.

I hold him in the crook of my arm, and he squirms to get away as I head to the pool house for a plastic container. I could call Nova—her cell was on the collar—but by the time she gets here, he might run.

I place the cat in the bin, gently, leaving the top vented. He doesn’t go in easy and scratches my arm, making blood bloom in a long line. “You’re a little shit,” I tell him as I frown at the memory of her, the only person to give me lip since I arrived in Blue Belle. Pompous jerk. Indeed. Even when I was young and brash, no one dared call me arrogant.

I heft the container up and start for the gate that leads to the sidewalk of the neighborhood. Her house is the smallest in our cove, a bit run down but charming, with faded-cream bricks, soft-blue shutters, and a wide stone front porch. In the driveway is a pale-pink Cadillac. I used to see Mrs. Morgan in it, a tall lady with dark hair. She brought me strawberry jam the week I moved in, and that was about the extent of our interactions.

I get to her front porch, then pause at the flower beds, my jaw grinding. Jenny. Dammit. An acquaintance of Tuck’s, I met her a few months before I moved to Texas last year.

A long sigh comes from my chest as I bend down and check out the two taller bushes, her birthday plants. They took the brunt of the Jeep, their stalks bent, bright petals littering the mulch.

After everyone left last night, I replayed Nova’s words several times, unable to sleep. Insomnia is a regular occurrence, but this felt different. Around two in the morning, I took Dog for a walk, but it was too dark to see her flower beds from the sidewalk. I stood there for half an hour trying to figure out why meeting my neighbor made me antsy. It was guilt, I decided, over the roses. I came home, googled yellow rosebushes, and went down a rabbit hole for an hour.

Leaving that behind, I rap hard on the door. “Jolene,” by Dolly Parton, comes from the house as the door opens slowly. I lower my lids as I take her in. Messy long blonde hair, one side flattened. Sleepy sky-blue eyes. Drool on her cheek.

Tall, maybe five-eight, she’s wearing what look like men’s boxers and a white tank top. A slice of her stomach is revealed, tanned and toned, and a pink feather boa is around her neck. My lips quirk at that; then I freeze when I see her nipples pressing through the fabric, erect and hard. I force myself to move back to her face. She takes a slow sip of the coffee in her hand, a bored expression on her face, but I don’t miss her nose flaring or the slow, steadying breath she lets out.

She leans against the doorjamb, cool as a cucumber, and her voice has thickened since last night, a slow Texas drawl. “Goodness. Ronan Smith at my house. Long time no see—like for real, you have no idea. Is residential cat catching part of your job description as head football coach?”