Hearts in Overtime: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (9 page)

“Oh.” She buries her face in her hands and her shoulders start to shake with silent laughter.

“What?” I ask. Her laughter is infectious. I peel her hands from her face, which is bright red now. “What’s so funny?”

“I am such a nerd,” she mumbles. “I take it Amagansett is in the Hamptons?”

“Yeah, of course it is. Why?”

Shaking her head, she says, “Well, I didn’t realize that at first. The name sounds kind of Dutch to me. I thought you were offering to take me to some place in Holland for the weekend.” She laughs.

“Well, if you’d prefer to go to Holland, that’s no problem. Let’s do it. I hear Rotterdam is beautiful this time of year.”

“Yeah, right.” She rolls her eyes.

She doesn’t believe me. I was being completely serious, but she thought it was a joke. It still hasn’t sunk in that I can give her pretty much anything she wants—anything that can be purchased for a price, that is.

“So what do you think? Will you join me for a weekend of sun, surf, sand and sex?”

“Hell yes, I will.” She leans over to give me a sweet peck on the lips. “Thank you, Ryan. That’s a fabulous idea.”

“You are more than welcome. But there is one stipulation, though.”

“Aah. There’s always a catch.”

“I wouldn’t call it a catch,” I say, tracing her cheekbone with my finger. “But I do think it’s important that we set some ground rules ahead of time.”

“Ground rules?”

She looks less than pleased.

I nod. “Yeah. I want you to promise me that we’re going to leave the interview process here in this room, and that you won’t be asking me any probing questions. I don’t want to talk about my childhood or anything else from my past. I want to enjoy my time off, and I want to enjoy your company. Will you agree to these terms?”

“Gladly. I could use a break from all this heavy stuff myself.”

“Nice.”

I lean in to give her a slow, sensual kiss, massaging her tongue with mine and giving her a taste of what’s to come. When we pull apart, I run my hand from her neck to her shoulder and down her arm. I gather her hand in mine and bring it to my lips for a kiss.

“I can’t wait,” she says.

With a contented smile, I say, “How about we meet in the parking lot tomorrow at six thirty?”

“Six thirty?” she frowns. “You’re saying you want to skip our interview session tomorrow night?”

“Yeah, definitely. I don’t know about you but by the time we’re done here, I’m wrecked. If I’m spent, I’m barely going to have any energy left to drive up to the end of the island, and I won’t have the strength I’ll need to ravish your body and bring you to a state of orgasmic bliss.”

“Well…” she says, doing her best to bite back a smile. “We can’t have that.”

“You’ve already learned so much about me. We’ve covered almost two thirds of my life in just a few days. I’d say we can safely take a breather before diving back in.”

“I guess you’re right.” She shrugs.

“So, do you agree to my terms?”

“I agree. But just so you know, I’ll be coming at you hardcore during the interview session on Monday evening, asking all sorts of probing questions and really getting to the heart of things.

“Well, you gotta do what you gotta do,” I tell her, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

Sitting there in contented silence, holding hands with Charlotte, I feel more relaxed than I probably should, considering all the emotional purging I’ve done this evening. Maybe it’s the promise of ninety-six glorious hours when I don’t have to dredge up all the shit that I went through as a kid. Yeah, that’s definitely why I’m feeling so chill right now.

We’d better call it a night soon so I can talk to the guys, make sure neither of them plans to go to the beach house this weekend. I’m pretty sure Cody is going to be at his Manhattan penthouse with his crazy ass wife, Annette, but Alex might want to spend the weekend on the beach. If that’s the case, it’ll be no problem to come up with an alternative plan.

If I’m being honest, I don’t really care about the destination. The beach would be great, but so would the mountains or even the city. All I care about is the fact that I’m going to be spending the weekend with the beautiful, sexy redhead at my side.

Shit. Coach would kill me if he knew what I was up to. He’s right; Charlotte now more than enough ammunition to crucify me if she feels so inclined.

Change of plans.

Oh no! He’s texting to call off our sexy weekend. I just know it.

I cap my mascara wand and drop it on the counter before gathering the necessary courage to pick up my phone to read the text from Ryan. Why does he want to call it off? Wasn’t he looking forward to two days and two nights of passion and playfulness? I know I was. Oh, man. This sucks so much!

Scrolling down, I exhale a big sigh of relief as I read:

Wanna pick you up at your motel.

Safer that way—nobody will see.

Oh, okay. Well, that’s much better than I expected, but…

Hmm.

I’m really not sure what to make of this text. On the one hand, it’s a relief that he’s not texting to cancel on me. But the idea that he’s worried about being seen with me isn’t exactly comforting.

Maybe Tracy was wrong about attitudes around sex being so different in the world of professional sports than they are in the real world. Maybe they aren’t as accepting or as indulgent as she tried to assure me they were.

I wonder what Ryan’s manager, Johnny, would say if he knew I was about to head off to the Hamptons for a sexy weekend with his star client. Would he give me a wink and Ryan a high-five? Or would he wrinkle his nose in disgust and regard me as the ultimate in unprofessional sluts?

With a sigh, I concede that it doesn’t really matter what Johnny or anyone else thinks. There’s no way I’m going to call off my sexy weekend with Ryan. No way.

Eek! I’d better text him back.

Sure, that’s fine.

I text him the address of the motel and he texts back that he’ll be here in a half an hour. That gives me plenty of time to get myself all gussied up.

I still can’t believe this is actually happening!

If somebody had told me last week that I’d be off to spend a romantic weekend with Brooklyn Vipers starting quarterback, Ryan Blake, I would have laughed them out the door. I mean, come on. I’m just ordinary old me, and Ryan…he’s a living legend.

Oh, wait. Hang on a second. I meant to say that I’m off to spend a
sexy
weekend with Ryan, not a romantic one. I cannot keep making mistakes like this, even if it’s only happening in my own head. I need to keep it at the forefront of my mind that this is just a physical thing, just a temporary thing, nothing more and nothing less. It’s just two consenting adults indulging in their primal, physical needs.

Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

To be completely honest, I’m perfectly aware of what’s been happening. The more Ryan opens up to me, the more attached I feel to him. Considering what a short time we’ve known one another, it seems implausible that I could feel such strong, overpowering feelings for him, but when you weigh in the deep, emotional things we’ve been discussing, it starts to make a sense. Add in the fact that he’s been so sweet and gentle with me and I’m a goner. And the fierce sexual attraction I feel for him doesn’t exactly make it easier to resist falling for him in a deeper, more meaningful kind of way.

Yeah, I know.

I’m doomed.

Prize idiot that I am, I’m falling in love with Ryan Blake, who I’m beginning to suspect has never been in love with anyone. What’s more, he seems to harbor some kind of intense hatred for all women with the exception of Betsy Murdoch, and possibly me.

The idea that I could be the one to transform him from a scarred, angry, woman-hating bad boy to a loving boyfriend is beyond ridiculous. I know it would take some kind of saintly supermodel to achieve that sort of thing, and that sure as hell ain’t me.

So there you go. I’m perfectly aware that my heart will soon be smashed to smithereens by 215 pounds of solid muscle mass, but I’m powerless to stop it from happening. By now, I’m in too deep already to reclaim my heart. It’s unfortunate, for sure, but it is what it is. I plan to focus on enjoying myself for as long as it lasts.

Shaking these depressing thoughts from my mind, I pick up my mascara wand and get started on my left eye.

I want to look sexy for Ryan. He’s only ever seen me in my everyday uniform of jeans, tee shirts and casual shoes or sneakers. Total dullsville.

Luckily, I had the wisdom or perhaps the foresight to pack a few slightly sexy things. Not that I’ve got my lucky LBD with the low-cut bodice or my waist-cinching silk dress with the flared hem (I wish!) but I’ve got a couple of cute things. I packed my fifties style sundress with the floral print, a pretty turquoise top that showcases my boobs, my flippy denim skirt and a pair of comfy, well-worn wedge heels.

Speaking of clothing, I should really go ahead and get dressed.

I slip off my bathrobe and pull on the cutest bra and panty set that I brought with me, even though that’s not saying much. Oh, what I would give to have access to my lingerie drawer back home… Oh, well. I guess it could be worse. The boring white cotton blended set is at least fairly new.

Padding over to the closet, I pull the sundress off the hanger and step into it. After strapping on my wedges, slicking on some lipstick and of course dabbing on a bit of the perfume that has vanilla in it behind my ears, I walk over to the full-length mirror to check out my reflection.

Not bad. Actually, I look pretty good, if I do say so myself.

My cheeks are a little flushed even though I didn’t bother to put on blush. I rarely do, but it still looks like I’ve got some on. No doubt this is due to the anticipation of what’s to come.

And by that I mean all the sex.

Squee!!!

I hug my shoulders and can’t resist the urge to do a little twirl. I still can’t get over what an amazing job Ryan did when he went down on me. My god! I wish I’d been able to hold out longer and savor the pleasure, but he was just way too good.

And now that I think about it, it makes sense that I came so quickly. Until two nights ago, I hadn’t been with anyone for over two years. No doubt the lack of physical contact had something to do with me being a tad over-excited. And I would imagine that the fact that the guy who’s face was between my thighs was none other that gorgeous hottie superstar athlete Ryan Blake just might have played a part in me coming right away as well.

Anyway, it’s all good. Chances are I’ve got more than a few orgasms in store over the next couple of days, and I can’t wait to see how they all unfold. My pussy is positively tingling in anticipation. Oh, man…

I close my eyes and picture Ryan’s sexy lips, his piercing blue eyes, his solid muscular arms, his huge chest, his washboard abs and his six pack. He’s just…he’s just so fucking manly.

A soft moan escapes involuntarily from my lips, and the sound of it brings me back to my senses.

Right. I really need to finish packing.

I get my toiletries together and chuck them into my small suitcase along with my flip-flops, my e-reader and my bathrobe, which is slightly damp from my recent shower. I must be sure to hang it up as soon as we get to Ryan’s beach house.

Or well…I’ll do my best to hang it up when we get there, but I have a sneaking suspicion that I’ll be busy doing other things. I can’t help but giggle to myself as I round up my chargers and the other random stuff I’ll need—sunglasses, headphones, Tylenol.

It seems weird to be leaving my motel room unoccupied. It’s a total waste of money, and part of me wants to go by the front desk and arrange to check out for the weekend and check back in on Sunday night. It seems only logical to do that so whoever is paying for this room doesn’t get charged. I’m not sure if it’s Ryan’s team or if it’s the publishers who are footing the bill, but either way, it doesn’t make one bit of sense to pay for a motel room that nobody’s sleeping in.

Not that I intend to actually check out and check back in. It’s nobody’s business what I do with my weekend, of course, but even so, I’d rather not raise any suspicions about Ryan and me.

After giving the motel room one final sweeping glance, I’m satisfied that I’ve packed everything I could possibly need. I zip up my little suitcase and wheel it over to the door.

Ready or not, here I come!

I am so stoked for this weekend. It’s been forever since I took a girl to the house in Amagansett—almost a year, I think. Shaking my head, I think back to the last time.

Yeah, it was late last August that I invited my ex, Haley, to spend a few days with me at the house. For a girl who made a pretty sweet living posing in bathing suits and underwear, she wasn’t much of a beach person, to say the least. She spent almost the whole time inside the house, and when she did venture outside, she was covered head to toe in this big, billowy black dress, complete with sunglasses and a big old floppy black hat.

She looked ridiculous. She looked like a widow who just stepped out of a time machine from Victorian England or something. Yeah, we broke up not long after that.

No doubt about it: Charlotte is going to be much better company. She seems like the kind of girl who’d be up for anything. I’m so glad I asked her to come away with me this weekend.

Consequences be damned.

I load my shopping bags into the trunk of the Range Rover and give the contents one last glance. Is there anything I’m overlooking? I’ve bought a nice bottle of Chianti and one of Prosecco. There are plenty of bottles at the house in Amagansett, of course, but I felt like buying a couple of bottles especially for the occasion. In addition to the wine, I purchased some gourmet cheeses, a couple loaves of freshly baked bread, a box of artistic looking pastries and desserts, and finally, an assortment of fresh fruits as well as a container of olives.

That should do us just fine. The kitchen at the beach house is stocked with pasta, steel cut oats and tons of other non-perishable foods, and there’s a ton of stuff in the freezer. Plus, it’s not like we’re going to be out in the middle of nowhere. The house is only a five-minute drive to the nearest gourmet supermarket.

I get in the SUV and drive for about ten or fifteen minutes before I pull up in the parking lot of Charlotte’s motel.

Fuck.

They couldn’t have sprung for a nicer place for her to stay? Compared to the luxurious lodgings my fellow Vipers and I get to stay in when we travel, this place is a total fleabag. I feel awful for Charlotte.

What a dump.

And then reality strikes me like a lightning bolt, and I have to concede that there’s nothing actually wrong with this motel. It’s a perfectly decent place to lay your head down for the night. It scares the shit out of me when I catch myself behaving like a pampered little princess. I have to remind myself that I live an extremely privileged lifestyle and that my reality is not the same as the reality most people experience.

Yeah, I know. Talk about your first world one percent problems. Woe is me, right?

Anyway…

The door to #18 opens and Charlotte comes out, dragging a tiny blue suitcase behind her. I can’t help but smile.

You see: this is what I love about her—not that I
love
her or anything, but that’s not the point I’m trying to make. The point is that she’s packed what she’s going to need for two days and two nights. She hasn’t packed an entire set of Louis fucking Vuitton luggage on the off chance that she
might
need her riding boots or she
might
need her mink coat or she
might
her tennis skirt or her kimono or her pashmina or whatever.

On top of her refreshingly practical ways when it comes to packing for a trip, she looks more beautiful than ever. She’s got on a sexy little sundress that makes her look like a full on pinup girl. And those heels make her shapely legs go on forever.

I cannot
wait
to get her back to the house in Amagansett.

I hop out of the SUV and hurry over to join her.

“Hey there,” she says with a grin.

I can’t resist the urge to give her a quick kiss first. And so I do. When I pull back, I say, “Hi, Charlotte. You look stunning.”

Her eyes widen and she looks like she’s holding back a laugh.

“You’re looking pretty good yourself, Ryan.”

I give her another quick kiss on the cheek and then grab her hand and lead her to the Range Rover where I open the door for her and help her in.

I don’t know what’s come over me. In my mind, I’m uttering the phrase, “Your chariot awaits” like some dick-less wonder from some piece of shit romantic comedy starring opposite Reese fucking Witherspoon or something.

Thank goodness I bite my tongue.

Feeling like a Grade-A douche bag, I wheel the suitcase over to the back of the Rover and chuck it into the trunk. When I go back to the driver’s side and get in, Charlotte is already strapped in.

“Nice wheels, Ryan.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ve never seen this many buttons on a car’s dashboard in my entire life. It’s like all futuristic space age.”

With a mischievous grin, she holds her finger up to the dynamic stability control button and says, “This is Major Char to Ground Control. Do you read me? Over.”

“Very funny,” I say, and then I laugh because it is really is funny. I love her sense of humor.

I pull out onto the road to start our journey.

“You know,” she says, “I’m not sure if I’ve thanked you yet for inviting me to your beach house for the weekend.”

“Don’t even worry about it.”

I glance over to find her smiling back at me.

“I’m not ‘worried’ about it, only appreciative. Thanks for asking me, Ryan. I’m super excited about spending the weekend with you.”

“Same here.”

That’s the understatement of the century.

“And it’ll be my first time in the Hamptons,” she added. “I can’t wait to see what all the fuss is about.”

“What? That can’t be true. All New Yorkers spend their summer weekends in the Hamptons.”

I have to keep my eyes on the road as I turn onto Ocean Avenue, but once I make the turn, I glance back at Charlotte who has a wary look on her face.

“All New Yorkers who make over a hundred grand a year, maybe,” she says. “Not this New Yorker. I wish. Although to be honest, I think of myself as a Brooklynite rather than as a New Yorker.”

Man, I feel like an asshole. My privileged perspective is at it again, warping my view of reality. I know perfectly well that a weekend in the Hamptons will run about a thousand bucks or so, including transportation, meals and lodging for people who don’t own vacation homes. And I know perfectly well that most people don’t have a thousand bucks to blow on a whim each weekend.

Oh, well. I choose to ignore the awkward situation—which may only be awkward for me anyway—and change the subject.

“I don’t know how you can call yourself a Brooklynite when you don’t support the Vipers,” I say, turning to Charlotte with my most mischievous smile.

She giggles.

“I’m a writer. We live in our own little writers’ worlds. Sometimes we go days on end without leaving the apartment. Seriously. We can’t help being weird.”

I smile. She’s not that weird, but she is quirky and I like that.

“I have to admit, though, after working with you all week, I would love to see you in action on the field,” she says.

“You got it. I’ll arrange a VIP ticket for you to our opening game in September.”

“Ryan, really? Thank you!”

“Don’t mention it.”

The two of us exchange a smile and I can’t believe how warm and gooey I feel inside. It’s pretty gross, actually, the way I’m reacting like some candy ass dipshit.

To my horror, an image flashes through my mind of Charlotte sitting in the WAG box with the other players’ wives and girlfriends. She’s tastefully decked out in the team colors and cheering me on.

Ugh. I feel sick.

What the fuck is happening to me?

I get on the ramp to merge and soon, we’re coasting down the Long Island Expressway at a pretty decent rate, all things considered. I decide to forgive myself for the earlier statement about “all New Yorkers” heading for the Hamptons on the weekend. Considering the number of cars on the road, you’d think people were actually fleeing Manhattan if you didn’t know better. It’s like a mass exodus or something. There are a whole lot of wealthy fuckers living in the city. Self included, of course.

It’s a really nice journey out to Amagansett. True to her word, Charlotte doesn’t try to dig deeper into my past. We stick to surface topics on my end. I reveal that I hate Thai food and that the place I would most like to visit is Easter Island because I really want to check out the Moai statues.

But then we flip the tables and I start asking Charlotte all about her life. She tells me she loves jellies and jam—and that she knows how to make them herself—but she thinks jellybeans are disgusting. She says she had a nose ring in college, but she took it out when she graduated and allowed the hole to close up. The most exciting experience of her life so far was when she went zip-lining in Costa Rica with some girlfriends a few years ago. And her ultimate dream is to be a well-respected literary author and to live in a place that has a washing machine and a fireplace.

She makes me smile.

“What sort of stuff do you write?” I ask. “The fiction, I mean, not the biographies.”

“My agent calls it psychological drama, even though that’s more of a film category. I’m all about disturbed characters and unreliable narrators. I love a good mystery with layers upon layers that you peel off one at a time.”

Wow. I am thoroughly impressed. Talk about layers upon layers. This girl continues to surprise me.

“Sounds awesome. I’d love to read your work someday.”

“Really?” she gives me a wide-eyed look of surprise.

I give her a scowl.

“Yes, really. I know it may come as a shock, but some jocks actually know how to read.”

Her eyes widening even further, she says, “Ryan, come on. You know I didn’t mean it like that!”

“I know. I’m just giving you a hard time. I’m sorry.”

“Asshole.”

We share a laugh. I love that she feels comfortable enough with me to call me out on my behavior without resorting to guilt trips and passive-aggressive mind fucking like pretty much every other girl I’ve ever known.

“Seriously, though. I’d love to read something you wrote.”

She smiles. “Well, I would love that, too. When I get back home to Brooklyn, I’ll print out my masterpiece and stick it in the mail.”

Neither one of us says anything for a moment. I wonder if she’s feeling a little sad about the prospect of going back home, of our time working together being over and done with.

“On second thought…ink is crazy expensive and my printer is on the fritz anyway. Would you mind if I emailed you the document instead?”

“That’d be fine.”

“Excellent.”

We coast along in contented silence for a moment. I reach over to take her hand and give it a squeeze.