Page 24 of The Player's Obsession

“Whether I want fan adulation or not, it comes with the territory.”

“Why me?” She wipes the corner of her mouth with a napkin and pushes her plate away. It’s not enough to be rude, but enough that she makes her point.

I’m worried she’ll find a way home with or without me.

“Good question.” I have to go out on a limb to save my ass. She’s called my bluff. Good thing I drove through her apartment complex and saw her situation. One more reason why I gather intel on finances, companies, and on occasion, women. “You can’t tell me you don’t need the money.” Some think I’m a bit overzealous with my research, but it’s called due diligence. I’ve been graced with the body to be a football player and the brains to be a businessman. I happen to be great at both, and I’ve outwitted tougher opponents.

Silence. If it were golden, I’d be the wealthiest man alive.

Her face flushes. She reaches for her water glass and takes three sips.

“Okay, you’re quiet, and it’s freaking me out. Say something. There’s room to negotiate on the money.” I’m desperate to keep her in the deal. Frankly, I’m not sure the deal is entirely about making Melanie jealous. I’m concerned if I scare off Penelope, she will never go on another date with me.

She’s right, I do hate to lose.

Damn.

I’m not willing to let her go so quickly.

She was suspiciously quiet when I mentioned her brother tonight. I was able to find out that he’s in between jobs and has a criminal record for possession of drug paraphernalia. He was arrested with enough pot on him to charge him with intent to sell. If convicted, he faces fifteen years in the slammer. The only thing that got those charges lifted was a good lawyer, which costs a lot of money.

I wonder who paid the attorney.

But how long will she last with all that debt if she paid it?

Addiction is addiction.

“I’m not an actress,” she says, leaning forward and putting an elbow on the table so she can rest her chin in the palm of her hand.

“You don’t have to be, I can be charming. But you do need to pretend you like me.” I gently place my utensils on my plate, and a server, sensing the intensity of our conversation, takes our plates away without a word.

“Like and love are two different things.”

I am lost in her eyes. Is it the wine, or do her doe-like eyes convey an interest in me?

“True. We can fake the part about being in love,” I whisper across the table.

“Ah, ha.” She slides her index finger under her chin. Our eyes lock. We’re communicating without speaking.

My shirt feels tight. “Dessert?” I ask, deferring to neutral ground.

“What do they have?”

“I hope you like chocolate ganache cake.” It’s light and decadent. Normally I’m not a fan of sweets. “My weakness for dessert is cherry pie and this cake. What’s yours?”

“Like in the movieMen in Black,” she references, “I wish pie could solve life’s problems. But I like chocolate better.”

The server swings by, and I ask for two slices of cake.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m not thinking,” she says, but I disagree. She’s alluring and doesn’t appear as desperate as I assumed.

Plates of dessert too pretty to eat are set in front of us. Each piece is decorated with a fresh strawberry and a tulip made of dark chocolate. We hesitate and then pick up our forks at the same time.

“We could have shared a piece this big,” she says, lifting a dainty piece and examining the chocolate ganache between the layers before sliding it past her lips. From the look on her face, she’s in heaven.

Damn, I don’t have time to waste, I need a decision.

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