Beauty and the Baller (Strangers in Love #1)(17)

“What? No!” A long aggrieved sigh leaves my chest. I can’t get involved with anyone from Blue Belle. I don’t want to lead anyone on. “Lois is trying to hook me up. I’m not oblivious to their plans.”

“Hmm.” She moves to sit on the top step as she gazes out at the street, giving me her profile, and it allows my eyes time to roam her face uninterrupted. Her pale-blonde hair hangs straight around her shoulders as the sun catches the honey highlights. Long dark lashes, winged brows, straight nose . . .

“She’s pulling into your driveway. Should I let her know you’re here?”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Just . . . tell me what she’s doing.”

“Really? I used to do radio work. I’m a jack-of-all-trades, really; I can do just about anything if I set my mind to it. My voice is quite good.”

My brow pulls down. “Okay?”

She looks at my house, then clears her throat. “A striking redhead walks up to the front door of the house and knocks, waits, then knocks again. Holding a box of what looks like Dunkin’ Donuts, she looks at her watch and taps her heels, clearly not expecting to be denied entry to the coach’s lavish home.”

“I wouldn’t say lavish—”

“This Texas beauty queen is not deterred and moves to the doorbell.”

“A play-by-play? Really.” I glare at her.

“Mama always said if at first you don’t succeed, try to make more noise . . . and wait . . . she presses the doorbell again. And again.” She tsks. “That’s right; she’s broken Texas polite norms and rung three times. Whatever she had planned to talk about with the fancy-pants coach is important and couldn’t wait. She wants him to eat her donuts, folks.”

“You are insane. What kind of radio—”

She slants an eye at me. “It was a talk show about women who love football, if you must know. I did recaps of games. It didn’t pay much, but it was fun.” Her gaze goes back to the house. “Wait, what’s this? She’s pulling out a yellow sticky note made by the 3M Company.”

“You’re making shit up—”

Nova throws up a “Be quiet” hand and continues. “She takes a pen out of her Louis Vuitton—which is spectacular, one of the limited editions you can’t find anywhere—and writes a message, something that could probably be said by text, but this beautiful man magnet seems to feel the personal touch is best. She has written her note and is now placing it . . . wait . . . nope, she’s pulling it back. Her pride has reared up. Good girl. Don’t chase him, honey, even if it’s clear that Coach is the town’s adopted favorite son. Pretty soon, they’ll buy him an Escalade—”

I find a better position and lean back against the walled porch.

“And . . . that’s it, folks. She’s walking away from the house. Stops, turns! Will she go back? No. The beauty has failed and is leaving the property. She arrives at her car with a pout. Dang. Her lover has missed out on some yummy goodness—”

“Not her lover,” I mutter.

“She places the scarf back on her head. She turns to get in the car—wait—she’s turning and . . . holy shit . . . waving . . . at . . . me?” Nova rises from her seat and sends her a wave, a smile plastered on her face. “Damnation. She’s in her car. Destination: my house.”

I groan. “Don’t tell her I’m here. Please.”

She fluffs her hair, then rubs at the drool on her face. “How do I look?”

I skate my eyes over her, lingering on the curve of her breasts in her tank top. “I think you know.” Hot.

“Delightfully disheveled?” She shrugs. “This reminds me of that time I had Jimmy Lockhart hiding in my closet. He’d crawled in my window, and we tried to be quiet, but he accidentally knocked a lamp off my nightstand. I covered him up with clothes and stuffed animals. Nearly peed my pants when Mama walked in my bedroom to check on me. Of course, I liked Jimmy. He had a great personality. You do not.” She stands and straightens her tank top. “She’s here. Sit tight, Fancy Pants.”

And she’s gone from my view, walking down the porch in her bare feet.

When I can’t catch their words, I crawl closer to the edge to get a glimpse of what’s going on. My foot hits something—dammit—and I turn to see a planter rocking back and forth, an orange pot on top of a wire plant stand. I reach over to grab it, but the pot topples over the porch and lands with a thud on the grass below.

“What was that?” Melinda asks, her voice rising. “Your plant just fell.”

“Sparky. He adores pushing plants around.”

“Isn’t that him in the window?” Melinda asks.

Shit. I glance at the front window and see the cat on the back of the chair. His eyes lock with mine and convey, Busted.

Nova clears her throat. “Yeah, um, well, you see, I have lots of cats.”

“Are they all as vicious as that one?” Melinda asks.

Nova goes into her spiel about Sparky being the dog of the cat world, and I stifle a laugh.

“Is someone on your porch?” Melinda asks.

Nova coughs. Once. Twice. “Nope. That was me. I, um, think I have the flu. You shouldn’t get too close.”

“It’s not flu season.”