Beauty and the Baller

I look up at the sculpted, broad chest now wearing a liberal amount of hot liquid.

An internal groan comes from me. I’d know that six-four muscled body anywhere.

Dammit. Ronan.

And I’m still not wearing a dress and stilettos.

I’ve seen him several times since the front-porch incident. Last Monday evening, he dropped by to pick up the box he left at my house when he brought Sparky. Why does a man worry about his containers? It’s just a box. Mama has hundreds. I had my sleep shorts and a tank top on, my hair tangled and damp from a shower. He stood at my door for several moments after greeting me, then abruptly left. Then there was the awkward encounter at Randy’s Roadhouse. I meant to inquire about work again, but he showed up, and I chickened out, took my food, and left.

Then this week, on Wednesday night, when I couldn’t sleep, I went for a midnight walk, saw him ahead of me, and ducked behind a tree while he passed.

“I’m so sorry! Did it burn you?” I say as I scurry around and pick up the mess on the floor.

We both grab napkins from the counter and wipe at our clothing.

“No, it’s fine. Are you okay?” His face is impassive, nearly inscrutable, hidden by the shadow of his ball cap. Part of me—the stupid, silly part—longs to see his whole face.

“Yes. You got most of it.”

He dabs at his shirt. “Nice to see you again too, Nova.”

I wince. “Nova actually means a star that releases a sudden burst of energy. Mama said she named me aptly. It’s derived from the Latin novus or new. I always took it to mean ‘a new star.’” I stare at a point on his chest. Why does it have to be so spectacular? Why am I rambling?

The less time I spend with him, the better.

“Ronan is Irish and means ‘little seal.’ We’re neither Irish nor do we know a thing about seals. My mom just liked the sound of it,” he says as he takes his hat off, pushes a hand through his wavy hair, and then settles it back on his head. The brief moment gives me a glimpse of his face, the brutalness of the scars juxtaposed with his chiseled jawline and straight, Greek nose.

I say his name, dragging out the syllables. “It sounds kinda strong. Invincible.”

He gives me a glance, then takes the damp application and napkins I have clutched in my hand, tosses them in the trash, and puts his hands on his hips and levels me with that steely gaze. “So. Why are you avoiding me?”

“You saw me duck behind the tree? Dang. I thought I was being stealthy. Guess I’m not quite the ninja I thought.”

“Hmm.”

I chew on my lip. “Looking back, perhaps it was impulsive.” I point to the scratch on my arm. “The branch of the tree got me. Satisfied?”

“No.” He flicks at a piece of croissant on my shoulder, then focuses back on me. “You don’t like me. Maybe we should discuss—”

Allie comes around the bakery case, vibrating as she gives him a wide smile. She hands him a coffee and a chocolate croissant. “Coach, here’s your usual,” she says.

I gaze at it longingly. Where’s mine?

“Congrats on the wins against Wayne Prep and Payton High. We really kicked their asses—um, butts.” She bats her lashes. “I didn’t think you’d be coming in today.”

“There’s someone I wanted to see.” He looks at me.

“Me?” I squeak.

“Hmm. I drove through town and saw your car.”

Allie cuts in. “I’ve got the cookies laid out for tomorrow, and the new mango tea has come in. I can’t wait to put it on the menu. Oops, another customer. Catch you later, Coach.” She stops as she turns. “Oh, this older lady is looking for work.”

She leaves, and I grimace as realization dawns. Dammit, why are the stars aligned against me? “You’re the person who owns this place? Wow. Football coach and a business entrepreneur.” I shake my head. Of course Sabine wouldn’t think to tell me. She’d assume I knew. “Why open a store if you’re leaving?”

He gives me his profile, ignoring my question. “Lois mentioned you were looking for a job.”

“There’s always the strip club at the end of town.”

His lips twitch. “I see you got your roses fixed.”

I nod. “Mama had tools in the shed. I did some pruning and said a little prayer. I was tempted to steal some holy water but chickened out. Mrs. Meadows sent a crew over this week, and they replaced the rest with new plants and mulch. It looks better than it did before.”

“I called them. I sent them. I paid for it. I didn’t let the booster club bow and scrape to take care of my problems while I’m winning football games.” He finally looks at me, a smile curling his lips as he repeats my words from the party.