Lips I want to taste desperately.
Harlan’s eyes never stray from mine. He stares at me darkly. Speaks seductively. “And did your friends want to know why you were cheering so hard?”
That rumbly voice sends a shiver down my spine. “They know I’m working for the team,” I say, teasing him, playing it coy.
“That’s the only reason they think you cheered hard?”
“Fine, fine. They know you’re an orgasm dealer,” I add, with an over-the-top huff and a puff.
A laugh bursts from him. “That’s what you called me?”
“That’s what you are,” I say, squaring my shoulders, owning it. “Wait. Am I objectifying you for being spectacular in bed? They also know you’re a sweetie-pie, a funny guy, and a good dad.”
He waves a hand dismissively “Back it up to spectacular between the sheets.”
“Ha. Is that all you care about?”
With utter intensity in his eyes, he nods. “At the moment, yes. I’m into this nickname. A lot.”
A flush races across my chest. “Well, it’s the truth. I speak the truth. And I also got a wicked thrill watching you use those hands so expertly on the field, knowing what those hands had done to me.” I take a beat, let my eyes drift down his chest. “Your whole body.”
Oh hell, I’m terrible at not flirting.
Harlan leans closer across the table. “Do you have any idea how much I want to take you home, toss you on my bed, and make you feel incredible?”
A pulse beats between my legs. I ache for him.
So much for arugula’s help.
“As much as I want you to?” I toss back, since flirting with him is too fun.
“That much,” he says, then we stare at each other, a lot heated, and all kinds of heady. The air crackles, and I want to forget the rest of the world, screw the day, and spend the afternoon in his bed.
In his arms.
But I’ve got to have some self-control.
Deep breath.
I take a bite of my salad.
Trying to let the lettuce do the trick.
When I set down the fork, he chuckles under his breath.
“What?”
“You’ve got a chia in your teeth.”
Saved by the seed.
19
Harlan
That weekend, Danielle and Jamie bring Abby and her friends to the stadium.
They watch the game from the owner’s suite, and I wish I could pop up there and see my girl before kickoff.
But that’s not in the cards.
The team has rules about no distractions, and the rules work.
They put us in a football-only mindset.
On the field, Cooper is unflappable in the pocket, marching the team closer and closer to the end zone with every play it seems, trading off throwing to his favorite targets—Jones and me.
The two of us combine for three touchdowns when the game ends with a win for the Renegades.
I yank off my helmet after the clock runs out and knock fists with my bud. “Good game, and don’t forget I had one hundred one receiving yards to your ninety-nine.”
Jones rolls his eyes. “Hope those two extra yards keep you warm at night.”
And . . . he has a fair point.
But the most important point is this—we’ve only lost two games this season, and we’re in playoff contention again.
Something that makes the owner very happy.
Once I’ve showered and talked to the press, I head to Wilder Blaine’s suite.
The billionaire team owner waits at the door, wearing his custom suit and game-winning grin. “Excellent work, Taylor,” he says.
“Thank you, sir. And that is a most excellent suit.”
He laughs politely, his green eyes glinting, then claps me on the shoulder. “I know our GM is looking forward to talking to your agent.”
Ohhhh.
That’s a sign if ever I heard one.
“That’s great,” I say, buoyed by his words, since it’s not often the owner himself makes it clear he wants you.
“And your family is welcome anytime in my suite,” he says.
It’s a great offer.
Truly it is. “I appreciate that, Mister Blaine.”
“And we appreciate you,” he adds, punctuating his praise.
I make a mental note to pass on his words to my agent, since I’m pretty sure they’re a guaranteed offer in free agency.
But I’ll do that tomorrow, because once I head inside, my favorite person rams into me. “I saw your catch. Also, Simone Biles did the coolest thing ever and you need to see that too,” Abby tells me.
We watch gymnastics on Danielle’s iPad, Abby in my lap, until it’s time to go.
On the way to school one day next week, we pass Fog City Bakery. The shop catches Abby in its tractor-beam scents of sugary sweetness and pillowy bread.
A sign on the glass beckons, and she moves trance-like to it. “Mun-kee,” she reads, sounding out the word. “Monkey bread!”
I clap a few times. “Well done.”
She tugs on my shirtsleeve. “That’s what smells so good. Can we get some?”
“Before school?”
She stares at me like she can’t believe I’d question her request. “Why not? It looks yummy and smells good.”