After Hours Bundle (15 page)

Laura blurted, “Do you kiss him?”

He was amused to see Peggy's face turn bright red. “No!”

He sent a mocking glance her way, one that clearly said, “Liar.”

“Well, if you want to, we won't get mad or anything. Uncle Troy is a hunk. We heard Kimmie's mom say so.”

Now it was his turn to flush, while Peggy smirked. “A hunk, huh?”

“I mean,” Danni said judiciously, “he's not as cute as Ashton Kutcher, but we think he's pretty cute for an old guy.”

This time Peggy laughed out loud.

“Hey!” said Troy. “I'm not an old guy.”

“You're pretty old,” Laura said, merciless.

“Is that so? Well, see if I work with you on your spirals anymore, young lady.”

“That's okay. Coach helps us with that, anyway.”

Frustrated, Troy exchanged a glance with Peggy.

They all walked out together, and Sam herded the kids toward her car.

“How's your sister doing?” Peggy asked him quietly. “Has she had any more after-midnight visits?”

He shook his head. “No. I think she'll be undisturbed for a while. When the creep came back to get his truck, we had a chat. I told him I'd pay for a rehab program for him and line him up with a job afterward if he'd sign something to the effect that he won't go near her or the kids until he's cleaned up.”

“And he actually agreed to that?”

Troy nodded. “He's basically desperate. Turns out he disappeared like he did because he'd lost his job. He knows he's got a problem, and he knows he can't handle it on his own.”

“How are Derek and the girls handling things?”

“They're doing okay. Sam and I are taking them to a family counselor to talk about some issues.”

Peggy nodded. Then she looked down at the pavement and traced her toe around a pothole in the parking lot, with all the finesse of the middle school kids she coached. “So, um, what did you mean back there, when you said you'd like me to, uh…”

“Be my girlfriend?”

“Yeah, that.”

“Well, here's the deal. You're not the ugliest woman I've ever skinny-dipped with. And when you're not destroying my kitchen cabinets—”

“I'm really sorry about that,” she broke in.

Oh, honey, if you only knew how
I
left them.

“—you have quite a winning personality. So I was thinking that maybe you'd like to try out for the position?”

Her eyes flashed. “
Try out for the position?
Of your
girlfriend?
”

He started to laugh.

“Of all the smug, arrogant—” she hauled off and slugged him in the arm “—butt-heads in the state of Florida, you take the cake!”

He rubbed at his arm. “Ow! But I'm offering to
share
the cake, all twelve layers of it, with
you.
And besides, I'm kidding. I just haven't had a girlfriend in years, so I don't really know how to go about officially acquiring one. Wanna coach me on this, Coach?”

She sputtered.

“What, you don't want to share my cake?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Then you'll be my little groupie? My number-one fan?”

“I didn't say that, either!”

“My girlfriend, then. Friend who is a girl. And a really hot kisser.”

She glared at him. “Pick me up at seven. We can discuss this after the twelve-layer chocolate cake.”

“Jeez,” he complained. “I used to have women chasing me. Now I have to bribe one with dessert to even talk to me. I guess my niece is right—I'm getting old.”

What he didn't say, as he walked back to the Lotus, was that her hesitation bothered him a great deal.

“What's not to like?” he asked his reflection in the rearview mirror.
Blond hair, blue eyes, one and a half dimples. Chicks dig me—especially when I'm laboring behind the scenes to kick them out of their workplaces. That's my most charming quality—that I'm a lying sack of shit.

Troy banged his head on the Lotus's steering wheel, because he suddenly realized that he wasn't going to confess his ulterior motives to Peggy after all. He planned to bury them and never dig them up again. Why?

Because there was no way in hell that he could go through with his plan, not now. He'd better start scoping out other locations for his little slice of sports heaven.

He gazed down at the bulge in his pants. “You stupid pecker-head. You are going to cost me tens of thousands of dollars in rent somewhere, just because you had to go spelunking where you didn't belong!”

T
ROY
B
ARRINGTON
'
S
girlfriend. Peggy gulped as she looked into her bathroom mirror and dotted concealer under her eyes.
Girlfriend.
She hated that word.

What
had
happened to a year alone? To finding her inner harmony and expanding her soul and achieving that balance between mind, body and spirit?

Did she really want to be somebody's girlfriend again? Trade in her independence for coupledom and all that it entailed?

Someone to talk to at night. That was a nice thought.

Uh-huh. Meaning someone to argue with about what's for dinner, and whether or not it should be crispier or spicier or saltier or hotter.

Someone to cuddle up to in bed: a definite plus.

Uh-huh. Meaning someone to leave the toilet seat up so you fall in with a splash at night.

Someone to have fantastic sex with! How can you argue with that?

Uh-huh. Meaning someone who will eventually forget the definition of the word
foreplay
and roll you into the wet spot when he's done.

Peggy shuddered. And then there'd be the endless games and expectations….

Will I have to shave my legs every single day? Is he a TV addict, with ESPN being a third wheel in the relationship? And oh, the horror! Has he got a nose like a bloodhound, able to track my secret stash of chocolate chip cookies and consume them within seconds?

The possibilities—no, probabilities—got worse the more she thought about it.

Does he have possessive guy buddies who will plot my imminent demise? What is his attitude toward money? Will he expect me to do his laundry?

Can I really see myself living with this man for the rest of my life, or would I rather he drove his car into the lake tomorrow? Will he pop the question this month/holiday/year? What's his mother like, and could I handle seeing her nappy head on my guest-room pillow for two weeks per year? Beyond the mother, does he have psychotic relatives? Could I handle
their
nappy heads on my guest-room pillows?

“Noooooooooo,”
Peggy moaned aloud. She stopped putting on makeup immediately, not bothering with any at all on her eyes. Instead of blowing her hair dry and leaving it loose in silky waves, she scraped it back wet, into a ponytail. She even thought about spraying Raid on her throat instead of perfume.

Girlfriend?
She'd rather be eaten slowly by a twelve-foot alligator.

And then there was the fact that Barrington was a football player. What in the hell had she been thinking? Not that he was in any way responsible for her past, but did she need to be reminded of it every single day? Coaching little girls in pink jerseys was one thing. Dating a former strong safety was another….

She pulled some ugly cargo pants out of her closet and paired them with a baggy T-shirt and ancient Converse high-tops. There, that looked completely inappropriate for some fancy dessert place and quaffing champagne. Perfect. And for an evening bag, she'd shrug on a backpack. Now
where
had she put the Raid?

 

T
ROY ADJUSTED
his silk tie and wiggled the toes of his left foot a little in their Italian lace-ups. The tie was over-kill—nobody wore ties in South Florida—but he wanted to make an impression. Peggy was worth it.

And if he was finally going to relinquish his freedom and become someone's boyfriend—God, what a weird word! He wasn't a boy and he wasn't her friend, because in his book, friends didn't want to screw each other's brains out—then he felt that he should do it in style.

He raised his hand and knocked on her apartment door. When she opened it, he blinked.

“Hey, tiger,” she said. “Nice tie.” And she tugged on it, before turning quickly and whacking him in the chest with…a backpack? She locked the door and shot him a grin.

Where the hell did she think they were going? The South American jungle? He peered down at her. She'd scraped her hair back into a horrifically unattractive style and it looked greasy. She wore no makeup that he could see, and had dark smudges under her eyes.

Troy drew his eyebrows together. The thing was, she didn't look at all tired. In fact she seemed downright perky. And somehow determined. Hmm.

What kind of woman dressed this way when a man had promised champagne and dessert? Either a stupid one, or this one. What the hell was she up to?

Peggy had dropped her keys, and now as she bent to get them he looked at her suspiciously. The fading evening light caught her hair and created a golden halo…except for something white and gooey, a small glob, right on the back of her head, near the band holding her hair. It looked like a curd of cottage cheese. With sudden clarity Troy knew what it was. She'd smeared Crisco into her hair.

Crisco.

And the smudges under her eyes were deliberate. Probably made with eye shadow. She also smelled like…Sweet Jesus! Had the woman sprayed Raid onto her T-shirt?

Troy had been out with a lot of females, all of whom had taken pains with their appearance for him. He'd just never been out with one who'd taken
this
tack. Gallantly he offered his arm, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the way she smelled. They descended her apartment stairs.

He unlocked the passenger-side door of the Lotus and he handed her in, silently praying that she hadn't hosed down the back of her shirt with the insecticide, too. He really didn't want his leather seat absorbing the stink.

Troy thought about scrapping his plans to take her to the primo Miami restaurant Azul, where he'd reserved a table overlooking the ocean. And then his sense of humor took over. Two could play at this game.

She'd made herself look deliberately unattractive for him. He suspected that this was due to the whole
girlfriend
conversation earlier in the day. So she didn't want to be his girlfriend? The idea intrigued him, offended him, actually—but he also saw through the bluff. If she truly wasn't interested, she wouldn't be sitting here in his car.

They arrived at the lushly landscaped Mandarin Oriental hotel, overlooking Biscayne Bay. Azul nestled inside. Valet attendants rushed each car that pulled under the spectacular modern portico. Troy had a quiet chuckle as one of them leaped to the passenger side of the Lotus and handed out Combat Girl, the lump of Crisco still intact on her head.

Really, it was that which decided him. He was going to marry Peggy Underwood one day, and never let her forget this utterly seductive outfit.

The poor valet guy let go of her hand, wrinkled his nose and sneezed. Peggy gave him a charming smile and thanked him. Troy propelled her inside the hotel and over to the elevators. They rode up with an elderly couple who also looked as if they didn't enjoy eau de Raid.

The restaurant personified beachfront elegance, with low, intimate lighting and walls of glass putting the ocean and Miami skyline on exhibit. The maître d' blinked once at Peggy's couture de combat and hesitated.

“We have a reservation,” Troy said smoothly. “A window table.” Casually, he rested his palm on the man's fussy little walnut podium, and let a hundred-dollar bill slide out and down the page of the book. “Barrington.” A few years back, he wouldn't have had to bribe their way in, no matter what his date was wearing. How the mighty had fallen.

“Very good, sir,” the maître d' said, the bill disappearing into his own palm. “Right this way.”

Peggy was the object of many disapproving gazes as they threaded their way through the sophisticated seating and expensive contemporary sculpture. Troy wondered how she'd managed to find pants quite that unflattering. She really must have worked at it, because she had a hot body.

Truth to tell, she still looked beautiful in a sloppy, derelict sort of way. Nothing she did could change the delicate bone structure of her face, or ruin the adorable pug nose, or dim the blue of her eyes.

Troy pulled out her chair, got her settled and sat himself. The air-conditioning wafting over them picked up the insecticide on her and sent it eddying to his nostrils. He coughed into his napkin.

“May I offer you something to drink, sir and madam?” A black-jacketed waiter appeared like a genie out of a bottle.

“Mademoiselle,” said Peggy, a little too emphatically in Troy's opinion. Chopped liver, was he?

“Yes, please,” he said. “A bottle of Cristal.”

“Right away, sir.”

Troy placed his napkin in his lap and leaned back expansively. “Don't you look lovely tonight, Peggy.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You like this outfit, huh? Sorry, but I was out running errands and I didn't have time to shower and change.”

Such a little liar. He could smell the shampoo and soap underneath the Raid. Troy leaned forward. “That turns me on,” he said softly. “You know, that our relationship has progressed to the point of casualness. That you don't worry about what you look like in front of me.”

A flash of annoyance crossed her face.

Ha. Got ya.
“Because,” he continued, “when I think about what I want in a girlfriend, it's definitely not fussiness.”

She'd definitely blanched at the word
girlfriend.
Wasn't that a kick to a man's ego? So that's what all this was about. She wanted him to back off. Interesting. And ironic, considering that she was the only woman he'd felt like chasing in a damn long time.

Their champagne arrived. He tasted it, pronounced it good, and the waiter filled their glasses. She almost dove into hers, but he raised his glass in a toast.

“To being girlfriend and boyfriend.”

She froze. “Heh, heh. Don't you think those terms are so old-fashioned? And somewhat…goofy.”

“Goofy?”

“Uh-huh. Let's just drink to great sex. How's that?” She didn't wait for him to answer, just chugged almost half her glass.

His lips twitched. “All right, then. Here's to great sex.” His voice carried farther than hers did, and the elderly couple they'd ridden the elevator with turned to stare. Troy winked at them and drank. Scandalized, they presented their backs.

“Now,” he said, once she had set down her glass. “Do you want to tell me why there's Crisco in your hair and gray eye shadow under your eyes? And was it really necessary to shower yourself with insecticide just to repel me?”

She froze for an infinitesimal moment, then recovered, looked him right in the eye and pretended ignorance. “
What?
Have you lost your mind? What kind of woman would do those things?”

“I'm not quite sure what kind of woman does those things, but I
am
quite sure you've done them. Give me credit for some intelligence, Peggy-Sue.”

“It's just Peggy,” she said tightly. A telltale flush was rising from her chest to her temples. “And how do you know about the Crisco?”

He crooked a finger at her, and she bent her head forward. He removed the glob from her hair and smeared it right onto the tip of her nose.

She sat there for a long moment, gritting her teeth. Then she removed it with her napkin.

The waiter appeared again. “Have you had a chance to look over the menu? Would you care to hear the specials?”

“No thanks,” Troy said. “I believe we'd just like two slices of the twelve-layer chocolate cake.”

“Very good, sir.” The waiter disappeared.

“Now, where were we?” Troy asked. “Oh, right. Crisco in the hair. So I'm assuming that you brushed your teeth with baking soda, too?”

“Very funny.” Peggy upended her champagne glass into her mouth. He poured her some more.

“So what is it, exactly, about the word
girlfriend
that you hate so much?”

“It's not the word, okay? It's just that I made a promise to myself to spend this year alone. To get reacquainted with
me,
however stupid that sounds.”

“It doesn't sound stupid.”

“I spent all this time trying to make my last relationship work. Trying to fix someone who didn't want to be fixed, and put up with someone I should never have put up with.”

“Okay.”

“And I vowed that I was going to love, honor and cherish
myself
for a year afterward. So here it is, four months later, and
you
come along.”

“I'm so very sorry,” he said dryly.

“Hey, I didn't mean it that way…it's just that it's bad timing. I don't want to be anyone's girlfriend right now.”

He thought about it. “Well, you said you didn't date football players, either, but you've gone out with me a number of times now. And maybe you should look at all this from a different perspective. Why did you stay with Mr. Limp Dick? He obviously didn't make you very happy.”