Beauty and the Baller

Dog settles at my feet as I strum a few lines to warm up, then play the opening to “Hurt,” by Johnny Cash, a cover from a Nine Inch Nails song.

I’m humming the lyrics when the door opens, and Nova enters my office. Dog raises his head, yawns, and then plops back down. I give him a glare—Thanks for noting the intruder.

My french doors must have been cracked from when he went out.

She’s wearing shorts, a green tank top, and those boots, her hair up in a high ponytail that reminds me of her in that Leia outfit. It makes my cock twitch. There’s a lightsaber in her hand, and she waves it around, then sets it on my desk as if it’s a king’s scepter.

I keep playing, restarting the song as she approaches.

Her head bobs, fingers tapping the rhythm against her leg; then she starts to sing.

Her voice startles me with its purity, the lyrics clear and spine tingling. It’s a different perspective from Cash’s woeful ballad, her voice sweeter. A memory flies at me, one of her singing in my hotel room. I tug my eyes off her and focus on the guitar.

A quietness fills up the room as the song ends. The hair on my arm is raised, and I drape my eyes over her hungrily and admit, fuck, that the fake kiss in the bookstore was total bullshit. I wanted to kiss her. And yes, I asked her to pretend date, and yes, I cleared it with HR first. What was I thinking?

“Another one,” she says. “It helps me relax.”

Sweat beads on my forehead, and my fingers feel numb as I switch to “Jolene.” She laughs under her breath and belts it out, adding a country twang to her vocals.

“You sing like an angel,” I say after the song as I settle the guitar at my feet. “Did you ever pursue music?”

“Not really. I’m all right, I guess; it was my talent in pageants.” She exhales a long breath, her lips twisting. “So. How long have you known who I was?”

Ah, so that’s why she came over a day early . . .

And here it is.

The part where I need to explain about that night in New York . . .

“It was the day I brought Sparky over. Something about . . .” Our electricity . . . “Anyway, I called Tuck for your name.”

Her eyes glitter. “Ah. My buddy. He can talk a girl into anything.”

My lips flatten. “He said something about offering you a fee—”

She frowns. “Hold on. I never agreed to the money.”

“So why did you do it?” I ask gruffly.

She mutters under her breath.

“What was that?”

She glares at me. “I wanted to meet you, you big doofus.”

“You wanted to meet a washed-up, drunk former quarterback in an outlandish outfit—”

“Tuck presented the idea, and I . . . I . . .” She waves her hand.

“Yes?”

A gust of air comes from her. “I love football, and you played it better than anyone ever had. There. I’ve complimented you.” She shrugs elegant shoulders. “It was a fan moment for me. I didn’t show up to have sex with you. Please. I have sex because I want to.”

Relief washes over me. I smirk. “So. You are a crazy fan.”

She rolls her eyes. “Not anymore—as you know.”

“Right. That night was . . .” I lift my brows, waiting for her to finish.

“You clearly don’t remember what happened—”

“I recall most of it.” I chew on my lip. “It . . . it was a hard time in my life.”

“I see,” she says, her blue eyes softening.

I glance away from her, not prepared for her gentle tone. I recall the state I was in that night, how grief ate at me, and it wasn’t just Whitney I mourned; it was my career, my life. One moment I’d been about to start my tenth year in football and get married—then it had blown up in my face. Something inside me died. My dreams. My faith in my ability to take care of people. My desire to love.

The morning after was a turning point for me; the realization that I was on a path of self-destruction reached a crest and tipped over. I’d hit rock bottom, and Nova was the stepping-stone that pushed me out of that dark pit.

“I was celibate when we met,” I say quietly. “I was rehabbing at first; then later, I just didn’t have the heart to be with anyone else; then you showed up . . .”

A rueful smile rises on her face. “Your teenage fantasy in the flesh. I’ve already forgiven you, Ronan. It was a long time ago.”

But I need her to know. “I knew it was you. I swear.” I shift around. “I’m sorry. The car wreck wouldn’t get out of my head . . .”