For all our flirting, all our teasing, all of this red-hot sizzle, she’s onto something—the reason our first kiss went to my head. Hell, I can still remember how it felt to taste her lips for the first time.
Spectacular.
I like this woman.
I like her so damn much.
The last few weeks have fueled those feelings. The time with her not kissing, not touching, and not fucking has only fanned the flames.
Even though I can’t touch her, I can use my words like she just did. “Katie Madigan, I’m so into you, it’s kind of crazy.”
Her smile is one I want to remember for a long time. Here, by the organic eggs in the grocery store a few blocks from my home, she smiles like I’ve made her happy.
Just happy.
And isn’t that what a man should aim to do for the woman he wants? Treat her right and make her feel good? It’s that simple.
But whatever is happening between us isn’t simple. It’s complicated by downward dogs and deals with the team. A tryst would be risky, but much more for her than me. Whether I finish football now or in a few years, I’m at the end of my days. I’ve achieved the greatest highs in the game. Her career trajectory is rising, shooting higher every day.
I’d just be another jock who messed around with a trainer, a teacher, a woman stretching him. Though not the way I want to cap off a career, I’d be forgiven in a heartbeat.
She’d be the woman who slept with a client, and I don’t want that for her.
So she has to stay off-limits, and I have to stay hands off.
She sighs wistfully. “So now what?”
That’s a good question.
I drag my hand along the back of my neck then shoot her a rueful grin. “Want to go prep the monkey bread supplies?”
“I do,” she says.
We check out and head to my place. As we head up the steps, I’m keenly aware this isn’t the first time Katie has stepped into my home. The first was on her non-wedding night, when I brought her here to sleep with her.
But now she’s stepping inside playing a different role in my life.
A colleague of sorts? A teacher? A partner?
None of those terms feel right.
She’s coming into my home as a friend. Yes! That’s why I invited her over today. Katie’s a friend at the moment, and that’s why it feels like the perfect time for her to meet my daughter.
Bags in my hand, I unlock the door and hold it open for her. “After you,” I say in my best Southern gentleman voice.
“Why, thank you, sir,” she says in her Texas twang.
Once the door closes, we head straight for the kitchen.
“Tunes?” I ask as I unload the groceries.
“If it’s Ed Sheeran, Dolly Parton, and Adele, we’re golden.”
I chuckle. “How about I throw in some Frank Sinatra and Eric Clapton, and we can call it a day?”
She lifts the sugar from the bag, shakes her hips, and gives me an approving hum. “We’ll get along just fine, sir,” she says, still playing with the accent.
“Darling, we always have.” I hit shuffle on some tunes, and Ed Sheeran’s tones fill my home, making Katie happy, judging from the twinkle in her eyes. Then I drop the accent and say something that’s a little bit hard. “Hey, Katie.”
“Yeah?”
I square my shoulders. “I don’t introduce women to my daughter. It’s just not something I’ve done.” I swallow roughly as I lay the truth on the line like she did in the store.
I want her to know that this thing between us is becoming much more for me.
More than I expected.
More than it’s supposed to.
It’s turning into something that feels a little inevitable.
She receives my words like a beautiful pass, catching them with a smile and warm eyes. “I’m excited to meet Abby. She sounds amazing. And I’m glad you want me to meet her,” she says in a kind, inviting tone that underlines, black Sharpie style, why I like her so much.
She’s open and honest and caring and fun.
“She is amazing, and so are you,” I say, and it feels like a weight off my shoulders. I’m glad I put that out there.
Maybe we’re a lot inevitable, Katie and me.
My hands twitch. The desire to touch her, to pull her into my arms, rockets higher in me. I’m eager for all the next things with her.
Is there any way to have them?
I keep my hands to myself as I measure the sugar and butter.
Sure, we have terrible timing, but the timing doesn’t always have to be bad, does it? Her contract with the team can’t last forever.
Maybe dating is like a recipe. Maybe it’s monkey bread. It takes time for all the ingredients to come together just right.
As I pour the sugar into a bowl, I stop and hit end on the song. Turn to meet her gaze. “Katie, I have this idea. Call me crazy.”