Beauty and the Baller (Strangers in Love #1)(18)

Nova coughs. “You never know. Sorry. You’d better go.”

I hear more murmurings between them until finally the engine of the Mustang comes to life. The radio picks up with Britney, then fades as she drives away.

“She thinks I’m a sickly, crazy cat lady,” Nova grouses as she climbs back up on her porch and plops down next to me. She crosses her legs and puts her elbows on her thighs, her hands resting under her chin as she gazes at me. She doesn’t look at the scars—no, those irises lock with mine and don’t let go.

“You owe me a petunia,” she says. “On the flip side, Melinda apologized for parking behind my car last night and promised she wouldn’t do it again. According to her, she’ll be over here a lot, and she’ll be using the driveway. Also, her father adores you. He’s a booster, yes? I recall he was a football player back in the day.”

I nod.

“You have to buy me a cat as well. I hate lying to people.”

I mimic her position and face her. I hear the chirp of a bird, the knocking of a woodpecker, a car, but it all fades . . .

There’s a strange tension around us, a thickening of the air.

She breaks it by looking away from me. “Sparky needs a buddy. I warn you; they’re expensive. I’ll pick one out, yes?”

“Sure. Thank you for the help.”

“I like seeing you squirm,” she murmurs.

“Why?”

“Payback.” A slow blush works up from her neck to her face as she mutters something under her breath.

“What was that?”

She clears her throat. “Just . . . life has a funny sense of humor.”

Before I can ask her to elaborate, my phone erupts with the chorus from the Steve Miller Band’s “Take the Money and Run.”

“Excuse me a moment.” After standing up, I walk to the other end of the porch, keeping my voice low, my back to Nova. “Reggie. Hey, man. Been a while. Whatcha got for me?”

He lets out a gruff laugh, and I picture him in his high-rise in Manhattan, his huge U-shaped desk, the pictures with his arm slung around athletes on the wall behind him. One of the biggest agents in sports, the man never stops working. “How’s it going down there in Podunk, Texas? You bought yourself any cowboy boots? I’d like to see that, actually.”

“It’s Blue Belle, and no, I don’t have any.”

“Pity. How’s the high school gig? Heard you won your first game. Your quarterback looks good. How old is he?”

Leave it to Reggie to be on top of the news, scouting.

“That would be Toby. He’s seventeen. What’s going on with you?” I ask.

“I got a lead on a possible college job. How do you feel about Stanford?”

“California. I love the sun. What job?”

“Quarterback coach. Half a mill is what Dunbar is pulling in there, but rumor is he got caught by someone on staff doing coke. He was arrested last year on a drug charge, and the team looked beyond it, but this is the second time, and I feel like he’ll go into rehab, then maybe resign. William Hite is head coach—you know him—and he’s incredible. I threw your name up in a call, and there was some tentative interest, but we have to play it close to the vest.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s a prestigious school with a long tradition in football. You’d look great in white and red.”

I grimace. It’s not about the money. I pulled in twenty-five million a year with the Pythons. My financial situation is set for life. And Hite is a great coach—the kind I want to be. I want to be in charge, have control of a team, mold it, and make it mine. I want his job. A long exhale comes from me. I don’t expect the offers to come pouring in—not when I haven’t proved myself on the college level—but my name does carry clout, and I can always hope.

He continues in a rush. “I know it’s not what you’re looking for. You want to be in charge, and someone is going to snatch you up, but we need to do this one step at a time. How do you feel about Stanford if Hite calls me?”

“I need to think on it. I can’t leave my team midseason.” I scuff my feet on the porch. “Keep your feelers out. Get back to me if you hear any more chatter.”

I hang up and turn back around. Nova stands a foot away.

“So Mrs. Meadows was right,” she says. “The rumors are true. You’re looking to leave. That woman truly does know everything.”

“You like to eavesdrop?”

“It’s a lesson all southern women learn early.” She shrugs an elegant shoulder. “We don’t care if we get caught.”

My jaw pops, frustration rising. I do want to move up the ladder. Once I set a goal, I give it my entire focus. I almost won state last year, and this year’s goal is to get that trophy, then elevate to a higher level, either college or professional. I never planned on coaching high school the rest of my career.

But I’m not discussing that with her.

I huff and raise my arms. “Fine. I’m going to check out your flowers, maybe replace them. It’s why I came over here—besides delivering your cat! Then I’ll leave you in peace.”

She takes a step closer until we’re nearly toe to toe. The smell of green apples wafts around her as she pushes a finger into my chest. “No, you’re not, Fancy Pants. I am. You wouldn’t know what to do with them.” She deflates, her shoulders dipping. “Plus, they can’t be replaced. Not the roses anyway. They mean something to me.” Her eyes shine with emotion as she takes a step back.