The Toughest Play

10. Autumn

CHAPTER 10

AUTUMN

I follow the main route, as the GPS instructs, but it’s bringing me into an unexpected residential area. I’m hoping it’s not sending me the wrong way. Maybe it’s rerouting me around some traffic? Or maybe the restaurant we’re meeting at is one of those hidden gems you don’t even realize is there until you’re right outside of it.

“Take the next right in five hundred feet,” the GPS announces, and I do as instructed. After I drive for another half mile, the robotic voice begins speaking again. “Your destination is on the left.”

What? That can’t be correct.

Driving slowly, I peer out the window as I pass by the address he gave me. I see his Jeep in the driveway, and keep going until I’ve gone to the end of the road. If I continue forward, I’ll be driving on the beach. Shit . I’m not far enough down his street that he can’t see me. I fish my phone from my bag and call Scarlett.

“Miss me already?” she jokes.

“He’s having me go to his house.”

“What do you mean? He changed the plans?”

“No! That was the plan. I just didn’t realize it. He gave me his address and I assumed it was a restaurant.”

She snickers in my ear. “That’s epic.”

“No, it’s not. It’s bad. Very, very bad.”

“Autumn, chill out. It’s only dessert. It’s the least you can do when he saved you tons of money in car repairs.”

“I know, but I don’t want to be stuck at his house,” I grumble, sounding like an annoyed little kid.

“You can leave whenever you’d like. Unless you decide to stay, which I’m all for.”

“I’m not staying.”

“Well, I’m just gonna put it out there to the universe—I’m hoping I won’t see you tonight.”

“I’m one hundred percent coming home. If I don’t show up, you better call the police because it means I’ve been kidnapped.”

She laughs. “Don’t get all dramatic on me. Take a few deep breaths and go enjoy some dessert with a hot-as-fuck man.”

I groan. “Why didn’t I pay more attention to the address when he told me? I wouldn’t have come.”

“It’s too late to do anything about that. The sooner you get to his house, the sooner you can leave.”

“That’s true.” I sigh, as if the weight of the world is on my shoulders. “I’ll see you as soon as possible.”

“So you say. Have fun.” She hangs up on me.

“Dammit,” I mutter, tossing my phone on the passenger seat. I turn my head over my shoulder, checking for oncoming cars. When the road is clear, I pull a U-turn and head back in the other direction. Now my stomach is unsettled from all the nervous energy bubbling around inside. I felt fine until I realized we’re not meeting in a public place. But Scarlett is right. I’m getting worked up over nothing. It’s not like Rogan is going to pounce on me the moment I walk inside. I didn’t pick up any bad vibes from him at all. So if I’m not scared for my well-being, what am I so nervous about?

That I might like him. The answer flashes through my mind.

It’s an hour of my time at the most. He’d have to be absolutely irresistible to win me over that quickly.

With my confidence in my ability to resist him restored, I pull into his driveway and park behind his Jeep. His beach cottage isn’t much bigger than ours, but it’s got a decidedly masculine look to it. There’s an American flag mounted next to the dark-blue front door. A basketball hoop stands in front of the fence that encloses his back yard. There are no flower boxes on the windows, nor anywhere else, but his front lawn has recently been mowed. In fact, the mower is still in the driveway in front of his vehicle. Did he just take care of it before I got here?

My feet have barely met the driveway when he’s walking toward me with a wide smile stretching across his cheeks. “Welcome to casa O’Rourke.”

I tuck my keys in my pocket. “Nice place you got here.”

“Thanks. I like it.”

“You didn’t tell me you live near the beach.”

“I guess I didn’t. But now you know firsthand.” He winks.

I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “I thought we’d be meeting at a restaurant.”

He scratches his chin. “I don’t remember mentioning that.”

“True, but you also failed to tell me I’d be coming to your house.”

“Did I give you the name of the restaurant?”

“No.”

“I gave you the street address. You assumed the rest.” He smirks.

He’s right. That’s exactly what happened.

I nod. “I did.”

“Are you okay with having dessert here? I grabbed stuff to make sundaes, but I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

It’s sweet of him to ask, so I allow a slight curve of my lips. “Sundaes sound good to me.”

He grins, hitting me with the full force of his straight, white teeth. Damn, he’s handsome.

It won’t be difficult staring at him for the next hour. Don’t forget he’s a football player and you’re not making that mistake again.

I need to keep these cautionary thoughts in the forefront of my mind. Otherwise, his stunning blue eyes might hypnotize me into making bad decisions.

“Let’s head inside,” he suggests. I walk next to him, making sure to keep some space between us. I’m only here because he helped me out; I don’t want to give off mixed signals. He opens the door and ushers me in first.

“Wow, this is beautiful.” My head swivels as I take in all the details. The vaulted ceilings with wooden beams make the space feel so much bigger than I imagined it was. On the far right side, centered in the middle of the long wall, is a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace. The wooden mantel matches the decorative beams lining the ceiling. There are double french doors on either side of the fireplace with transoms above them that offer a view of the ocean.

I glance at Rogan and find him watching me with an amused expression. “Sorry. I guess I got carried away.”

“Don’t apologize. I still get overcome when I walk inside and I’ve been living here for over a year.”

“Did it look like this when you purchased it?” I feel like I’ve stepped into some architectural magazine’s layout.

He laughs. “Not at all. The rooms were chopped up, and there was knotty pine everywhere. It was a mishmash of styles from 1950 onward. It took six months of work before I could move in.”

“Whoever did your decorating nailed it.”

“That would be my sister, Maeve. She’s got a good eye, and she knows what I like.”

“Talent must run high in your family,” I say, and he laughs. “What’s funny about that?”

“It’s just that my older brother played professional hockey.”

“Like hockey on TV?”

“Yep. The last team he played for was the Charleston Coyotes.”

“That’s crazy. Your family hit the gene pool lottery.”

Taking hold of my hand, as if it’s the most natural thing, he leads me through the space to the kitchen, then immediately lets go of me. “I need to get the ice cream out of the freezer.”

“Anything I can do to help?” I ask.

“If you want bananas on your sundae, you can slice them up.”

“Bananas? If I’m going to splurge on dessert, I don’t want any healthy ingredients in there.”

He laughs, setting down two gallons of ice cream on the island. He peels open the covers and inserts a large spoon in each one. “Ladies first, and no holding back.”

I’m not about to let the fact that I’m around a hot guy keep me from eating ice cream. Grabbing a bowl, I add one scoop of chocolate and two of vanilla. Moving along in front of the island, I check out all the toppings he’s laid out. I add crushed oreos, sprinkles, caramel, and hot fudge. I’m looking for the whipped cream when he comes up beside me.

“Want some?” he asks, shaking the can.

“Yes, please.” I push my bowl his way.

He shakes his head. “Open up.” It takes a second for his meaning to register, and the challenging smirk he’s wearing has me reacting before I can caution myself. Tipping my head back, I open my mouth. He aims the nozzle and fires a shot of whipped cream between my lips before turning it toward himself and doing the same.

“Mmm, that’s good shit,” he says.

I nod. “It is.”

He raises one dark eyebrow. “One more?” I open my mouth, and I’m reminded of a baby bird waiting for its mother to feed it. His finger presses down on the nozzle, but this time he doesn’t immediately let up. And when he does, my mouth is filled to overflowing.

An alarmed sound slips from me as I close my lips and swallow down the sweet cream. I can feel that remnants of it have escaped my mouth, and I laugh.

He snickers, placing the can down on the island. “Let me help.” His hands cup my cheeks, tipping my face upward. “Looks like I got a little carried away.”

My eyebrows pop up. “You think?”

“Hey, I made you laugh, didn’t I?” Curious to find out how much of a mess I am, I lift my hand toward my face. “No, don’t.” He stops me. “I’ll get it.” Leaning forward, he presses his lips to the corner of my mouth. My fingers grip his arms, curling into his flesh, as he gently licks the whipped cream away. His lips feather across mine to the other side in the barest whisper of a kiss. The tip of his warm tongue swipes up any remaining whipped cream. When he draws back, he’s smiling down at me. “That’s better.”

Better? I was expecting him to use the sweet confection as an excuse to kiss me, not lick my lips until my knees were weak. And even though it’s for the best that he didn’t kiss me, I can’t help wishing he did. I’m a bit annoyed at how unmoved he seems by the situation, and also mad at myself for wanting more. But there’s no reason he needs to know how affected I am.

“It’s sundae time,” I announce. Picking up my spoon, I scoop some ice cream into my mouth. “Mmm.”

“You need whipped cream,” he says, picking up the can once more. I take a step backward, removing myself from the vicinity, as he squirts a squiggly line on top of my sundae. “Good?” he asks.

I nod. “Perfect.” When he turns to focus on the contents of his bowl, I study him. He has tattoos on his right wrist that are capped off with two black bands around his lower forearm. The gray t-shirt is too loose to show off his abs, but it hugs his chest and shoulders nicely. Like most quarterbacks, he’s tall and fit. His muscles are long, lean, and defined. On a scale of one to ten for looks, he blows the freaking scale away.

When he picks up the can to add whipped cream to his sundae, I take it as a cue to stop checking him out before he catches me in the act.

“Let’s go sit out back,” he suggests.

“Sounds good.” I follow him to a large screened porch. There’s a lit candle giving off a soft vanilla scent, and the wicker furniture is padded with thick navy-blue cushions. String lights around the edge of the ceiling brighten the space “This is awesome.”

“Thanks. It’s my favorite room.” He gestures for me to sit. I choose the couch, and he drops down next to me.

“Did you add this porch or was it here?”

“I had it built. I figured if I’m living this close to the ocean, I want to be able to sit outside at night and breathe in that fresh, salty air without getting eaten alive by mosquitoes.”

“I’d sleep out here.”

“I’ve been known to nap on this couch on more than one occasion. Especially during football season.”

“I don’t know how you guys practice for so long in the heat. It must be brutal. Just being out there when we’re filming the footage is miserable.”

“It’s never easy to deal with, but after the first week of camp, my body adjusts and I get used to it.”

“Used to being miserable?”

“Wait a second,” he says, dramatically turning his head from side to side. “Did you just joke with me?”

“Nope.” I press my lips together and shake my head.

“Watch out. Before you know it, you’ll be laughing and smiling.”

“You seem pretty sure of that,” I counter, but he could be right. Aside from the conflicting feelings brought on by the whipped cream licking, being here has been surprisingly enjoyable.

“I’m one hundred percent confident I’m right,” he states.

“Why’s that?”

“You and I have chemistry between us. We feed off one another, and our bantering comes naturally.”

“Who says it’s chemistry? Maybe I’m just that funny.”

“No. You’re not,” he deadpans.

I pretend to laugh before scooping more ice cream into my mouth.

“What’s your favorite meal?” he asks, dragging the tip of his spoon through the hot fudge. He slides the silver utensil between his lips.

I shrug. “I love Scarlett’s lasagna, but how can I pick just one thing?”

He pulls the spoon from his mouth, licking his lips. “That’s easy. Chicken Parmigiana. Done.”

“That’s your favorite?” I ask.

He nods. “I could eat that every night and not get sick of it.”

“I don’t know if I like anything that much. I need some variety.”

“Does that mean you date a lot of guys?” he asks.

“I thought we were talking about food.”

“We were, but it made me wonder if you need variety in all aspects of your life.”

“No. I don’t. I’m a one-man woman and I expect the same from my relationships.”

“As you should,” he says.

“Do you know your body count?” I blurt out the question without thought, and instantly regret asking.

His dark brows leap upward. “As in the number of women I’ve slept with?”

I roll my eyes. “No, as in the ones you’ve killed.”

He smiles. “Okay, I’ll admit, you might be a little funny. And my body count is somewhere around nine.”

I reflexively snort, and to make matters worse, I call him out. “Bullshit.”

“What?”

I point at him. “You expect me to believe that you look like that and have only had sex with nine women?”

He smirks. “I didn’t know you found me so attractive.”

“I didn’t mention my feelings at all,” I defend.

“Regardless of all that, I really have had nine partners. I can name them all if you’d like.”

I gasp. “You remember their names?” I’m stunned and there’s no hiding it.

“Of course. I’m not an asshole.”

“But you said you’d never had a relationship.”

“I haven’t.”

I set my bowl on the coffee table. “And you still know their names?”

He nods, laughing.

Shifting my position, I angle my lower body so I’m facing him. I study his face for a sign he’s being untruthful.

He places his bowl on the table next to mine and shrugs. “We were friends with benefits.”

My eyebrows dip together, my skepticism apparent. “What about one-night stands?”

“Never had one.”

“I call bullshit!”

“I’m serious.”

“So you were never drunk at a college party and some hot girl was making it obvious she wanted to hook up and you ignored that?”

“I’m not a saint. I may not have sex with her, but a blow job… that’s another story.”

“Ooooh, so oral sex doesn’t count?”

“Not when you’re factoring your body count. Which reminds me, you never offered yours.”

“Sure I did.” I flat out lie. I don’t want to tell him my number. It’s bad.

“Now I’m calling bullshit. Come on, spit it out.”

Groaning, I fall against the back of the couch. “Do I have to?”

“No, of course not. I’d never make you share something with me.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“I’m not going to judge you because you’ve slept with more guys than you think is acceptable.”

I let out an ironic laugh. “I’ve only had sex with one guy.”

His expression is incredulous. “One?”

“Yep.”

“Brett?”

“Uh huh.”

He scowls. “I hate that fucker even more now.”

“Pretend you don’t know how lame I am,” I say.

“Why are you lame?”

“Because I’ve only been with one person.”

He comfortingly squeezes my shoulder. “That’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” Amusement fills his gaze. “But the fact you were in a relationship with Brett is.” He snickers.

“I can’t even argue with that. I’ve always made excuses for his behavior because his parents divorced when he was young, but I’ve finally reached the point where I won’t let him gaslight me anymore.”

“If he gives you a hard time, tell me. I’ll be happy to take care of it for you.”

“I don’t need a man to take care of my problems.”

“I know you don’t. But that doesn’t mean you have to handle it alone. That’s what friends are for.”

“Is that what we are… friends?” It didn’t feel that way when he was tonguing whip cream from my face.

“For now. I think I’ve made my interest in you pretty clear.”

I nod. “I think being friends is good. I’ve got a new job and don’t want to screw it up by fraternizing with a player.”

“Yeah, and I’m focusing on becoming the starting QB.”

“Exactly. Speaking of work, I need to get going. I have laundry to do and you need to get your rest.”

Rogan rises and extends his hand to me. I take hold and he pulls me to my feet before he grabs our bowls. We walk to the kitchen, and he places them in the sink.

“I’ll walk you out.” He stays with me until I’m standing beside my car.

“Thank you for the sundae. It was delicious.”

“Thanks for coming over. I had a nice time.”

“You know, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.” My lips twitch as I hold back a smile.

“Will I see you at the game on Sunday?” he asks.

“Oh yeah, I’ll be there.”

“I didn’t know if you got a break with it being a preseason one.”

“Nope.”

He opens my door, and I slip inside. “Drive safely. Call me if you have any problems.”

“I’ll be fine.” Turning the key, I start the engine.

Leaning over, he presses his lips to my cheek. “Have a good night, Fall.”

“Really?” I send a narrow-eyed glance his way. He closes the door and moves away from my vehicle to watch as I back from the driveway. I beep the horn as I pull away.

As soon as he’s out of sight, I’m hit with a blip of regret that he didn’t give me a real kiss. I thought for sure after he licked away the whipped cream, he would. But if I’ve learned anything about men since becoming an adult, it’s that I don’t know much about them at all.

And I doubt that’ll be changing anytime soon.