Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(34)

Fancy, classy, elegant.

She’s like this fucking bottle of wine. Sweet, silken, and wrapped in something so elegant and priceless that a guy like me has no business putting his hands on. A girl like that - like this bottle of wine - is used to crystal glasses, and soft classical music played in the background while it’s sipped slowly with painted lips from manicured fingers.

And here I am drinking it straight from the bottle.

I chuckle as I bring the wine to my mouth, take a swig, and shake my head.

What the hell have I gotten myself into.





17





Natalie




Eyes closed, I reach for a towel as water trickles down my face to drip into the marble sink beneath me. I bring it to my face, patting my skin dry before I toss it away and finally have to face myself in the bathroom mirror.

The same Creedence Clearwater record blasting from downstairs that originally woke me up is still playing - a reminder that I’m not alone in this house.

As if I could forget.

The pink blush returns to my cheeks the second I open my eyes, and I groan.

Yeah, that happened last night.

I scowl at my reflection in the mirror, silently chastising myself for my weakness and for letting Austin get to me like that. Yeah, definitely weakness. Weakness and months of nothing with Vince, since - clearly - he was a little worn out from banging his secretary all day at work.

So, yes, that’s what I’m blaming the fact that I kissed Austin - “kissed” being the understatement of the century. Almost worse though is that I came with my fingers thinking of him.

Yeah, it’s weakness, and withdrawal, and momentary insanity. All of those things.

And it might not be able to be helped that the man paying me to be his wife happens to be absurdly attractive with a body in perfect freaking condition. But what can be helped is him baiting me like that. What can be helped is him trying to get to me, and walking around without a damn shirt on, and whispering lines I’m sure he’s used on a hundred other girls like “I’m a great mistake.”

Please.

I want to roll my eyes at how ridiculous it is.

Right, says the girl who ate that line up, hook and sinker last night.

If we’re actually going to be doing this - if he’s serious about pulling off this whole fake media show with me smiling and waving to the cameras like a good little trophy wife, we’re going to have to establish some boundaries. Boundaries like shirts, and like not whispering wholly inappropriate little lines into my ear like I’m one of his vapid little football groupies.

Boundaries like the fact that I apparently can’t even have three sips of wine with him without losing my damn head.

Which means taking a deep breath, pretending last night never happened, and going down there and giving him a piece of my-

I frown and shake my head.

Right, except going down there means ideally putting clothes on, of which I still have none since going off to solve that problem last night resulted in another one entirely.

Grumbling, I pull the white terrycloth robe back on and head downstairs to face the music.



“Could we turn that down maybe?”

I blink in my pre-coffee daze as I step into the sunlit kitchen and glare at the Bluetooth speaker blaring “Proud Mary.”

The only response comes from Buckley, who raises his chin from the kitchen floor and starts to wag his tail when he sees me. I shuffle over to the speaker and turn it off.

“Hello?”

I frown at the lack of response as the house goes silent. Buckley whimpers as he trots over to nuzzle my leg.

“Yeah, I like them too, but maybe at a normal level, huh?” I murmur at the lab as I pour myself myself some coffee. In a way I’m relieved Austin isn’t here, since it lets me pretend last night never happened.

Or at least, put it off a little longer.

It’s not until I sit in one of the kitchen bar stools that I see the note taped to the kitchen counter.

The pants-optional offer is still on the table, but if you insist on bucking tradition, use this.





I roll my eyes at the note, fingering the black Amex card sitting on top of it, along with the car keys with a Porsche logo on them lying next to it. It’s not until I actually pick up the card though that I see the little addition underneath it.

P.S. I like white and lace. Crotchless preferred, but thongs will do.





I take a quick, scalding gulp of my coffee as my face goes red.



“You did what?!”

I haven’t even turned the car on in Austin’s driveway when my mother calls.

I wince as I hold the phone away from my ear before taking a deep breath and bringing it back.

“Mother, listen-”

“A football person, Natalie?!” She gasps dramatically, like she’s just been stabbed, and I can practically feel that token withering head shake of hers coming through the phone.