The Game Plan (Game On 3)

I’m frozen in place, surely gaping at her as the guys walk past. Out of the corner of my eye, I see their smug faces. Drew gives Fi a nod.

“Thank you, Drew Bee,” she says to him, drawing out the initial in his last name with affection.

“Any time, Fi-Fi.” His smile is wide and satisfied.

I remember that they know each other and live in the same town and hang out. I’m instantly jealous of Drew for that. But he clearly helped set up this meeting with my girl, so I can’t hold it against him.

My attention is on Fi anyway. On her hesitant smile, the shine of happiness in her eyes. She lifts her arm, holding up a plastic produce bag full of something lumpy.

Her slightly husky voice drifts over the space between us. “I know guys bring girls flowers, but I figured you’d be more into food. So I brought you some cherries—”

Her words cut off with a squeak as I wrap my arms around her slim frame and lift her high. I kiss her without hesitation, opening her mouth with mine, my tongue sliding along hers. She tastes of cherries and Fi, and smells of joy.

My joy. My Fi.

Like that, I’m overwhelmed. Fuck, I’m almost weepy. And I’m all but mauling her on the street.

My voice is rough when I pull back and smile down at her. “Did you eat some of my cherries?”

Her nose wrinkles. “I had to see if they were okay. I’m not going to give you subpar cherries.”

“You’ve got a whole theme going here.”

“I’m not very subtle, Ethan,” she says with a goofy grin. “Better get used to it now.”

“Don’t ever change.”

She’s still in my arms, her feet dangling around my shins, those sweet tits of hers pressed against my chest. I can’t help kissing her again, on the warm spot just below her ear, the corner of her mouth, which always makes her shiver.

Hell, I can’t stop kissing her period.

And she’s running her fingers across my nape, massaging the tight muscles there as if she knows how badly I need it.

“Fi…” I can’t even talk.

“Show me your home, Big Guy.”

Problem is, I don’t think I’ll be able to let her go once she gets there.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Fiona

Ethan insists on walking. It’s a nice night; the air almost balmy. And though it’s November, it’s in the 70s—warm enough to wear this silly cherry sundress and a cardigan. But it was worth it to see Dex’s wide smile unfurl when his gaze slid over me. Yeah, he knew I wore the dress for him. And it lit him up with happiness. So. Totally. Worth. It.

“Aren’t you afraid of being spotted?” I ask as we amble along, his arm around me, my head resting against the warmth of his chest.

He stops and kisses me—soft, seeking, a smile on his lips as he pulls away. “Not really. No one’s around. I got my cap on.” He gives the brim of gray his newsboy cap a tug as he winks. “And I don’t exactly look like myself.”

No. He’s not in his standard jeans and tee, but wearing soft black slacks and a light knit dress sweater that covers his trademark tats. He looks more dapper-New-Orleans gentleman than football player now.

Drew and his friends have driven off, making a lot of noise that I suspect was designed to bring attention to them and away from Ethan. They’re good friends, loyal. I know they’ll do anything to protect him. And yet I sense there’s a wall between Ethan and, well, everyone but me.

“Your friends never call you Ethan. Always Dex or Dexter. Why?”

He shrugs. “I’ve always been Dex to them. I’m not even sure some of them know my first name. It’s who I am.”

The casual way he accepts that bothers me. I want to shout, wave my fist in the air, something. As it is, my voice comes out fierce and angry. “You’re more than that. So much more.”

“Only for you.” He touches my face, runs the blunt tips of his fingers along my temple, as he looks at me with such tenderness my heart hurts. “No one else gets all of me, Cherry.”

This man. I know he isn’t trying to do it, but he always says the one thing guaranteed to turn my world on its head. My ire on his behalf dissipates, leaving behind the soft warmth of contentment.

Smiling, I rest my cheek in the palm of his hand. “Just so you know, no one else gets to call me silly fruit names.”

The white of his teeth flashes in the shadow of his beard. “I know.” His thumb caresses my cheek. “I’ve missed your face.”

“I missed your…everything.” It has been two weeks. An eternity when it comes to my need for him.

He kisses me again as we walk, and I grow lightheaded, giggling against his lips—drunk off Ethan.

And he seems that way too, the both of us laughing at nothing but the joy of being together, stopping every few feet to kiss, touch each other’s faces, because we can.

It starts to rain, a gentle fall that brings out the scents of the city, the baking brick walkways, the warm scents of cooking, and underneath it all, a faint, murky odor of mildew and rot that gives the city a sense of age that New York refuses to acquire.

Around us drift lilting strains of jazz, hard beats of rock, the twang of country, disjointed notes of pop. It all melds together to make its own song. The rain feels soft, sluicing over our skin, warm and wet.

We pass Bourbon Street and move deeper into the French Quarter, away from the river. On a quiet street, Ethan backs me against a pair of glossy black French doors, protected from the rain by a stucco archway.

He cups my cheeks and kisses me like he aches for it. Slow, fevered, deep. Soft licks of my upper lip, hard nips of my lower lip. It feels so good, I shiver against him, my hands fisting his sweater.