Page 14 of Kiss Me Tonight

“You sure about that? The cardboard cutout of me wearing nothing but briefs is regularly sold out on Amazon.”

“That’s because Good Samaritans buy that shit and use it as kindling for fire.”

Laughter climbs my throat. “Asshole.”

“Nothing I haven’t heard before. My wife calls me that like it’s a goddamn endearment. Honey who?”

Fingers scraping over my skull, I slouch down and spread my thighs wide to avoid smacking my knees on the underside of the desk. “Assistant coach,” I muse dryly, shaking my head. “Someone, somewhere, is taking way too much joy at my expense.”

Brien lifts a finger. “That’d be me. Remember when you convinced the guys to play dead every time I dropped back to make a pass for a week straight?” His eyes narrow, like he’s being confronted with the long-ago memory of the entire LSU offensive line going belly-up on the field, our legs and arms sticking straight in the air like a herd of fainting goats. Watching Brien lose his temper—a true rarity—made every lecture about unprofessionalism from Coach Wynters worth it. “Think of this as long overdue penance,” he adds without a single trace of heat. “Payback’s a bitch, motherfuc—”

“Mr. Brien,language!” a voice admonishes from behind me.

Twisting around, I lay an arm over the back of the chair. Make eye contact with the elderly woman hovering in the doorway. “I’ve told him the same thing twice now, Miss . . .”

Reaching up to fluff her gray bouffant, she shoots me a welcoming smile. “Irene. Irene Coleman.”

I never met my grandmother, but if I had, I’d like to think she would look like this woman. Crinkled crow’s feet. Big smile lines bracketing her mouth. Bright, eye-blinding clothing that looks more at home on a parakeet in the tropics than a small, New England town.

“Nice to meet you, Irene.” I flash her one of my trademark grins.Old habits die hard. It’s what I told the woman in the pub last night right after I caught myself leaning in to lay it on thick. And rightbeforeI reminded myself that I was done with shameless, meaningless flirtations. At thirty-five, I’m not looking to settle down. I’m not even looking for a fling. What I am is fucking exhausted with playing the same role everyone expects from me.

Bad-boy Dom. Flirty Dom. Devil-may-care Dom.

I may have given Brien’s initial proposition some thought because he’s a longtime friend—but I ultimately moved to Maine because I’m in desperate need of a reprieve.

A reprieve that doesn’t include taking home cute blondes for one-night-stands.

Feeling my smile weaken, I mentally push the damn bastard back into place. “Sorry, long few weeks,” I say smoothly, by way of apology. “I’m Dominic, the—”

“New assistant football coach.”

Fucking Brien.

Irene pushes her wire-rimmed frames up her nose with a single finger. “Oh, you’ll justloveit here, Coach. The kids are really, really great. I’m the athletic department’s secretary. I handle it all . . . basketball, soccer, gymnastics, the works. If you ever need anything, you just let me know, dear.”

Don’t stop smiling. “Will do, Irene. Thanks in advance for all your help.”

She gives a little hop on her heels, then waves goodbye to us both.

I wait for the chipper staccato of her footsteps to fade before I turn to my former teammate with a scowl. “I didn’t say yes to the position.”

“You didn’t saynoeither.”

I didn’t say no because I’m far too deep into my escape-the-Hollywood-vultures plan to turn back now. WithPut A Ring On Itfinally airing on TV, Los Angeles has become stifling. Paparazzi pop out of bushes to sneak pictures of me. Recently I was cornered in a grocery store, cucumber in hand, and asked by a camera-wielding stranger, “Is that thing the same size of your member, Dominic? Readers are dying to know.” Last month, I even sued a “journalist” after she followed me into my gym’s locker room and took pictures of me showering.

I’m not a prude—never have been—but cross the line and I guarantee I’ll be the last man standing.

As if following my train of thought, Brien pulls open a drawer and slides a ballpoint pen across the desk. “We both know Maine isn’t a forever stop for you, man. You’re gonna stick it out long enough to lick your wounds and flip that house you bought. I’ll be more than happy to write you a letter of recommendation when you’re done playing small-town-living and ready to head home to the city of smog.”

At his letter of rec dig, I flash him the bird.

Even as my heart tangles in a knot.

I don’t know when the thought of Los Angeles won’t make me want to reach for a beer and drain it dry. Two months, maybe. Eight months. Three years. With no property to tie me down in California—I sold it all—my life is up in the air.

Much as I don’t want to admit it, I know Brien’s suggestion is the way to go.

I refuse to be the asshole coach who lets his team down, no matter the fact that I don’t know any of the kids who’ll show up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the first day of practice. What if Brien is right and, halfway through the season, I decide I can’t hole up in Maine anymore? What happens to the kids then, if I fight for the head coach position?

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