Beauty and the Baller

He shakes his head.

“You’re lucky. I still can’t eat chicken—which is stupid. Do you know how much chicken food there is in the world? Chicken parm, lemon-pepper chicken, fried chicken.” I count them off on my fingers. “Paisley ran out crying. Andrew said it was only that one time, that it was a stupid mistake, that he’d only ever slept with me and he had a weak moment, wondering what it would be like with someone else, and she’d been chasing him. He begged me for a month to take him back. Got down on his knees outside my window at the sorority house. Followed me to class. Called me repeatedly. Called Mama for help.” My lips twist. “Then Paisley came to me and said she was pregnant.” A long breath comes from my chest. “Andrew’s parents got involved and insisted he marry her if he wanted their money. I left and went to NYU.”

There’s a beat of silence as he stares at me. “Now you’re living in the same town with them.”

I lift up my hands. “You see my problem. I swore I’d never live here, yet . . .”

“Right,” he says rather distractedly, a calculating gleam growing in his eyes as he shifts around. “Melinda is here with Paisley, and both of us need to make a statement. No more hiding. I have an idea. It’s a little risky and might require some faith in me, but I have a good feeling . . .”

He takes my elbow and tugs me out of the stacks.

“What are you doing?” I exclaim.

“You want payback, right? For what Paisley did?”

“Mama always said ‘Never wrestle with a pig. You’ll get dirty, and the pig likes it.’ I don’t know where she heard it—”

“Bernard Shaw. Famous playwright.”

“Look at you and your brain.”

“I enjoy reading.”

I gaze around at the store. “Noted.”

He pushes a hand through his messy-pretty hair. I sigh at it and reach up and touch it.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Fixing your hair.”

“Why?”

“I considered a job as a beautician when I couldn’t get a job after college.”

He stares at me.

I shrug. “I like hair. I can do a french braid, a fishtail, a triple fishtail, a lace braid.” I pause. “Huh. I see where Sabine gets it.”

His lips twitch. “Let’s focus. I want to put this Melinda thing to rest. I don’t have time to mess with her machinations. It’s war.”

“War sounds rather ominous,” I say warily. “What about the pig thing? Do we want to lower ourselves to their level?”

“I do whatever it takes to win.” He pulls us to the center of the store and throws a wave up at Allie, who sparkles at the attention.

“The entire town is in love with you,” I mumble.

“Not you,” he replies. “Which makes this even easier. You don’t even like me.”

Oh. I’ve had time to process seeing him and that Awful One-Night Stand. Yes, my self-respect—and heart—took a beating that night, but perhaps I’ve softened . . . he was still grieving. I suspect he still is. That kind of pain can ease, but it never quite goes away.

He leads me to a table near Melinda and Paisley’s, then presses a book into my hands, one he grabbed off a display on our way to the front. “Speaking of books, here’s one of my favorites, The Art of War by Sun Tzu, a Chinese military strategist. Take it. It was written in the fifth century and has thirteen chapters, each one devoted to a skill set related to war tactics. Now people use it for business, lifestyle discipline, legal strategy, whatever. I use it for football. For life, really. You’d be surprised at the wisdom.”

“Who? What? And you think I talk too much? I probably won’t read it, but thanks?”

His face transforms with that genuine smile, and I inhale a breath.

“What?” I ask after a few moments pass.

“You’re surprising,” he murmurs.

“In a good way?”

“You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Very vague,” I grouse. “I’m not obtuse. I’ve heard of the book, of course. I have a BA in art history from NYU.” A degree I’m still paying for.

“‘The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy so they can’t fathom our real intent.’ We’re using that one today. You ready?”

“Got it. Confusing the enemy. This sounds violent,” I say as he pulls us closer to their table, then stops under one of the big lights hanging from the ceiling.

Then . . .

With an adoring look—whoa—he takes both my hands in his.

His plan clicks in my head. “Ronan, no, this is not a good idea—”

He ignores me, his fingers lacing with mine. “Babe, thank you for the coffee date.” Warm and deep, his voice carries over the store.

There’s a long silence; then I hear a gasp. Melinda. I glance over, and Paisley meets my eyes and drops her fork, her face paling. She breathes my name. Yeah, that’s right, sweetheart; Nova is back in town, my eyes say. Ignore the T-shirt. My clothes are coming . . .