Any Given Christmas (15 page)

With those words, Dean heard the hiss of air leaking from his balloon of happiness.

W
hile freezing rain pounded the roof of his Houston high-rise, Dean shoved his key into the lock of his front door and gave it a hard twist. The door down the hall opened and Dean’s head came up as Misty Peterson slinked toward him in black leggings and knee-high dominatrix boots.

“I didn’t know you were back,” she purred through perfectly applied lipstick.

Dean pushed past the funk he’d been in since he’d left the doctor’s office and smiled at his neighbor, who also happened to be the knockout blonde host for
Houston Live.
In the past year he’d had the pleasure of
viewing
her once or twice in a very personal format.

“Got back yesterday.”

She slung her leather tote over her arm and smiled up at him. “How’s the shoulder?”

Again with the depersonalization of his well-being.
“Getting better every day.”

“Oh, I’m glad to hear that.”

One minor detail that bugged him about women like Misty—women who spent most of their time on camera? Their smiles. They never allowed the gesture to fill their entire face. Instead, for fear of creating wrinkles, they kept the action toward the lower part of their face. If they showed more teeth it would be more convincing, right? Funny how a little factor like that had never bothered him before he’d gone back home and found himself face-to-face with a blonde who smiled with everything she had.

Misty glanced at her watch. “I’ve got an interview right now, but maybe we could get together later?” Her fingers danced up the front of his coat. “Have a bite to eat and… catch up?”

Decoded, a
bite to eat
meant the olive in her martini and
catch up
meant she hadn’t had the big
O
in awhile and knew he could deliver the goods. In the past, the underlying promise of a good time with a beautiful woman between some very expensive sheets would grab his attention between his legs. None of that tingly action happened to be going on right now. All he could think was how wrong it felt to have her hand roam his body.

“That would be great,” he lied. “But I’ve already agreed to meet up with the boys tonight before they head out to the playoffs day after tomorrow.”

Her manicured hand skated past his open coat and down the front of his polo. “I’m free tomorrow night too.”

“Having dinner with Bo Miller and his family.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”

She gave him an exaggerated pout. “No worries. I’m sure we can fit in a nooner or something. I don’t need all of you for very long.” Her hand slid from his chest down to the zipper on his khakis. “Just
this
for long enough.” She gave him a little pat, then turned on her high heels and strutted down the carpeted hall toward the elevator.

Meaningless sex. A one-nighter, nooner, or whatever time of day you manage to find a willing body.

Emma’s words roared back.

His neighbor may not be brainless, but sex with her would definitely be meaningless.

Sex with Emma? Definitely not meaningless.

Unfortunately Emma appeared to be done with him.

Have a nice trip. All good things must come to an end
, she’d said.

What if he didn’t want them to end?

And why did they have to?

Damn.

He knew she was attracted to him. So why would she push him away when all he’d done was say he planned to hire someone to get the charity going?

Dean exhaled hard, opened his door, and stepped inside his professionally decorated condo. The room had been assembled in magazine-quality perfection. From the expensive art, the leather sofas and chairs, the seventy-three-inch HDTV, and even the rugs which had been recently vacuumed by a maid service that came in once a week. All had been put there by someone who didn’t know him and was taken care of by someone he’d never met.

He tossed his keys on the table beside the door and strolled into the party room, where in the center of the pool table the balls were racked and ready for a game. He glanced up at the built-in bookcase, crowded with photos of him in various stages of his career. Photos of him with celebrities and legendary NFL stars. Plaques and trophies and autographed balls were squeezed in the spaces between his number-eleven jersey and a field towel autographed by his football hero, the great Ken Stabler. A legend whose “Holy Roller” play against San Diego in 1978 led to a game-winning touchdown, not to mention a modification to the NFL rulebook.

But where were the family photos?

Dean turned, leaned his butt against the pool table, and glanced across the room. Everything in the condo was pristine and impersonal, yet no amount of temperature manipulation would help stave off the detached formality. He thought of his friend Bo Miller’s house and the number of plastic trucks and building blocks you had to kick out of the way just to make a path to the sofa.

Where were the toys?

Where was the sweet chaos of laughter and voices all talking over one another?

In silence he walked to the wall of windows and looked down at the cars far below, to the elegant pool currently closed for the night, and up to the city lights blurred by the freezing rain. He’d paid plenty for those great views. It seemed odd that now he’d traded the meaning of
great views
for ancient pines, craggy mountaintops, and a schoolteacher’s killer smile.

He walked into his exercise room and glanced at the recently unused weights and equipment that stood like solid steel reminders of his injury. Then he moved into the bedroom, shrugged off his coat, and tossed it on the navy blue comforter of his California king-sized bed.

Before he moved into the lodge house, he’d been dying to get out of the twin-sized disaster he’d slept in at his parents’ house and back home to Houston. But now the bed in front of him looked big and empty and Houston no longer felt like home.

He pulled off the rest of his clothes and went in to shower before he met up with some of the guys at Johnny Ray’s for wings, beer, and gridiron gossip. Adjusting the spray on the hydrotherapy nozzle, he stepped inside and let the hot water pulsate over his head and shoulders. As his body warmed, his heartbeat slowed, and an ache twisted in the center of his chest.

Emma.

He missed her.

She’d made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with him.

The challenge now would be to learn to live without her.

Or could he?

T
he Naughty Irish was wall-to-wall with Stallions fans and even the occasional Packers fan like Emma, waiting for kickoff on the Wild Card Playoffs game. The Stallions’ blue and red team colors had become the overall decoration theme. The noise level had risen above thunderous, and anticipation rippled through the crowd.

Though the game would be played on Lambeau Field in snowy Green Bay, Emma had no doubt Dean would have traveled with his team. He’d have wanted to help in any way he could to get them to the championship game. For her own selfish reasons she hoped they wouldn’t put his face on camera, but of course they would.

He
was
the team.

So with a sip of her diet soda—it was a school night, after all—Emma resigned herself to be distracted across the room when he appeared.

Padded chairs were scattered around the large round table where she sat next to her date, Jesse, amid Dean’s friends and family. As special guests, they’d been given the best seats in the house in front of the Irish’s newly purchased large screen HDTV. While their friend Ollie pulled beers on tap and Maggie scooted between tables to deliver their group a tray loaded with Moose Drool, Fat Tire Ale, and other assorted brews, Emma settled in for the celebration.

Double celebration, if the Stallions won.

The ballots had been counted and tonight the town could revel in the landslide election for their new sheriff.

“No umbrella drinks today, kids.” Maggie grinned as she leaned over the balding head of Robert Silverthorne to set his Guinness on the table. “But the nacho bar is free. And if you tip your waitress she’ll be happy to bring you some of those really yummy mini-tacos she has hidden in the kitchen.”

“Aw, Maggie, you’re a girl after my own heart,” Kate’s father said.

Maggie kissed him right on top of his shiny head. “Sorry, handsome. I’m already taken.”

“Raise a glass, Deer Lick,” Maggie shouted above the clamor of the bar and lifted her shot glass in the air, “to your new sheriff, Matt Ryan.”

Glasses clinked. Cheers abounded. And Emma figured from the way Kate looked at her new husband, as soon as they got home he was going to get really, really lucky.

Beside Emma, Jesse sipped from his glass of ale. She watched his throat work as he swallowed. Watched him clean away the foam by sliding his bottom lip over his top. He caught her looking and smiled with his warm, dark eyes. Since they’d arrived he’d been very attentive. He’d opened her door, pulled out her chair, hung up her coat—the typical date stuff. He’d done everything a woman could expect on a date.

“You look good in that Packers cap,” Jesse said.

She thought of how much Dean hated her hat. “Obviously I’m not the majority. I feel like I’m in enemy territory.”

Jesse gave her a smile. “I think your friends will forgive you.”

“They wouldn’t if the almighty
Mr. Perfect
was playing.” The sound of Dean’s nickname coming off her tongue sounded odd. Her heart squeezed and she took a sip of her soda to swallow down the awful burn his name fired up in her stomach. The burn that acknowledged how much she missed seeing him around town. More precisely, how much she missed seeing him an arm’s length away with that hungry look in his green eyes.

“I’ve always been a Packers fan,” she told Jesse. “My Memaw was born in Wisconsin. She always rooted for them. Even when they struggled for a lot of years. She was a huge Bart Starr fan.”

“Not Favre?”

“Wasn’t everyone at some time or other?”

Jesse leaned closer and his arm settled across the back of her chair. “I like you, Emma.”

“Oh.” She leaned back to look at him. “Well, I like you too. Wow. Those are some numbers for Aaron Rodgers, huh?”

The commentator’s pre-game banter was filled with ego-boosting stats and the obligatory warm-up interviews with the coaches spewing all the PC stuff about how the other team was so good at this or that, and how they were a challenging opponent. As the TV cut away to a soda commercial, Emma entertained herself with the sporadic conversations that popped up throughout the bar. Then as the pre-game show came back on, Emma looked up to find exactly what she’d been dreading.

In what appeared to be a locker room interview, a female reporter stuck a microphone in Dean’s face and asked him the question that had plagued him since the Thanksgiving Day sack.

“How’s the shoulder?”

Dean in street clothes and a team jacket flashed his famous smile. “Doing great.”

“What do you think the Stallions’ chances are against the Packers?”

“Rodgers is a red-hot quarterback right now. His pass completions are over 70 percent. That’s going to be a challenge for Jacoby during the game. Their defense is going to target him. But he’s a strong kid with a good head on his shoulders. I think he’s going to surprise everyone. And I know the team is 100 percent behind him.”

The interviewer flashed her perfect teeth. “How does it feel to be on the sidelines instead of on the field?”

Emma cringed. What a bitch to ask such a question. How did she think he felt? Football was the most important thing in his life. Emma hoped he’d shut the nasty interviewer up with one of his quick comebacks.

Dean shrugged his broad shoulders and tilted his head. “It doesn’t matter where I stand. I support my team. And I know Jacoby will be a great captain.”

Emma melted.

Dean had been given every opportunity to piss and moan. Instead he’d stood there like a true gentleman and thrown all his support into the kid who’d replaced him in the career he loved more than life.

The rest of the interview was a buzz in Emma’s ears. She watched his smile and felt the power as strongly as when he used that beautiful mouth to kiss her. She looked at the warmth in his eyes and thought of the way they’d glimmer when he tried to coerce her into taking off her clothes. He made gestures with his big hands and she remembered how they touched her with such gentleness and care.

The kickoff went with a long boot for a twenty-four-yard Stallions return, but Emma barely noticed. On the second play of the game Dean’s replacement got sacked for a loss of ten yards.

“Not a good way to start the game,” Jesse said. “Care for some nachos?”

Unfortunately the cheesy snack made her think of New Year’s Day and Dean. “No, thank you.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

Emma watched Jesse walk toward the nacho bar. His broad shoulders had no problem getting him through the crowd. He was tall, and lean, and handsome. And there wasn’t a chance in hell she’d ever be able to not compare him to Dean Silverthorne.

In all fairness, Emma knew tonight would be their last date. Her thoughts were on someone else. And until she managed to eliminate those warm and tingly reflections, she had no business leading Jesse on.

Her gaze slid back to the screen just as the Stallions’ new quarterback released a long spiral pass into the hands of the wide receiver. The bar crowd jumped to their feet and roared as the Stallions’ receiver broke two tackles, raced down the field, and carried the ball into the end zone.

While the enthusiastic Stallions fans celebrated, Emma lifted her soda and took a sip.

“
Great
way to start the game.”

Emma turned her head toward the voice. Which did not belong to Jesse.

Beside her sat the man who should have been freezing his incredibly tight butt off on the sidelines in snowy Green Bay. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching the game.”

“Why aren’t you
at
the game?”

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” Dean snagged a nacho from Kate’s plate and it went
crunch
in his mouth.

“Sure.” The tingles tumbling through her stomach said
hell, yes
. “But—”

“Pre-recorded interview.”

“Ah. So, again, why aren’t you at the game?”

“They uninvited me.” He drank from the beer in his hand.

“Why?”

“Didn’t want the extra pressure of me being on the sidelines. They didn’t want Jacoby to be distracted.”

By the frown creasing his forehead, Emma could tell that bothered him. And
that
bothered her. “But didn’t they think you could help? I mean… he just got sacked.”

“He’s got coaches.” His eyes darkened as took another drink of beer, then sucked a drop from his top lip. “Besides, he doesn’t want my advice. Told me so himself.”

“Is he crazy?”

Dean looked at her and smiled. “He’s young and eager. That’s all.”

Translation: the kid is young and cocky and doesn’t think he needs anyone’s advice. Stupid kid.

“How did you get in here without anyone seeing you?” she asked.

“They saw me.” At that moment Maggie set another bottle of beer down on the table in front of him. “See. One of the perks of being a player. Free beer.”

“Like you can’t afford to buy your own?”

“Of course I can. But why would I want to take away the opportunity to make someone feel good about buying me one? It’s an age-old guy thing, Em. Just go with it. If the Stallions win, I’ll pay the bar tab for everybody.”

“And if they lose?”

“They won’t.” He balanced the chair back on the rear two legs just as Jesse walked up with a full plate of nachos.

Emma looked between the two men, recognizing the moment when the testosterone flared and competition began.

“Silverthorne.”

Dean grinned. “Hamilton.”

Jesse nodded. “You’re in my seat.”

“Am I?” The chair landed back on all four legs and Dean stood. “Sorry about that.”

“I’m sure someone can find you another chair,” Jesse said.

“No need.” Dean stepped back and waved his hand gallantly at the chair. “Have a seat.”

Jesse set his plate down on the table in front of Emma, settled into his chair, and picked up his glass of beer. “I brought enough nachos to share.”

“Oh, I’m not—”

“Hey, Emma? Can I talk to you a minute?”

Emma looked up to find Dean practically leaning over her shoulder.

“I’m… watching the game.”

“I know.” Dean tried to look as apologetic as possible. Too bad the deepening of the dimple in his chin gave him away. He knew exactly what he was up to. “But I’d really like to talk to you.”

“Can’t it wait until the game is over? Don’t you want to watch your team play?”

“Of course.” He glanced up at the screen as Jacoby got sacked again and hit the ground hard. “Ooooh. That one’s gonna hurt.” He looked back at Emma. “This won’t take long. I promise.”

“She asked you to wait until the game was over.” Jesse tried to sound cool but didn’t quite accomplish the feat.

“Understood,” Dean said to Jesse. Then he slid his gaze back to Emma. “This is about the project I told you about a few weeks ago. What do you say, Em? Can you give me just a couple of minutes?”

Her heart turned over. If he meant the charity, then yes, she was interested. “Oh. You mean
that
project?”

He nodded.

“I’ll be right back, Jesse.” Emma got to her feet and slid her arms into the coat Dean held out for her. Whether a glutton for punishment or plain curious, she’d soon find out. She placed her hand on Jesse’s shoulder. “This really might be important.”

“Sure.” He gave her a hesitant smile, then slid a glare to Dean. “I’ll wait for you here.”

Dean took her hand off Jesse’s shoulder and practically dragged her through the bar and out the door. He didn’t stop dragging her until they crossed the street and came to a huge black SUV parked in front of the Yee-Ha Trading Post.

Before she could blink, he had her back up against the car door, his hands cupping her face, and his mouth on hers. He tasted like passion and promise, with a healthy dose of hunger.

God, he tasted good.

Before she gave into the tingling sensation sweeping across her breasts and pulled him closer, she pressed her hands against his flannel-covered chest. It was freezing outside. Snow drifted down in big fat flakes. Yet from beneath his shirt, his hard, defined muscles warmed her palms. His heart pounded beneath her fingers. And she came dangerously close to throwing common sense out the window. Again.

He lifted his head. But he did not move.

“What are you doing?”

His hands lowered to her shoulders. “I’m kissing you, honey.”

“Well, don’t.”

A corner of his mouth curled upward. “But I like kissing you.”

“You said you wanted to talk to me.” She sighed. “So talk.”

He glanced down the street where parked cars filled every empty space and a few stragglers hurried toward the bar. “How about we go somewhere a little more private?”

“I’m on a date, Dean.”

His smile flattened. “Sorry.” Then he pulled the Packers cap from her head and looked down into her face. “You were right,” he said.

“About?”

“The camp. How it needs to come together. When I was in Houston last week I visited a friend’s house. Do you remember the teammate I told you about whose son has autism?”