Beauty and the Baller

“Hey, Sabine,” I say with a smile.

“He isn’t staying,” Nova says with her chin tilted up, her eyes on me. “He just brought Sparky home.”

I exhale. “Right. I’ll see you around.” My hand brushes against Nova’s when I move, and sensation ripples over my skin, my body tightening.

Weird. The same thing happened last night when I escorted her into my office. I made sure to keep my distance after that, but . . .

I make it to her sidewalk before my curiosity eats at me, and I stop and watch her flip around, her heart-shaped ass swaying back into the house.

She. Is. Beautiful.

And dammit . . .

Since the moment she turned around in the kitchen, her face pricked at me, tantalizing, like a memory out of reach.

I’ve enjoyed women over the years, and most of those sexual interactions tend to fade into the background of my mind. Then there are certain women who take up real space in your head, the ones you react to in a way you never forget.

Even if you can’t recall their faces . . .

Those tingles . . .

Then . . .

Long time no see—like for real, you have no idea.

Then there was her mention of payback and how life has a funny sense of humor . . .

And those lush lips . . .

Her fascination with Leia’s cuff . . .

I stop in my tracks, my hands clenching.

No way. No fucking way.

What are the odds? The mere idea is impossible!

Walking down the sidewalk, I pull out my phone and call the person who knows about the party. Tuck answers on the third ring, his voice groggy. “Ronan?” I hear the sound of fabric rustling. “Dude. I just woke up.” He pauses. “Fuck, happy birthday. I missed it. I suck!” he calls out, then curses again, several times. “I’m sending you a big-ass fruit basket today! Jesus! My brain is mush on these meds!”

I chuckle. “How’s the ankle?” He fractured it last week at practice.

“Hurts,” he moans. “I’m out for a while. Slowly dying of boredom. Send tequila and strippers, stat! Better yet, take a break, and come see me. I miss your ugly face.”

I laugh. “You’re a baby. Buck up. Can you talk for a few?”

“All right.” He lets out a grunt. “Let me get up and hit the start on coffee. I have to hobble, so hang tight.” He puts me on hold, and I picture him limping through his spacious apartment in Manhattan, the one we shared for years. We bonded from day one—me the serious one, him the party boy. He was there for me when I woke up and made a plan for my life.

He makes his coffee, complaining about his injury. He bitches about a new wide receiver who’s young and fresh, River Tate, then tells me about his love life, his voice escalating. His latest girlfriend left him for a violinist. He mopes about it, then lets out several long sighs.

“So what’s up with you?” he asks.

I reach my house and face the neighborhood, my gaze on the house next door. I sit down on the wicker swing and trace my hand over the smooth wood. “Remember that night of the Pythons party? The last one I went to?”

“You were throwing back bourbon like it was water—yeah, I recall.”

“Remember Princess Leia?”

There’s a beat of silence, then: “We’ve never talked about this. You insisted. You said it was none of my business what happened.”

I’m not one to discuss my sex life, but that incident was particularly hard. I let out an exhale. “Right. Things change. She came into that party because she knew I’d be there. She was looking for me. You remember that?”

“Hmm, right. Maybe. Who knows? I just thought she stumbled in the wrong ballroom. You know they have those cosplay parties where people dress up all the time. You ever do that? Dress up as Luke Skywalker and wave a sword?”

“It’s a lightsaber, and no, that isn’t my thing. I’m just a collector.” I push up out of the swing and pace around the porch. “You pointed her out to me.”

“Everyone saw her, but maybe I showed her to you—I don’t remember.”

“You insisted on the bet with me.”

“Which I never collected because you clammed up and didn’t give me any deets.” There’s wariness in his voice, which means . . .

I sit down on the porch steps, making connections. “You told her I’d be there. Admit it.” Part of me has always suspected, but I let it go, not wanting to deal with it.

He lets out an exhale, and I hear a chair scraping back as he sits. I picture him running a hand through his sandy hair, maybe pulling on the ends. “Took you long enough to ask. Of course I fucking sent her. You needed to move on.”