Gunslinger: A Sports Romance (17 page)

"Oh right. Sorry."
 

"Are you going to feed me or not?" Saint asks suddenly impatient. "Since you don't want to talk about your big meeting."

"You should have called first to check my availability. You've got thirty minutes tops."

"Well aren't you just a basket of roses and sunshine. What crawled up your ass today?"

"Nothing." Captain Obvious.

I take Saint to the first bistro I see near the office, and am waiting for him to complain about it. The more time I spend around him, the more I'm learning. Even though he eats a lot of it, he's quite particular when it comes to food. He pretty much sticks to a high protein and veggie diet (unless it's game day, then he carb loads), and he tends to pick high-end places a.k.a. places I can't afford to eat.

"I can't eat here," he gripes as he slaps the menu down loudly on the table. Boy that hissy fit didn't take long at all.

"Why?"

"These kiddie sized chairs are hard. I can barely fit in them." He wiggles his butt to demonstrate.

"The food is good."
 

I've actually never been here before a day in my life.

"All they serve are sandwiches. You know I only eat bread on game days."

"There's a perfectly good salad bar right over there."

"I'll pass on the serve yourself bowl of bacteria thank you very much."

"You're so high maintenance."

"No, I just have high standards."

"And I don't?" I cross my arms in front of me. "I'm not going anywhere else. I don't have time. I shouldn't even be here now."

"What's the rush?"

"I've got a new client," I brag.

"And who might that be?"

Isn't it obvious by the grin on my face?

"The best damn client in the world."

"You've already got the best."

"Better." I make sure to annunciate my T's.

"There's no one better." He pinches his lips together. "Who are you talking about, Freshman–
Spin
?"

"Bingo!" I mush his forehead with my pointer finger.

He laughs a little. "You're getting physical now?"

"I know how much you like that."

"You haven't even begun to learn just how much I like it."

"Whatever."

"So the meeting in the conference room today was for you?"

"Oh are you wondering why you didn't hear about it first?"

He stares at me with a guilty look on his face.

"I
said
are you wondering why Peter didn't call you and tell you first?"

"I guess he told you about that part of our agreement."

"He sure did, and I'm pretty sure that he thinks that I'm a kept woman or your love slave at this point. Thanks for that by the way. You're making me look
real
good at work."

"Snitch."

"Who's a snitch? Peter? He's
my
boss. He owes no allegiance to you."

"He shouldn't have told you, but no biggie. What I'd rather know, because I can see you're dying to tell me, is how you finally landed the big fish?"

"Well," I preen. "I dazzled them with one of my ideas for charitable giving by the group. They were very impressed. In fact Marley asked specifically for me to be their point person on the spot. Right in front of everyone in the room. There was no way Peter could say no."

Saint looks at me like he's bored.

"So Marley took a liking to you, huh?"

"Of course. I'm very likable."

"It's not good for you to have all of these unfulfilled crushes on grown men you'll never have. First Jacob–"

"Jason," I correct.

"Whoever and now this Marley dude. Do I have to drive a five year old Mercedes or wear clothes made out of hemp to get a little attention from you?"

I scoff at that. "You're just jealous that Marley makes more money than you."

"Think about that for a second. And you're supposed to be so great with numbers. Spin has to pay a full band. Tour organizers. Assistants. Not to mention all of their family members probably have their hands out. Me on the other hand? I don't have any one to pay except a lawyer and you guys, and my family is self-sufficient. They don't need my money. So if you think about it, I'm the way better catch. I can always take care of you in the lifestyle that you're accustomed to." He picks up the menu. "Such as it is."

"Good thing I don't care about things like that."

"Obviously. You seem to only care about your five-year-plan and your job, speaking of which, have you been watching my games?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

"What are you talking about?" He takes offense. "We won the game in New England. I was phenomenal."

"Brady wasn't playing. You didn't have much competition."

"So now you know all the quarterbacks in the league by name? Just yesterday you didn't know what a quarterback was."

"I'm a quick learner."

"I've got something you can learn all about right here."

He looks between his legs.
 

I change the subject pronto, because I refuse to let on that I've done nothing but fantasize about what's between his legs for fourteen days straight.

"And why do you always sit on the bench by yourself when the defense takes the field?"

He looks impressed by my high level observation.

"I'm going over plays with the coaches. You got a problem with that?"

"I think you should be talking to your players instead. Getting them revved up. Isn't that your job as the team leader? I'd think that you'd be good at that."

A waitress in a pink shirt and black pants finally comes over to take our order.

"Excuse me, but aren't you Saint Stevenson?"

Or maybe she could care less about our order.

"That's me, darlin'."

"I hope you don't mind, and I wouldn't normally bother someone like you, but my manager would love it if you would let us take a picture for our wall. We're big Nighthawks fans, and we love you here. You were amazing last Sunday in New England."

"Was I?" he asks while looking at me in that "I told you so" voice.

"Didn't you say you wanted to try and find another restaurant?" I say annoyed.
 

"Forget lunch. I always have time for fans. Especially when they are as sweet as you."

Oh good grief.
 

The waitress holds her hand up to her mouth and tries to cover the fan girl smile spreading across her face. These corny lines of his actually work, and he's delivering them right in front of me.
 

That's it.
 

I've had enough.

"I'll catch up with you later, lover boy."
 

I get up to leave in a huff.

"Wait." He grabs my arm.

"What?"

"You're crankier than usual. What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Don't tell me nothing. I haven't talked to you in weeks, and you're acting like a total bitch today. What's wrong?"

"Has it been weeks?"

Saint pauses for a minute then lets my arm go and smiles.

"I'm afraid to even ask this, but is it possible that you're angry that I haven't called you?"

"It's not possible."

"Oh, I think it's very probable." He grins. "You missed me. Admit it."

"Never."

"In between practice, eating and sleeping, I promised my nephew a snowboarding trip. So we drove upstate, and when I got back, I had to get right back to the grindstone. I'm sorry."

Phones don't work in the mountains?
 

Oh my God, what am I saying right now?

"No apologies necessary. It's none of my business what you do or who you talk to during your down time."

"I'm making it your business."

"I've got to go." I try walking away again.

He grabs me by the wrist smiling like he just won the lottery or something.
 

"Why are you smiling?" I ask irritated.

"Because you're so stinking pretty."

I squeeze my cheeks together with my hands and stick my tongue out.

He laughs out loud, and the entire restaurant glares at us.

"You look even prettier now."

I roll my eyes.

"You'd be mad if I kissed you right now wouldn't you?"

"I'd kill you," I threaten.

"Sabrina."

"What. Saint."

"When's my first meeting?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The meetings you set up for the bye week."

Oh, right.

"The first confirmed meeting is on Tuesday."

"Who's it with?"

"Wolf Athletics."

"Awesome, it's a date! I'll pick you up."

"It's not a date, and that makes no sense. I'm in Brooklyn, and you and Wolf are in the city. I'll come to you."

"Wolf is downtown on the East Side. Close to the bridge. I'll pick you up. What time?"

There's no point in arguing with his stubborn ass.

"The meeting is at ten."

"I'll be there at nine. Eight thirty if you're making omelets."

"Nine it is. I'll text you the address."

"No need. I already have it." He grins while patting the cell phone in his pocket. "Gotta go take a few pics now, and congrats on everything. I guess you're one step closer to meeting all of your five year goals, Freshman."

"Thanks," I say proudly.
 

His congratulations sounded sincere, so I guess I can put off questioning why the adorable creeper already has my home address, and why I'm smiling to myself that he does.

SABRINA

It's like a scene out of a sitcom. Me and Ariana Grande are singing our little hearts out in the shower and the doorbell rings. I turn down Ariana just to be sure that it's the bell I heard when I hear it ring again.

"Ugh!"

It can't be him.
 

It's only eight freaking o'clock.

"Give me a second," I holler running to the door wrapped in a towel.

There's nothing but a huge mass of muscle in a green military-styled jacket blocking the peephole of my door. I'd know those pectorals anywhere, and they belong to the one person I'm trying to avoid ever seeing me naked again.
 

"Morning!" He spreads his arms out as if I was really going to give him a hug hello.

"Why are you here all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed? We agreed to nine." I say waiting for him to walk in. I notice he has a bag of groceries in his hand. "And hurry up and close the door. It's freezing."

After shutting the door, Saint stands completely still and rakes his eyes completely up and down my body. I inadvertently start to shiver. Trying my best to ignore the fact that every time he looks at me, he makes me feel like the most beautiful woman that he's ever seen.

"Not a morning person?" he asks. His voice raspier than normal.

"Not really."

"I thought I'd make breakfast. A little protein to start the day, and then we'll go kick that meeting's ass."

I turn to head back to my bathroom. I'm dripping wet.

"Fix something for yourself. I'm going to finish what I started."

"Sabrina."

Saint says my name a lot, but he has never said my name like this.
 

Thick with want.
 

Heavy with need.
 

He's always playing around, teasing me, but right this second, I think he's deadly serious and if he is ... then I'm in big trouble.

"Take off your towel. I want to look at you. All of you."

I can't move. There's a war waging inside of me. My body wants to follow every one of his directives and I think I probably have for a long time now; but my mind is reminding me that he is a client, an over-indulged athlete, and a womanizer. He and I can be nothing more. Should be nothing more.
 

"Turn around
now
," he demands.

I reluctantly turn to face him.

"I just want to look at you. That's all. Open your towel for me, and remind me of what every mouth watering inch of you looks like."

Still not opening the towel.

"I've seen your body before, Sabrina. The image has been etched in my memory for three years. I just want a refresher and to take a look at how you've filled out in all the right places."

I take a deep breath and slowly untuck the towel from the top of my breasts and hold it open. My entire body is on display. It's not that I don't like my body; I do, and it's not that I think I'm unattractive. It just feels strange for a man to request to see it; that is until I look up and see the steely desire burning in Saint's eyes.
 

Now it feels extraordinarily sexy.

"Beautiful."
 

He drops the bag of groceries on the countertop and proceeds to take off his jacket. I watch with rapt attention as he deliberately takes it off slowly for my benefit. He smiles. I guess there's no hiding that I find him attractive.
 

After kicking off his shoes, he asks, "Now can you drop the towel completely on the floor for me, Sabrina?"

I take another deep breath of courage and do it. It's not that I'm a virgin or anything, but my sexual experiences have been limited to lots of lights off, missionary-styled relations. This exhibitionist stuff ... I'm not used to.