Page 70 of Roughing the Player
“Can you blame her? I was a horndog plain and simple.”
“Was?” somebody asks. “Have you changed your ways?”
“I’m glad you asked that question. That’s very perspicuous of you,” I say.
“Perceptive,” Ellie says.
“What?”
“Perceptive, not perspicuous.”
I grin. “See how smart she is. She’s always teaching me.” I cover the microphone so only she can hear. “Of course, in the bedroom, it’s another story.”
Her face turns a bright shade of red.
Needing to put her out of her misery, I take my hand off the mike. “Shall we share our news with them, sweetheart?”
Her gaze roams over the gaggle of reporters. She knows they won’t leave us alone until we tell them what’s going on. “Yes.”
“I asked the little lady to marry me. And she said yes.”
If the noise was deafening before, it’s nothing to the sudden eruption of sounds in the room—camera clicks, voices yelling questions. Ignoring it all, I tell her, “Show them the ring, darling.”
She holds up her right hand which sports the six-carat solitaire diamond I bought the day before. It’s way too big for her, but we didn’t have time for a fitting.
“When’s the wedding, Brock?”
“As soon as possible. I can’t wait to make her my bride.” I squeeze her to me.
“You’re not getting married just to quiet the rumors?”
I grow dead serious. “Absolutely not. I’m marrying Ellie because I love her and always will.” And with that, I swing her into my arms and give her the hottest smooch possible. As always, she melts. “And she loves me. Don’t you, darling?” Seemingly, I left her speechless, because all she does is nod.
“All right. That’s enough,” the head of PR interrupts. “You got the answers to your questions and—”
His voice fades as one of the assistants rushes us off the stage and out a side door to the parking lot. Although some reporters apparently figured out which one was my car, they’re not being allowed near it by the team’s mountain-sized security guys.
After opening the door for Ellie, I climb into the Porsche Cayenne and we head out.
“How are you doing?” I ask her. She seems her usual self, but it can’t help to ask.
“Okay. It wasn’t as bad as I thought.”
“You did good.”
“Well. I did well.” Her correcting my grammar gets my motor running. But then what doesn’t? Everything she does turns me on.
Pretty satisfied with my own performance, I ask. “So how did I do?”
“You really want to know?”
“Absolutely. I value your opinion.”
“I never heard so much horse pucky in all my life.”
I grin. “Maybe. But I had them eating out of my hand.”
