Page 26 of Score to Settle
“Thanks,” I say, grabbing a beer from her. Our fingers touch for the briefest of seconds as she passes me a bottle, sending a zing of something unfamiliar up my arm.
We stand in silence for a long moment then Harper’s face lights up, eyes gleaming. “You were amazing, by the way.”
I’ll be damned if that praise doesn’t feel as good as all the fans in the Stormhawks stadium cheering my name.
“That catch you made was incredible.”
“That was all Billy and his throw, but spoken like a true fan, Cassidy.” I laugh and it suddenly doesn’t seem so bad to be stuck in this hotel room. My gaze slides to Harper’s lips as she takes that first sip. She’s wearing the red lipstick again. The one that makes me think about all the places I’d like her lips on me.
I need to get a grip. This is Harper Cassidy. The journalist out for my blood. Even as the thought lands, I’m not sure if it’s true. Maybe we’re not on the same team, but I’m not sure we’re pitted against each either. I have no idea where that leaves us.
Harper spins around, placing her beer on the table and unzipping a small green medical bag.
“Tell me you don’t travel with that everywhere you go?” I ask.
She throws me a glance, those red lips curving into a smile. “Nothing wrong with being prepared. Now sit down so I can fix that cut above your eye so it doesn’t scar that pretty face of yours.”
“You think I’ve got a pretty face?” I tease, dropping onto the edge of the bed. I refused to see the team doc tonight, waving away any concern, but I find I’m more than happy to have Harper’s hands on me.
“Shut up so I can concentrate.” She closes the gap between us in two steps, positioning herself between my legs. She’s so close I can feel the warmth of her breath on my neck and the heat radiating from her body.
My mouth is suddenly dry, palms sweaty. I can’t think of anything to say, so I do what I always do and deflect with humor. “I thought we agreed you’d be wearing a nurse’s uniform.” I lift an eyebrow and wince, remembering the cut Harper is trying to fix. It’s short but deep and stings like a bitch.
I can’t help but grin as Harper rolls her eyes at my joke. Even though she’s trying to act serious, I can tell she’s fighting back a smile.
“You know, most girls would be falling over themselves to play nurse for me,” I say, unable to resist teasing her some more.
She presses the antiseptic wipe a little harder than necessary, making me flinch. “If there’s a line of girls waiting to take over, then maybe you should call one of them.”
I chuckle, enjoying our back and forth. Harper isn’t like any woman I’ve ever known. She challenges me, calls me out on my bullshit, and right now it feels more playful than judgmental.
“No, thanks, I like you patching me up just fine,” I say, holding her gaze, feeling myself getting lost in the gold flecks in her eyes.
The sarcastic retort she was clearly planning dies on her lips as the air between us becomes charged, like it could ignite at any moment.
Harper clears her throat and looks away first. “You’re all set.” She swipes her beer from the table and drinks deeply before taking a seat on the opposite side of the room.
I touch my fingertips to the Band-Aid above my eye. “Good as new. Thank you, Nurse Cassidy.”
She fixes me with that same look I remember from the kitchen a week ago when I walked in and found her sitting at the table in her sky-high stilettos. “Don’t push it, Sullivan,” she says, but there’s a lightness to her tone.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I take a long pull from my beer bottle.
“So what was it like being drafted for the Stormhawks and playing alongside Dylan?”
And just like that she’s back in journalist mode and leaving me reeling.
“The best feeling in the world,” I reply. “Obviously it was a dream to be drafted to my home team, but more than that, playing with Dylan, that was the best. Before Dylan was injured, he was totally unstoppable. He was tight end and I was his strongside linebacker. It was my job to protect him and it was easy because we’d played together so long, I could sense his moves before he made them.”
“When did you start playing as a tight end?”
“I’d been moving into the role for a while.”
My answer is purposefully vague. If Harper notices, she doesn’t say. I realize where this is heading. Dylan’s injury. The night I was benched. And the reason why. I know we’ll have to talk about it, but right now all I want to do is enjoy my beer and Harper’s company.
“So tell me more about this hard-hitting journalist dad of yours,” I say, steering the conversation to safer waters. For me at least, I think, catching the hardness in Harper’s eyes.
“I haven’t seen him for six months. But he’s back in Denver in a couple of weeks to collect a lifetime achievement award from the National Journalism Association. It’s black tie and compulsory attendance for his proud daughter.” There’s an edge to her voice and a hell of a lot more to this, but I don’t press further.
