Page 33 of Play for Keeps

“Ladies.” Ty inclined his head slightly, then lifted his brow as he darted a meaningful glance at his proffered hand. “Ms. Jensen?”

Millie stared down at his hand, fascinated by the map of dark creases webbing his palm. She’d been to a bridal shower one time where the bride insisted they all have their palms read. She’d thought palmistry was a bunch of hooey then, but now she wished she’d paid more attention. Life, heart, and head lines. She knew that was what they called them, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember which was which. May have been something about fate too, but Millie didn’t put a lot of stock in destiny. People make their own luck, either by seizing opportunity or by chasing after their goals. Ty’s fingers twitched, then started to curl in, a clear signal her chance was slipping away.

Sliding her fingers into his broad, strong palm, she slid from the stool. She covered her wobbly knees by stooping to scoop her leather tote from the floor, then swept the bundle of legal papers into the bag. “Been a treat, girls, but Coach Ransom and I have a few things to talk about.”

She kissed them each on the cheek, closing her eyes in silent appreciation when Avery gave her arm a gentle squeeze to buck her up. “Make him grovel. At least a little,” Avery whispered in her ear.

Millie laughed and cast Ty a pointed look as she followed him toward the door. “Oh, I plan to make him grovel…a lot.”

Chapter 8

They exchanged no greetings. No “Hey, how’s it going?” No air kiss. Not even a nice professional handshake. With her hand tucked firmly in his warm, strong grasp, they came close on the last one. But she felt nothing businesslike in the way he wove his fingers through hers and held on. She followed him through the murky bar. The crowd had thickened in the time since she’d camped out at their regular table. When they didn’t have serious matters to discuss, Millie, Kate, and Avery usually indulged in one round of drinks, then skedaddled before the students started to take over the bar. But given the angle their conversation had taken, this evening was proving to be anything but the usual.

Millie tried to keep up as they plunged into the knot of patrons near the door. A muscle-bound bouncer in a snug Calhoun’s T-shirt checked IDs. He hadn’t been at his post when she came in, but Millie chose to believe he would have carded her too. Young men liked to flirt with her, and she saw no reason not to encourage them.

Ty zigged, then zagged. Her tote bag hit a guy in an oversized rugby shirt and sagging jeans right in the solar plexus. “Hey, watch out, lady,” the kid groused.

Embarrassed, she ducked her head and mumbled an apology she didn’t really mean. If she’d known he was going to call her “lady” in front of God and everyone, she would have whacked him with the bag on purpose.

The bouncer smiled broadly as she passed. He dropped a wink, and her confidence shot straight through the stratosphere. Ty was here. He came for her. She didn’t care what pimply-faced little shits in ill-fitting clothes thought of her. The cute bouncer would have checked her age and maybe even checked her out. She was viable, damn it. Hell, she was beyond viable. She was vital!

Before she could finish her internal pep talk, Ty threw open the exterior door and pulled her out into the balmy, late-summer evening. The sun sank steadily closer to the tree line to the west, but the glowing orb wasn’t going down without a fight. Hazy rays of golden sunlight bathed the trees and student rental homes lining the street. To their right lay the campus quadrangle, with its brick walkways, manicured flower beds, and centerpiece fountain. If they went left, she’d be only seven blocks from home.

But Ty kept moving straight ahead.

Twisting his large frame, he sidestepped between the bumpers of parked cars. Millie tried to haul the straps of her bag up to her shoulder as she trotted to keep up. “Where are we going?”

A sharp chirp and flashing lights drew her attention to a low-slung luxury sedan parked on the opposite curb. She let out an appreciative whistle as he led her directly to the passenger door. “How’d you score front-row parking?”

Ty opened the door wide and gestured for her to take a seat. “Convinced a kid in a jacked-up four-by-four the walk would do him good.”

Millie laughed as she pictured innately elegant Ty Ransom negotiating with the local rednecks. Taking her time, she tossed her tote over the seat, then lowered herself onto the creamy glove leather, swinging her legs in last, like some kind of Hollywood film star. “Did you now?”

“I might have thrown in an invite to sit courtside at the Green-Gold scrimmage next week,” he admitted, then let the door swing shut.

By the time he reached the driver’s side, she’d composed herself enough to start putting a bit of her own spin on the situation. He dropped into the seat with a low groan, then leaned back to maneuver his long legs into the cabin. Fascinated, she watched him unfurl. “Why don’t you have the driver’s seat removed? You could be an actual back-seat driver.”

He slanted her a pained look. “But the rear seat isn’t heated and cooled.”

She smiled, tickled by his practical, if a bit spoiled, rationale. “Oh, well, butt warmers make all the difference.” Millie found herself feeling a bit miffed when he twisted the key in the ignition without saying another word. Or giving her a kiss hello. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked as he began to work the car out of the tight parking space.

Without taking his eyes off the mirrors, he asked, “Is your car parked nearby?”

She blinked. “No. I walk to work if it’s not raining.”

When he was satisfied with the angle, he peeled out of the spot. “Good.” He hit her with another one of those skimming glances that took in everything. “You walk in those shoes?”

Millie looked down at the high-heeled gladiator sandals strapped onto her feet. “I’ve been known to,” she said, tipping her chin up with feminine pride.

“You really are an iron woman.”

A blush flooded her skin with heat. She couldn’t help but revel in his admiration. But she wouldn’t give in to his silent treatment and caveman tactics because he knew exactly how to compliment her.

“Actually, I’ve never done a triathlon. I prefer to do my swimming in cement ponds. Preferably on a raft. With an umbrella drink close at hand,” she added with a sniff. She didn’t tell him she carried a pair of running shoes in her bag at all times.

After all, who was she to shatter his illusions?

She scanned the houses and apartments surrounding the campus dispassionately, all the while trying to get a handle on her erratic heartbeat. She should have been lambasting him about the high-handed way he’d walked into the bar, stolen her away from her friends, then hauled her out of the place like she was some kind of wayward woman who needed to get her mind right. But much to her dismay, her feminist sensibilities were no match for a passel of frustrated hormones.

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