Wanted Distraction

Wanted Distraction

Ava McKnight

Part of the Playing With the Boys series.

Cherish switches work assignments so she can interview hunky Carter, the hometown hero who’s returned to lead his new football team to victory. They’d shared the last dance at prom ten years ago, and she’s fantasized about him ever since. But he’s always been out of reach. Until now…

Carter is solely focused on his career, and isn’t looking for any distractions. When Cherish hijacks the interview, he’s blown away by how sensational the object of his secret desire looks—and by her risqué proposition for a no-strings-attached, one-night stand. It’s just about sating lust, right?

Passion easily sparks between them, but there are many hurdles to jump before their needs becoming
Wanted
Distractions
.

Wanted Distraction

Ava McKnight

Chapter One

“I have the perfect angle for my arena football article,” Taylor Whitney told me as I approached her desk in the newsroom of
Scottsdale Live
magazine. Her fingers stopped clicking madly on the keyboard. “Hotshot quarterback from the San Francisco 49ers just signed with our Rattlers and is making his big debut in the arena next week. Added bonus—he’s freakin’ gorgeous.”

My stomach twisted. “I know. I want the article.”

“Like hell, Cherish,” she said with a laugh. “I’ve been pulling my hair out over writing a sports feature. But as it turns out, this guy’s a local who used to play high school ball here. I get the sexy quarterback
and
the ever-popular ‘Hometown Hero Returns’ story all in one fell swoop. I’m golden.”

I cringed. When Taylor set her mind to something she was damn-near impossible to sway. But I had my own reasons for wanting to write about the return of Carter Davis. And I didn’t intend to give up easily.

“Look, this would be a huge favor,” I told her. “One I will pay back tenfold, I promise.”

Yes, that was desperation in my voice. I couldn’t help it. I’d waited an entire decade for this opportunity and I refused to be stonewalled because my best friend was the most stubborn person on the planet.

“Will you please swap assignments with me?”

“Oh, Cherish, come on. That’s totally uncool. I know absolutely nothing about baseball—that’s your story to cover.” She reached for the newspaper sitting on the corner of her desk and held it up. “Did you see Sunday’s sports section of the
Arizona Republic
? This is just a feel-good, welcome back article. I still have tons of opportunity to delve deep and find out why this guy is switching over to arena football following an illustrious career with the NFL. There’s a story here. I can smell it.”

Indeed, Taylor never took anything at face value. That made her a fantastic writer. And a huge pain in the ass to negotiate with.

“As it happens,” she continued, “I’ve already contacted his agent and set up an interview at T. Cook’s. Seems Davis is staying at the Royal Palms Resort and Spa until he finds a permanent pad.”

I sighed, perhaps a bit too melodramatically, because Taylor’s dark brows knitted together.

I said, “The thing is, I sort of know him.” Uncharacteristically, I wrung my hands as I pleaded my case. “Actually, that’s not true. I don’t ‘sort of’ know him. I went to high school with him. We were very good friends and I’d really like to see him again.”

“So give him a call,” she said, narrowing her eyes, obviously finding my apprehension curious.

“No, I can’t just call him out of the blue. I need to see him in person. Or, rather, I need
him
to see
me
.”

“Because you’re so hot?” she asked in a serious tone.

I groaned. “Hardly.”

“Oh please,” she said, following it up with a snort. “You are
so
Kristen Chenoweth, with your long, bouncy blonde curls and itty-bitty body.” Her gaze dropped to my chest, because Taylor Whitney didn’t have a couth bone in her own curvaceous body. “I’d call those Ds, but I’d think anything more than a solid C cup would make you topple over.”

“A stiff breeze makes me topple over,” I deadpanned. Of course, given the reminder of my size, I stood a bit straighter in hopes of adding a few centimeters to my posture. Out of my four-inch heels, I barely reached five-foot-one.

“What’s really going on here?” Taylor challenged me. “If you have a good reason for wanting my story, I’ll give it to you. So dish.”

I’d agonized over this all day yesterday and well into the evening, after I’d read the brief story on Carter. With my senior yearbook in hand, I had curled up on the sofa and flipped through it, constantly returning to the photo of him as Prom King, which he’d signed, saying some very sweet things about me. But we’d always been two ships passing in the night, though I’d always dreamed of changing that scenario.

Another long breath blew through my parted lips, sounding decidedly long-suffering and self-deprecating.

Plunging in, I said, “What you see before you is not the girl I was in high school. Back then, I was tiny—”

She lifted a brow, which made me smirk at her.

“Okay,” I amended, “I was tinier than I am now. No boobs, no nothing.” I inhaled sharply as I geared up for my big admission, then said, “The kids at school used to call me Tinkerbell.” I winced at the remembrance of how much I’d loathed the nickname.

“Oh my God,” she said as she clapped her hands together in apparent delight. “That is so cute. I can totally see that!”

“Yeah, thanks.” I hated that everything about me in high school had been associated with words like “cute” and “delicate” and “adorable”. As though I’d been a stuffed teddy bear to tote around. “I was everyone’s favorite little sister and people were always trying to protect me or help me. Whenever I ended up with a top locker, my classmates would constantly swoop in to hang my sweater on the hook I couldn’t reach, or put stuff on the highest shelf for me. Or offer to trade lockers with me, which was worse, because it screamed
helpless
.”

I’d barely crested five feet my senior year and had been ecstatic when I’d gained an extra inch just before college. And I’d been even more pleased when I’d ventured into high heels.

“I was a pixie to them,” I told my friend. “I even had the short, perky haircut, though the color was kind of a mousy brown.”

Taylor whistled under her breath. “You for sure need to show the quarterback what a knockout you’ve become.”

“I don’t know about being a knockout, but I do want him to see me all grown up.” Yes, I’d had a huge crush on Carter Davis, which had stayed with me all this time. Now that he was returning to the Valley of the Sun, I really wanted to reconnect with him.

Nodding, Taylor said, “I get it.” She put a little more thought into the situation, then added, “You have it bad for this man, don’t you? You’re pretty stressed out over this.”

“He’s the only guy I’ve ever fallen for,” I admitted. “I know he’d take my call, but the problem is, I don’t want reminders of Tinkerbell and images of a dainty fairy to spring to mind when he hears the name Cherish Westerly. I don’t want him to have any preconceived notions about me before I see him.”

“Meaning you want me to keep the reservation for the interview in
my
name?”

“I swear I’ll set the record straight as soon as he arrives.”

She hedged, making me panic. “I don’t know, Cherish. I wouldn’t want him to think we’d duped him.”

“He’s not the sort to hold a grudge, trust me. And I’ll tell him I hijacked your interview so I could do the story on him. You’ll be completely in the clear, I promise.”

She stared at me a moment, and I worried she wouldn’t go along with my plan. My anxiety mounted until she finally said, “I bet you already have your dress picked out.”

I smiled as the tension in my shoulders eased. “The red one I wore to the fashion show we both covered last year.”

She whistled again. “That’s not a dress, my friend. That’s Marilyn Monroe brought back to life.”

“Tink needs to officially leave the building,” I said with conviction.

“That dress is certainly the way to erase visions of pixies from one’s mind.”

Her confidence in my ability to pull this off excited me. “Believe me, if you knew Carter Davis the way I do, you’d be going to extremes too.”

“He’s damn sexy, I’ll give you that much. But what’s so special about a jock with a Lamborghini?”

I sighed dreamily, unable to stop myself. “He’s so much more than that. He’s incredibly bright and very kind. He rescued me at our prom when my date ditched me to make out with another girl in the corner of the ballroom. He was quite the knight in shining armor.”

Taylor sat back in her chair, a concerned look on her face. “You
never
get gaga over a guy. What if your knight turns out to be a jerk? I mean, it’s been ten years since you graduated. He went off to Notre Dame, according to the article on him, and he’s been in the pros for the last six years. What if he’s become some big-shot playboy who’s going to crush you as if you were an inconsequential bug? Or worse. What if he makes an unwanted move on you?”

I stared at her a moment. These were things I hadn’t considered, primarily because they didn’t fit Carter’s nature or his reputation. Yet what really took me aback was Taylor’s pessimism.

I blinked once. Twice. Finally finding my voice, I said, “I had no idea you had such a dark, cynical side.”

She shrugged. “I’m a realist.”

“You’re also doing exactly what everyone has done most of my life—treating me as though you need to protect me because you don’t think I can take care of myself.”

“He’s a big man, Cherish,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Six-one, a hundred and eighty pounds says his bio on the Internet. He’s solid muscle and you’re…delicate.”

Despite the touchy adjective, I had to laugh. “Trust me, if Carter made a move on me, it wouldn’t be unwanted. Besides, did he sound like an arrogant ass in the
Republic’s
feature? I read it as well, and he’s still good natured and respectful. So don’t worry about me, okay?”

With reluctance in her voice, she conceded. “Fine. Take my interview and write the story.” She handed over the Post-It note with the reservation time and date scrawled across it in her flamboyant penmanship.

“Thanks, Taylor. I owe you.”

“I’m holding you to that. I’ll need help with my baseball story.”

The magazine had suffered hard times of late, particularly after the economy tanked and our target audience, Scottsdale’s affluent, had tightened its collective purse strings. Thus, covering exclusive and extravagant topics and events no longer kept the magazine thriving or the advertisers from jumping ship. Taylor and I, along with our fellow writers Claire Williams and Giselle Kemper, had agreed to each try a different approach with four features, focusing on sports-related topics that appealed to the masses.

Thus far, Claire and Giselle had achieved fantastic results, having covered an athletic club looking to increase its female clientele, and off-road racing, a trendy sport. Now that Taylor and I had swapped assignments, I’d be writing about the local arena football team that had gone to the national championship the previous season. Taylor would get to cover the boys of summer, which I suspected would be a very popular story, given the solid fan base of the Diamondbacks.

In fact, she likely had the most potential to expand our readership since baseball season was in full swing and the team was doing well.

Thrilled she’d agreed to make the trade with me, I headed off to my desk to prepare my interview questions. And to plot my reunion with the guy who’d swept me off my feet our senior year and had left me with the never-fading memory of him holding me in his arms during the last dance at our prom, followed by the softest, sweetest kiss known to womankind.

Carter was still single. The grownup Cherish Westerly intended to do something about that…

* * * * *

I pulled into the cobblestone drive of the Royal Palms with butterflies rioting in my stomach. I left the engine running while the valet reached for the handle on the door of my BMW. He helped me out of the car and I took the claim ticket from him before ascending the few steps that led to a short, dimly lit entryway that opened onto the Mediterranean-style courtyard with a fountain in the middle.

I traversed the patio covered with bistro tables and chairs, most of which were occupied, given the warm, late-spring evening. In my peripheral vision, I saw a number of heads whip in my direction and I took that as a good sign. I wanted to make a splash. I wanted to stand out. I wanted Carter to take one look at me and have his jaw hit the ground.

Whether or not I could achieve my goal remained to be seen, but I caught enough appreciative looks along the way to bolster my confidence as I crossed to the far side of the courtyard. Admittedly, I was slightly shaky in my high heels. My knees nearly knocked together at the mere thought of seeing Carter. I could only imagine how turned inside out I’d be when I actually came face to face with him for the first time in a decade.

A tantalizing prickle of desire against my clit proved how excited I was by the simple prospect of being in such close proximity to him. He was the savior I’d fantasized about enough times to border on obsession.

I took the short steps up to the tiny porch and opened the door to T. Cook’s, one of the most renowned restaurants in the Valley. I hadn’t been there in years, but as soon as I entered the foyer, my stomach settled a bit. The atmosphere was upscale and eclectic, yet warm and inviting. The tall windows were all open, allowing the sound of the waterfall in the courtyard to flow into the room. Low flames flickered in the fireplace, couples gathered at the small tables scattered about the reception area and a pianist tickled the ivories for the patrons in the bar.

When I approached the hostess stand, having purposely arrived fifteen minutes early, I was greeted with an inviting smile.

“Welcome to T. Cook’s. Do you have a reservation?”

I was about to give my name, but quickly remembered Taylor had made these arrangements. So I said, “Whitney. Eight o’clock for two.”