Someone Like You (8 page)

“You don't need them,” he said, sitting back as the waitress returned.

“You guys ready to order?” she asked, smiling.

Abby huffed out a frustrated breath before turning to the waitress, and Pierce swallowed a chuckle. Teasing her lightly enough to get her wound up amused him. And the more wound up she got, the more tempted he was to do whatever it'd take to get her unwound. But also, she needed to see coaching from a different angle.

After the waitress left again, he said, “Abby, you're a teacher. You know how to teach kids. You don't need so many notes. I mean, you don't walk around your classroom with a clipboard hugged to your chest all day, do you?”

Spots of pink blossomed on her pale cheeks. “No, of course not. But I
do
plan all my lessons. So while it's not a clipboard, I do have a lesson planner, right there on my desk. It's got every part of the day scheduled, in detail, with what I need to do. I also keep it all on my phone, on the off chance I ever lose that planner.”

“Your plans have plans,” he remarked with a lopsided grin.

The corner of her mouth twitched. “I'm extremely organized.”

“You certainly are.” He leaned in on his elbows again. “I understand about the team roster, sure. But maybe . . . now that I'm on board to assist, you won't need all the other crap on that clipboard. Just be able to go with the flow a little.”

Her mouth set in a tight line. She blinked twice. Then she nodded. “Fine.”

Ooooh, yellow card. When a woman said “Fine” like that, it was
so not fine.
“Okay, wait. I'm not trying to piss you off, Abby. I'll stop teasing you. But if the kids see you having fun with it, they'll have more fun with it too. That's all I'm getting at here.” He couldn't read her, but she seemed rigid as she stared out at the water.

“I'm . . .” she started, then shook her head.

“What? Say it.”

“I'm not a very ‘go with the flow' kind of person,” she said. Her eyes finally met his. “You fly by the seat of your pants, don't you?”

“All the time.”

“And that obviously works for you. But not for me.”

He gave a slightly smug grin. “So . . . tell me whatever you wanted to tell me about the team. I'm listening.” He took a swallow of beer and sat back to hear what she had to say, savoring the lost look on her face.

Abby's gaze fell to her drink. He frowned, wondering if he'd pushed too far with his teasing. But before he could say anything, she looked back at him and said, “You think I'm just a prissy little nun, don't you.”

He choked on a laugh. “What? A
nun?
What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know what I mean. A Little Miss Priss. Small town, reserved, and uptight.” Her hands folded on themselves on the tabletop as her gaze and tone sharpened. “And you certainly seem to think I'm ‘funny' with all my plans and papers and routines.”

Shit. Definite yellow card. “No, Abby, I don't think it's funny. Well, wait, maybe I think it's a
little
funny. But in an . . . endearing way. I think it's cute.
You're
cute.”

“
Cute?
” She spat out the word like it was dipped in poison.

“Yup. Adorable, in fact.” He put down his beer bottle, leaned in close, and said, “Look. You
are
from a small town, you are a little reserved, and yeah, you're a little uptight. So what? But I don't think you're prissy, and you're way too gorgeous to be a nun. If you were . . . that'd make me a sinner.” Holding her gaze, eyes twinkling, he whispered, “Because of the very impure thoughts I've had about you. Gotta admit, Abby . . . there've been a few.”

Abby felt the heat rising on her skin and knew she was turning bright pink. From her chest, up her neck, up to her damn forehead. He was brazen. Cocky. “What a line,” she murmured. “Does it work on all the women you hit on?”

His grin didn't budge. “Don't know. First time I've used it.”

“Make it your last.” She sat back as the waitress brought a plate of baked clams to them and set it on the table.

“Your appetizer,” she chirped. “Entrees will be out shortly. Enjoy!”

Abby waited until she walked away before lifting her eyes to Pierce again. “Let's get a few things straight right now, okay?”

He nodded, not saying a word.

“We're coaching a kids' soccer team together,” she said curtly. “And that's it. So I'd appreciate it if you kept things professional.”

“I can't help it if I think you're gorgeous, Abby,” Pierce said. “You are.” He grabbed his smaller fork and scooped two of the clams onto his plate.

“Well, thank you for the compliment.” She fought for her cool, collected teacher voice, ignoring the little thrill that roiled through her. With delicate fingers, she also moved two baked clams to her plate. “But I think we should stick to talking about soccer. And I definitely don't appreciate your taunts.”

“I wasn't taunting you,” he said. “Well . . . okay, that's not totally true.”

“No, it isn't, and you know it.” Abby speared him with a look. “Is that your game, Pierce? A little teasing and taunting, then wallop her with a surprise compliment and a come-on, and expect her to fall at your feet? I'm not amused. And I'm not playing. You're bored, so you want a brainless bimbo to play with while you're in New York? I'm not her.”

Something fierce flashed in his bright blue eyes, and she held her breath.

Pierce leaned in, his gaze locked on hers as he said quietly, “I don't know what you've read about me, but I've treated you with nothing but respect since I met you. Did I tease you a little? Yes. Did I flirt a little? Yes. Did I know it'd piss you off so much? Hell no, or I wouldn't have. I'll be the very model of detached civility from here on in. No worries, Coach. Got the message.”

“Do you even realize you don't simply talk to me?” she demanded.

“What?” His frown deepened. “What does that mean?”

“Everything you say to me is loaded with sexual innuendo and flirtation. Just
talk
to me.” Abby peered at him, and as it struck her, she said it aloud. “Or is that the only way you know how to talk to women? That's the only way you interact with them?”

His jaw dropped open, then snapped shut and tightened. A muscle jumped in his jaw, and he murmured angrily, “Is this a date, or a psychoanalysis? For fuck's sake, Abby. You're gorgeous, and I flirted with you. But I don't . . . I mean . . .
fuck.
” He sat back in his chair, grabbed his bottle, and took a long, hard swig. Shaking his head, he stared out at the water. “Pick apart someone else.” His icy tone made her cringe. “Not interested in that, sorry. I just came to have dinner and talk soccer.”

Abby felt the blood rise up into her face yet again as she watched him stare off into the distance, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed. She'd struck a nerve, that much was clear. And he was mad now. She hadn't meant to piss him off. “Pierce . . . I may have been a little harsh.”

“More than a little, and unwarranted, if you ask me.” He set the bottle down, flicked her a glance, grabbing a fork as he added, “Just for the record? I didn't ask you out because I'm bored, and I don't think you're a brainless bimbo, and I didn't think mildly teasing you or flirting with you meant I was treating you like one.” A short huff flew out of him. “So just stand down. We'll have a nice, quiet meal. Talk shop. And I won't flirt with you anymore, okay?”

Her gaze fell away as her throat tightened. Well, he'd told her, hadn't he? “I'm sorry I made you angry. I am.” She took in a deep breath, fumbling for the right words. “It's just that I've been burned, and I know your . . . well, your reputation. And I don't—”

“My reputation,” he repeated flatly, glaring now.

Flustered, she nodded and fiddled with her fork, not knowing what to say. Every word dug her in deeper. She hadn't been this uncomfortable in a long time.

“Glad to see you did your homework on me.” That muscle in his jaw jumped again, his tell of when something fired him up, and his gaze seared her. “You know what? Considering your education and obvious intelligence, I didn't think a woman like you would be so quick to believe what she read on Internet gossip sites without giving the person in question a fair shake first. My mistake.”

Abby cringed inside. Well, this had gone to hell fast. But she wasn't going to lie or backpedal and make it even worse. Her chin lifted a notch. “Yes, I read up on you. This is the twenty-first century, everyone does it, so don't act like I committed a crime of ethics. And no, I don't believe everything I read. I
don't
know you; that's why I Googled you.”

“You have an unfair advantage. I didn't Google you.”

“Doesn't matter, you wouldn't have found anything. I'm just a first-grade teacher from Edgewater, living at home with her parents. I'm no star.”

“Neither am I, for the record. Not really. Certainly not in the US. No one here knows who I am, or gives a shit.”

“But you
are
a public figure, Pierce. Come on. Those parents swarmed around you at the game, the minute they knew who you were. And even if you're not famous here, you are in the UK. There
was
some information online, and a lot of pictures, and I'm not going to pretend I didn't see them. And . . . it couldn't
all
be untrue. I mean . . .” She was utterly unable to stop herself. “What I keep asking myself is: Why would an internationally famous millionaire football star give a crap about a small-town kids' soccer league? I can't figure it out.”

He nodded slowly, disappointment and something else shadowing his eyes as they burned into her, blue flames of disdain. “You've really decided I'm an asshole, haven't you. A stereotypical rich boy, pro athlete, manwhore asshole.” He raked his hands through his hair as his mouth pressed into a hard line. “You don't know me at all, Abby. You know nothing about my upbringing, or my life in England, except for things you've read that may or may not be true. So yeah, that's all pretty insulting, and I don't have to answer your questions.”

Her face burned with embarrassment and her throat felt like it was closing up. She looked out at the water. Swallowing hard, she said, “You're right. I'm sorry.”

Pierce felt his heart pound as he reined in his emotions. Frustration percolated inside him, dangerously nearing a boiling point.

On one hand, Abby had hit on a truth that he hadn't even realized until she'd flung it at him. Was flirting the only way he knew to interact with women anymore? Had he become that kind of man? The way Abby's words had set off furious heat in him meant it might be so. It was something he'd have to give some thought to, and particularly where Abby was concerned. He liked her and didn't want to put her off. She was genuine, so he had to be genuine with her in return. But what exactly did that mean for him?

On the other hand, he was so fucking sick of being judged. It felt like he had been his whole damn life. First by his father, then at school, then working his way up into the Premier League, by the press, and his teammates, too, when the scandal hit . . . and now Abby. Everyone judged him, even if they didn't have all the facts. He tried to suppress his rising temper, but couldn't help himself. He dropped his fork onto his plate with a noisy clatter, making her eyes snap up to his.

“Is that really what you think of me?” he snapped. “Already made up your mind that I'm just a stuck-up football star, with all the crap the stereotype implies?”

“You tell me,” she said flatly.

“Fuck no,” he spat, before pausing . . . because honestly, that wasn't altogether true. Until recently, he'd lived it up pretty well. He'd earned his share of yellow cards on the pitch. And he'd certainly lived up to the partying, womanizing stereotype through most of his twenties. There'd been no shortage of alcohol, women, and fun . . . he'd played hard, both on the field and off the pitch. But . . .

It hit him like a lightning strike.
That's
why he'd come back to New York.
Home.
Even though he hadn't thought of Long Island as home in a long time. The short time here with Tess, and even Dane, and yes, the kids on the team, had all been refreshingly quiet and real—even when in Harrison Land. Somehow, a shift had occurred deep within him, and he was happier about leaving the pro football life behind with each passing hour. He had to admit the thought of moving back to New York permanently seemed more and more enticing every day.

“Pierce, listen,” Abby said at last. His reverie broken by her soft voice, he met her eyes. She looked remorseful, repentant. “I want to apologize. That was unfair of me, some of the things I said. I didn't mean to sound like I'm judging you. I'm not. Or . . . well, I'm trying not to. Honestly.”

Wordlessly, he reached for his bottle and took a swig.

Abby watched him and sighed. She'd turned a casual meeting into a character assassination. Even if she'd been right about a few things, she hadn't had to say them all at once. “Pierce . . . I'm sorry I offended you,” she said in earnest. “I really am.”

“Apparently I offended you first.” His tone was clipped as he looked back down at his plate. He dug into another one of the baked clams with vehemence.

“I wasn't offended, so much as . . . well, pissed off. But I admit I'm oversensitive sometimes.”

He glanced at her as he finished chewing, then said, “Well . . . I sensed that, and kept busting your chops anyway. I only meant it in good fun, nothing else. But if it pushed too far, I'm sorry for that.”