The Baller: A Down and Dirty Football Novel(16)

“You mean like a relationship?”

“Yes. A relationship. I’m not talking about marriage. But dating. Getting to know each other outside of the bedroom.”

He blew out a rush of air. “I can’t do that. I need to keep things simple.”

I forced a smile, hating that I felt a little disappointed. “See, we’re better as friends.”

“I don’t have any girl friends. Well, ones that I haven’t, you know.”

“Well, then this will be a first for you.”

“I guess it will be.” He extended his hand to me to shake on our newfound friendship, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he leaned in, keeping my hand wrapped in his when he spoke. “I’m disappointed. I was really looking forward to seeing your clothes on my bedroom floor.”

“Even these clothes?” I arched an eyebrow.

The waitress wheeled our dessert cart over, forcing us apart. I hated to admit it, but I missed his touch when he let go of my hand. All those sweets would be filling in for something else.

Things returned to normal after that. Well, normal for us. We argued some more. He said some more inappropriate things, and we ate one bite each from thirteen different desserts. I was glad I had on my fancy new elastic-waist pants.

“I’m stuffed.” I leaned back in my chair.

“You can sure eat for a little thing.”

“That’s not something you should ever point out to a woman.”

“I can if she’s only a friend, right?”

Neither of us made an attempt to end the evening, and it wasn’t until we were the only people left in the restaurant that I realized how late it was. “Wow. We’ve been sitting here for almost four hours.”

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

“I know. Tonight wasn’t anything like I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t expect to get to know you, really.”

“You expected me to be just a pretty face, didn’t you?”

I laughed off his comment, but that sort of was what I had expected. An evening of sexual references and talking shop about football. Don’t get me wrong, we had plenty of that, but there was also more. I couldn’t remember the last time a first date had went that well. Shit. This isn’t a date.

An hour later, we pulled up at my building. He parked, turned off the car and came around to open my door. “No doorman?”

“He leaves at eleven.”

“I’m walking you inside.”

The lobby was quiet and, as usual, only one elevator in my high-rise complex was working. I pushed the button, mentally debating if I should invite him up or not.

No. Inviting him up would be misleading.

But I really don’t want him to leave.

“So . . . I’ll call your agent to set up the interview for this weekend.”

“Call me. Not my agent.”

“Okay.”

The elevator dinged, and I suddenly felt awkward. “Do you want to come up for some coffee?”

He shook his head slowly.

“Okay, then. Well. Thank you for dinner.” I stepped into the elevator.

“You’re welcome.”

The impatient doors began to close. Brody stopped them, holding them open as he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. His mouth lingered, and he leaned in a little farther to whisper in my ear. “I don’t trust myself alone with you. I need a little space between us, or our friendship isn’t going to end well.”

He leaned back, and we stared at each other for a moment. My heart was racing, my pulse was beating like I’d just run a marathon, and every hair on the back of my neck was standing up from the electricity running between us.

He lifted the arm that was holding the door, and as it closed he said, “Sweet dreams, friend.”

I knew they would be. Because I was certain who would be starring in them that evening.





Chapter 8


Delilah “Guess you put out last night?” Indie spun herself around in my ergonomically correct swivel chair. I dropped my bags on the floor and glanced at the beautiful arrangement of flowers sitting in the middle of my desk.

“Where did those come from?”

She lifted the small florist’s card in her hand. “Cityscape Florists. Delivered them just before you walked in.”

“I need to run to the ladies’ room. Why don’t you make yourself at home? Oh, wait. You already have.” I stashed my purse in a drawer, tossed my cell on the desk and eyed the brown paper bag that I assumed contained the breakfast Indie had brought us. “I hope it’s something greasy . . . I need it this morning.”

When I returned to my office, Indie was talking on my cell phone. “Here she comes now. The flowers are beautiful, by the way.” She extended my cell with a cheeky grin.

“Hello.”

“Morning.” Brody’s voice was laced with morning huskiness. “What kind of flowers were delivered?”

I looked at the arrangement. “Roses. They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

“Unoriginal.”

“Pardon?”

“What asswipe sends a woman like you ordinary roses?”

“You mean . . . they’re not from you?”