Beauty and the Baller

“You’re famous,” she muses. “I can’t figure out how you got here. I know the booster club has a private plane and tons of money, and we’ve had some great coaches, but . . . you?”

“A friend went to college with the current principal. He offered, and I like Texas football.” The fans are devoted, I dig the kids, and I didn’t have any other offers.

And . . . I needed a fresh slate. A new focus. Away from everything I’d messed up.

I shift on my feet, my eyes flitting over her again, sticking on those pink lips, the bottom one fuller, the top with a deep V. It’s the kind of mouth a man wants to crush—

My frown deepens. Something—

My peripheral vision catches sight of Melinda’s Mustang pulling onto the main street that leads to our cove. Cursing under my breath, I duck down behind the stone that surrounds Nova’s porch.

She shakes her head. “You’re supposed to face your problems, not run from them. Is this another one of your communication issues with women?”

“I don’t have issues,” I growl. I just don’t want to see Melinda. Last night, she hung on me like glue, even insisting on staying and cleaning up the party mess, not leaving until midnight. There was an uncomfortable moment at my door when she wrapped her arms around me, then tilted her face up for a kiss. I’m so sorry about Jenny, Ronan. I’m here if you need me.

Nova takes a slow sip of her coffee. “I predict an engagement by Christmas, then a spring wedding. Your china will be classic white, your pots and pans stainless steel.”

“No one’s getting married. Where’s she now?” I say as my leg sends a pang from my crouched position.

“She’s taking the turn onto our street. She’s got the top down, a scarf tied around her hair, and big sunglasses on. Did you see her pantsuit last night? Divine.”

An exasperated noise comes from me. “I didn’t notice.” Yet . . . I noticed Nova in her Johnny Cash shirt. I saw the curves under her joggers, the finely drawn features of her face, the languid way she moved. The moment she turned around in the kitchen . . . I tensed.

“I hear Britney Spears coming from her car. Yep.” She flips her boa, then sings a few bars of “Oops! . . . I Did It Again.” She stops and gives me a curious look. “Are you sleeping with her?”

“What? No!” A long aggrieved sigh leaves my chest. I can’t get involved with anyone from Blue Belle. I don’t want to lead anyone on. “Lois is trying to hook me up. I’m not oblivious to their plans.”

“Hmm.” She moves to sit on the top step as she gazes out at the street, giving me her profile, and it allows my eyes time to roam her face uninterrupted. Her pale-blonde hair hangs straight around her shoulders as the sun catches the honey highlights. Long dark lashes, winged brows, straight nose . . .

“She’s pulling into your driveway. Should I let her know you’re here?”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Just . . . tell me what she’s doing.”

“Really? I used to do radio work. I’m a jack-of-all-trades, really; I can do just about anything if I set my mind to it. My voice is quite good.”

My brow pulls down. “Okay?”

She looks at my house, then clears her throat. “A striking redhead walks up to the front door of the house and knocks, waits, then knocks again. Holding a box of what looks like Dunkin’ Donuts, she looks at her watch and taps her heels, clearly not expecting to be denied entry to the coach’s lavish home.”

“I wouldn’t say lavish—”

“This Texas beauty queen is not deterred and moves to the doorbell.”

“A play-by-play? Really.” I glare at her.

“Mama always said if at first you don’t succeed, try to make more noise . . . and wait . . . she presses the doorbell again. And again.” She tsks. “That’s right; she’s broken Texas polite norms and rung three times. Whatever she had planned to talk about with the fancy-pants coach is important and couldn’t wait. She wants him to eat her donuts, folks.”

“You are insane. What kind of radio—”

She slants an eye at me. “It was a talk show about women who love football, if you must know. I did recaps of games. It didn’t pay much, but it was fun.” Her gaze goes back to the house. “Wait, what’s this? She’s pulling out a yellow sticky note made by the 3M Company.”

“You’re making shit up—”

Nova throws up a “Be quiet” hand and continues. “She takes a pen out of her Louis Vuitton—which is spectacular, one of the limited editions you can’t find anywhere—and writes a message, something that could probably be said by text, but this beautiful man magnet seems to feel the personal touch is best. She has written her note and is now placing it . . . wait . . . nope, she’s pulling it back. Her pride has reared up. Good girl. Don’t chase him, honey, even if it’s clear that Coach is the town’s adopted favorite son. Pretty soon, they’ll buy him an Escalade—”