Fair Game: A Football Romance (60 page)

I am dumbfounded and absolutely ruined for any other man for as long as I live. I don’t know what to say. I feel like this has become incredibly serious incredibly fast, and I’m confused, but one thing I’m sure of is that what I’m feeling for him is just as strong as what he’s feeling for me, so I agree and promise to be only his.

“I promise. I’m yours, King.”

“Pinky swear?” he asks.

“What?”

“Pinky swear. You know.” He releases my hands and links his pinky fingers with both of mine and repeats himself. “Pinky swear.”

I smile and tighten my fingers. King Romero wants me to pinky swear.

“Yeah, okay. Pinky swear,” I answer, giggling.

“Ahh, sweet Holland, you have just made me an extremely happy man.” His lips find my ear and he nibbles my lobe before trailing a quick path of kisses down my neck. He releases me and twirls me away with one hand like a ballroom dancer, and I squeal at his sudden shift from serious to playful. King hits me with a look of pure adoration, and if I didn’t know it before, I am sure of it now. I am absolutely in love with this man.

“Now practice. Stop wasting precious time. Play for me.” He laughs, shoving me gently toward the chair where I abandoned my violin earlier.

I do my best to organize these newfound emotions into some semblance of order as I sit on the edge of my chair and try to compose myself enough to focus on my music. It’s different now. This time I’m not just practicing in an empty room. I’m performing, and I’m doing it for the man who will forever be my King.

I think King would stand in my rehearsal room forever, listening to me play without interrupting. I’m prone to losing track of time during practice. I can go on for hours without a break, thinking of nothing but the way the notes flow through my body.

King stayed all afternoon. He never complained or cleared his throat suggesting that I wrap it up. He never changed his posture or shuffled his feet impatiently. King remained stone still, absorbing the music, until Shanna knocked on the door to inform us that my time was up, and the next person on the schedule was waiting in the lobby for the room.

“Oh my gosh, Shanna, I’m sorry. I totally lost track of time,” I say as King stands purposely between us, blocking her view of me while he picks up my purse and my bag of clothes. He silently removes my violin from my hands while Shanna continues to complain. After several minutes of annoying complaining, she realizes that he is ignoring her and she crosses her arms over her chubby breasts with a ‘humph.’ He opens my violin case and gently places my instrument inside before reaching to take my bow to do the same with it. I roll my lips in and press them together to keep from smiling. When he’s finished slowly and meticulously readying me to leave, he takes my hand and leads me past Shanna and down the hall without so much as a word or a nod.

“I’ll see you next week, Shanna. Sorry I went over my time,” I call over my shoulder, stumbling along as King pulls me through the door and into the extreme heat of the late afternoon.

I squint and shield my eyes from the sun.

“Where are we going?” I haven’t called my mother with an excuse to not pick me up, and I need an excuse fast.

“Away from that annoying, infuriating individual.”

I finally allow my suppressed smile to light up my face. She is annoying, but King’s response to her is hilarious.

“She’s just doing her job, King. She’s not that bad,” I say.

He stops suddenly, turning to face me on the busy sidewalk. Squinting when the sun blinds him, he automatically looks down at the ground while one of his hands still clutches mine and the other carries my violin. When he looks up, I’m surprised to see his face so serious.

“She was rude and inconsiderate. You were only over your time by five minutes. She could have been more respectful by simply informing you of the mistake. She treated you like a child. I wasn’t going to stand there and allow that, but since you apparently use their space often, I held my tongue.”

Part of me is elated that he’s so protective and feels the need to defend my honor, but on the other hand, I’m going to have to figure out a way to smooth over that incident before she tells my mama about the strange, rude man who was listening to me play all afternoon.
STRINGS
is the only place we can afford to regularly reserve a practice room, so I can’t have Shanna getting angry with me.

“Okay, well, besides the obvious escape from Shanna, where are we going?”

“To dinner,” he says, releasing my hand to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear.

The hot Texas wind is at my back, whipping my hair around my face and making his attentiveness fruitless. I try to swipe it to the side myself so I can see him better, but he stops my hand.

“Don’t. Just stand there for a minute. You have no idea how exquisite you are, do you? You just stand there innocently with your hair all wild and untamed, those transparent grey eyes, your flawless, smooth skin . . . you’re a vision of perfection.” He traces a streak of lightning along my jaw and neck, and down my arm to my hand, where he laces our fingers together again. I’m nearing heat stroke from the summer sun—or possibly it’s a reaction to King’s compliments. Either way, I need to get off of this sidewalk.

“I make you uncomfortable with my compliments, don’t I? I don’t mean to, I promise. You just take my breath away like no one ever has, Holland.”

“I’m just not used to . . .” I start to explain, but he steps forward to silence me with a kiss.

“I had to taste you again. Every time you start talking, I have to urge to kiss these lips,” he says, sliding the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip.

He has such a way with words and . . . compliments and kisses and . . . just everything. I wish I could express to him how he makes me melt like ice cream on a hot day in July. Do all men treat women this way when they’re interested? I have a feeling they don’t. King is special. He’s different and maybe a little bit blind. How can he not suspect our age difference? I think he feels that something is off—he’s said so himself. Maybe he just doesn’t care. Maybe he likes younger women. Maybe I’ve misrepresented myself.

In my own defense, I’ve always been more mature than other girls my age. I study harder, I’m motivated, determined and dedicated to my music and my future, so technically, I’m probably closer to thirty than twenty.

“You’re going to be used to compliments soon. I’ll make sure of it. Every time I lay eyes on you, I feel compelled to tell you how stunningly beautiful you are. I will remind you that you’re insanely unique, incredibly talented, and so fucking impossibly sexy.”

I stare into the eyes of this amazing man who sees me in such a different light. My parents and teachers are always encouraging me to be better, work harder, and do more, but King thinks I’m perfect just the way I am, and it’s refreshing, like a weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. I look down at my feet when I feel tears prick the corners of my eyes and take a deep breath. I’m overwhelmed. King is so very overwhelming.

“Let’s go. I’ve got a surprise for you. I’m parked up here.” He steps out of my bubble and points up a steep hill. I’m really glad Savannah didn’t bring me heels.

Savannah. Shit, I need to call her. King looks me up and down and realizes that my legs are no match for his. He slides my purse off my shoulder and takes my bag of clothes. I watch with curiosity as he slings them over his shoulder and steps in front of me.

“Hop on.” A piggy back ride?

“What?”

“Hop on, shorty. I don’t want to be late.”

I smile and shrug before grabbing his shoulders and hoisting myself onto his broad back. I wrap my legs around his waist and laugh, reveling in being molded against his body again. Everything about him is addictive: his scent, the way his muscles flex between my legs, the fluidity of his movements, his low, masculine, commanding yet loving voice. I press my nose against his neck and tightly squeeze my legs around his waist.

“No one has given me a piggyback ride since I was six,” I say, resting my chin on his shoulder.

“Well, you’ve been neglected long enough, then, haven’t you?” He turns to steal a kiss and begins asking me questions while easily climbing the hill with me on his back.

“What kind of food do you like?”

“American,” I say, and he chuckles at my vagueness.

“What kind of American food, specifically?”

“Burgers and fries. You know, the normal stuff.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Why?” I ask, wondering what that has to do with my favorite food.

“I just want to know. I want to know everything about you.”

“Oh. Um . . . I guess teal blue, then. What’s yours?”

“Red,” he answers, stopping next to a cherry red range rover.

“This is me.”

“Red,” I repeat, nodding. The color that represents passion—very appropriate. I slide off of his back, lavishing in the feel of every chiseled muscle rubbing against the bare areas of my skin, until my toes touch the ground. I am barely chest high in these flat shoes when I look up into his dark eyes.

“Told ya, red.” He winks and presses the lock button on his key fob. The beep of the range rover unlocking echoes off the buildings around us, and he opens the passenger door for me.

“Wait just a second.” He holds up a finger and opens the back door as well. I wait obediently, with my arms hanging loosely in front of me, hands clasped together. When he has my violin and bags tucked away, he swiftly takes me around the waist and lifts me into my seat.

“Whoa.” I laugh, caught by surprise.

“It’s a big step,” he says, flashing me his superstar smile.

“You just wanted to put your hands on me.”

“Guilty as charged.” He slides his hand along the inside of my thigh, and the air is instantly charged with desire.

“You’re irresistible. I told you.” He pulls his hand away right before he reaches the aching apex between my legs. “But I really hate to be late,” he says, biting his lip and smiling as he closes the door.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and try to figure out how on earth I’m going to control my suddenly raging hormones. This is all so new and intense, like being thrown in the deep end of a swimming pool full of freezing cold water. No easing into the shallow end with a casual boyfriend or two before finding Mr. Right for me. No, I have to go and get sucked into a full-blown adult, passionate love affair on the first go around. Figures. I’ve always been an overachiever.

Just as King slides into the driver’s seat, my phone alerts me that I have a text. He looks into the back seat and passes me my purse before starting the engine. I fumble around, digging through my purse while the air conditioning first blows hot, stuffy and then brisk, arctic air against my damp skin. When I finally locate my phone, I take it out and shiver, saying a little prayer that it’s Savannah and not my mother.

“Seatbelt, Holland,” he says, looking over at me with the steering wheel turned and his blinker ticking, ready to pull out into traffic. I crank my neck to find the belt and pull it across my body, clicking it into place. The instant I’m secure, he works his way onto the busy street. I glance down at my phone and breathe a serious sigh of relief when I see Savannah’s name instead of my mama’s at the top of my message list.

I told your mama I would pick you up from rehearsal. She thinks you’re swimming at my house and grilling out with us for dinner. You’re welcome. How’s it going?

Thank God in heaven for best friends. She managed to free up my entire evening with a simple believable lie. It’s easy being bad when you’ve been nothing but good your entire life. No one suspects anything. A pang of guilt hits me when I think of the ideal relationship I have always had with my parents. Lying has never been my style, but being with King makes me want so many things that I have never imagined doing before. If telling a couple of lies is what it takes to see where this goes, I’m willing to do it.

“Everything okay?” King asks, glancing at me briefly and back to the road.

“Yeah, it’s just Savannah,” I say and text her a quick thank you with a relieved emoji and a thumbs up.

“Nice girl. I like her overzealous protectiveness.”

“Yeah, more like
over
protective, but that’s all right. She loves me.”

“It’s good to have someone like that watching out for you,” he says wistfully, making me wonder if anyone has ever watched out for him. He doesn’t seem like the type who needs looking out for.

After a few minutes of driving in silence, King switches the music on, and my heart skips a beat when Antonio Vivaldi’s
Concerto No. 4
fills the air around us. I love this piece of music. My heart races when I play it, and the fact that King just happens to have been listening to it is just another bit of proof that this thing between us can’t be wrong. Closing my eyes, I imagine my bow as an extension of my body, gliding across the strings. Music feels so good. It’s always been there for me, feeding my soul. Without it, I’d wither and die. King is quickly becoming very much like my music. He feels so good. He feeds my soul, and I’m starting to be afraid of what would happen if I were without him.

“Remind me to play this when I make love to you again,” King says, yanking me out of my musically induced state of bliss.