Beauty and the Baller

My fingers tighten around the paper as I look up at him with a smile. “I accept.”

The door opens, and Ronan stalks in, filling up the office with his height. Wearing khaki pants that hug his ass, an expensive blue dress shirt, and a navy baseball hat with his hair curling around the edges, he should look like any coach, but dammit, he just doesn’t!

He stops when he sees me.

“Sorry, Denny. I didn’t realize you had someone in here,” he says to the principal, but those ice-blue eyes track all over me, from the top of my ponytail to the tips of my stilettos. I ease one out so he can get a better view. That’s right. Check it. I’ve got great legs. And sexy shoes. I don’t always wear joggers and boxers.

His gaze skates up my face and ends on my ponytail. His lips twitch as he puts those hands on his hips. “Nova.”

“Me,” I say with what I hope is optimism.

“Thanks for coming in from your class, Coach.” The principal stands and sends a head nudge in my direction. “The hunt is over. We hired Ms. Morgan, a hometown girl, to be your part-time PA. Her credentials are amazing.”

I bite my lip. That is just not true.

“She’s just what we’re looking for. Just perfect,” the principal adds.

I hear a lot of satisfaction in his voice. My gaze lands on the photo of him with Lois. One, Lois told me about the job; two, she vouched for me; three, she went to his house; and four, she’s head of the committee to get Coach hitched. Even an idiot can see right through this. I’m the new girl up to bat. Only they don’t know that we have a history . . .

Lois is a meddling minx, but this is exponentially better than Pizza Hut.

“Is she?” Ronan says, crossing his arms. “I thought you usually hired a college intern.”

Principal Lancaster nods and murmurs about how there weren’t any interns available this semester, and with the extra enrollment and the need for teachers, he decided to kill two birds with one stone, thus giving me a full-time position.

Ronan nods during his spiel, his gaze entirely on me.

Before he can argue that he doesn’t want me for the job, I stand up—gracefully, using all those classes Mama put me through—and glide over to him and put my hand out. I use my sweet smile on him and infuse my voice with excitement. “I can’t wait for us to work together, Coach.”

I literally have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into. On the outside, I’m cool, but on the inside, I’m quivering with uncertainty. Not only do I have to figure out high school English, but I’ll be assisting Ronan, and I’m not sure he’s on board.

The three of us walk out of the principal’s office to the front desk, where a secretary sits, her head cocked with a phone to her ear. She hurriedly gets off the phone and rushes over to us.

Principal Lancaster explains that I’ll be starting next week; then the secretary leaves to get paperwork and a laptop for me. Principal Lancaster shakes my hand and goes back to his office while Ronan heads for the exit. I trail after him. He’s not getting away from me now. We’ve got to talk about this.

Melinda breezes in, red hair twirled up, a tight green dress on. I inhale. Dang. She is pretty. But a little evil.

“Coach Smith? Do you have a moment?” she calls sweetly, ignoring me as she walks up to us.

“Hmm,” comes from him.

“I baked a pie for you. Pecan. I put your name on it in the staff lounge. I remember you said that was your favorite . . .” She gives him a glossy smile and touches his arm. He eases it away.

“Ah. Thank you,” he says tersely, then shoots me a pointed look, as if to say, See?

I lift my shoulders. What does he want me to do about it? If our kiss didn’t work, then I’m out of solutions. I can’t be kissing him every time we see her.

“Why are you here?” she finally asks me, her lashes shielding her gaze as it darts from me to Ronan.

“I’ll be teaching English.”

Her nose flares. “Oh. You’re the fill-in when they couldn’t find anyone else.” She gives me a tight-lipped smile. “I teach English. If you need any help, let me know. I have a master’s in English literature.”

“Of course,” I say. “Thank you for the offer. It’s very kind of you.”

“You’re very welcome,” she says in a syrupy tone, then walks past us.

“Not on my life will I ask her,” I mutter.

Ronan’s lips curl. “But she was so nice. And so were you.”

“Southern girls are born being nice, but they don’t always mean it. Now, if she’d said ‘bless your heart,’ we might have had a tussle. Everyone knows what that means. It’s pity with a dash of condescension.”