Beauty and the Baller

She rises from her seat in the den, as graceful as a swan, and glides toward us in that way that beautiful women have when they’ve had classes in posture. I had those same classes.

She gives a perfect smile to Mrs. Meadows, then takes me in. “Hi there. Who are you?” She says it like I’m a five-year-old and lost.

I’m wearing gray joggers with a hole in one leg and a wrinkled Johnny Cash shirt, and my hair is scraped up in a messy bun. I’m desperately in need of highlights. Not a stitch of makeup.

You wouldn’t believe it now, but a long time ago, I was a beauty queen. The memories of those days prick at my heart, and I shove them down and give her my sweet, sweet smile. I add a little extra Texas to my voice as I run a sweeping gaze over the ladies. “Hey, y’all.”

“Hey . . . ,” comes from a few as they size me up.

Yes, an interloper is here. Someone not in fashion and considered elderly.

“Come on, Sparky.” He prances ahead of me as I walk to the island and grab one of the cold sodas that are resting in a cute little tin tub—a woman did that. I twist off the top, then take a long drink as I glance at the myriad of food, streamers, and balloons, all in maroon, gold, and navy, Bobcat colors. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, COACH is written on a large banner that’s been draped from the ceiling over the fireplace in the den. Whoever this guy is, they’re laying it on thick, and if he’s winning games, well then, he’s their new favorite person.

I note the stainless steel appliances and the large white marble island. The new cabinetry. The ash-colored hardwood floors, the rustic wood-and-metal pendant lights. It’s all very urban farmhouse. The renovations make me yearn to fix Mama’s—my—house. That knot of responsibility tightens again in my chest. One day at a time, Nova.

“And you are . . . ?” comes from the redhead, her voice inquisitive. She’s followed me.

“I’m Nova Morgan.” I grab a chip, swoop it through what looks like homemade guac, and chew. “Great party. ‘Cotton-Eyed Joe’ on repeat is just fantastic, but I’d love it if you turned it down. I have a sister next door who’s trying to sleep.” Lie. She’s not even close to going to bed.

Someone moves in the room, and the music is turned down considerably. My bets are on Mrs. Meadows. I shake my head. She really is something, trailing me to the party in her nightclothes.

“Oh. I’ve heard of you,” Miss Texas says, a light dawning in her green eyes. “You went to school with my sister.”

I squint at the glossy red hair. The Tyler family had four girls, all gingers with M names. It dawns on me. “You’re Marla’s little sister?”

Miss Texas sniffs. “Yes. She lives in Dallas now. She married Brad.”

I wince. I might have kissed Brad, Marla’s long-term boyfriend, in tenth grade, and I might have made sure Marla knew about it . . .

“Good for them. Where’s Coach?” I ask the room.

“That would be me,” a deep voice says from behind me. There’s arrogance mixed with exasperation in his voice, and my lips tighten. Metaphorically, I pull up my big-girl panties and mutter, Bring it on, jock-ass.

Steeling myself, I turn to face him, seeing the french doors from the den have been opened, which is probably where he came from. The back entrance leads out to a glittering blue kidney-shaped pool, lit by underwater lights. There’s even a waterfall. Modern, sleek-looking chaise lounges dot the area. Girls in bikinis walk around. A few men. Finally.

I focus on him, gasp, and then shut my eyes, hoping he’ll disappear. But when I open them, he’s still there.

No, this can’t be right . . .

But the logical side of my mind says, Fate just bitch-slapped you.

I bite back a groan.

Holy shit.

Ronan Smith.

The worst, most horrible, can’t-even-think-about-it-without-cringing one-night stand ever.

Chapter 3

NOVA

I feel dizzy, as if I’ve been suddenly transported to another dimension. My hand finds the edge of the island and clings to it.

It’s been over two years, and he looks the same yet different. Wearing plain navy swim trunks, his body is exquisite, with broad rippling shoulders that taper down to a muscled chest, a six-pack, and then a sharply defined V. He’s shockingly tan and healthy looking, a stark contrast to the pale, gaunt-faced man from before.

His height is around six-four, and his legs are slightly parted in a warrior stance. A towel is around his neck, and he reaches up with a muscled forearm to rub it over his face.

I look at his lips. That night, at certain moments, they were thin and tight, but now they’re plump, the bottom one lush and extravagant. That kissable mouth almost softens the scars on the left side of his face.