Page 8 of Just Playin'
Her sexy accent eradicates any chance of me taking her threat seriously. Her straight lips and narrowed eyes have me laughing so hard, the timber decking beneath my feet shudders. Their vibrations are so fierce, Becca sprints out the door separating the deck from her massive kitchen, panicked about an earthquake.
Considering she’s eight months pregnant, her mad dash doesn’t just steal my laughter, it has Dalton’s fist getting friendly with my gut.
After a stern finger point, Dalton devotes his attention to his wife. “Are you alright? I saw the footage on YouTube. What were you doing in that section, Becca? You know how crazy those Marshall fans are. You should have gone home.”
I barely hear Becca whisper, “I wanted to see you play your final home game before the baby comes,” before a scent too sweet to be innocent secures my attention.
Willow is standing next to me. She still has her arms folded over her chest, and her nose is screwed up, but the fire in her eyes has dulled from witnessing Dalton’s attentiveness to Becca.
“If she’s married to a fed, how did she get such an impressive house?”
Although she’s asking a question, she doesn’t give me a chance to reply.
“Ohhh. I mistook your Tweedledum, Tweedledee outfits. You’re not feds! You’re hitmen who’ll pop the guy I knocked out.” She peers up at me, her short height made more noticeable by the large crank of her neck. “If I knew you wanted him dead, I would have loosened up my muscles before taking my swing.”
“You hit the man who struck Becca?” Surprise resonates in my tone. She’s got fighting spirit in her eyes, but she appears to be more of a lover than a fighter.
“What? No!” The front of my pants tighten when she flashes me a mischievous grin. “I just returned his missing beer can.”
With that, she paces away from me to interrupt Becca and Dalton, her steps as seductive as her gorgeous face.
CHAPTER THREE
Willow
You know that weird sensation your tummy gets when you’re lowering your parents’ closed bedroom door handle? You know you don’t want to see what’s happening behind the door, but the weird noises coming out of their room are too loud for a nine-year-old to ignore. That’s how I’m feeling right now as I approach Becca and the man I mistook for a federal agent.
My error can be easily excused. It’s not every day you have two men approach you in matching navy suits without warning, much less after you fled the scene of a crime. If that wasn’t suspicious enough, their shoulders are as wide as I am tall, and the bulkier of the two has a black eye and a cut lip.
Alarm bells were ringing.
Unfortunately, a warning siren wasn’t the only one their arrival set off.
The slimmer of the two is handsome. He has a defined jaw, pillowy lips, and cheekbones that sit a shit-ton higher now than they did when he arrived. I guess his wife’s constant reassurance that she’s fine gives him a good reason to smile.
His friend, on the other hand is rough, rugged, and so damn wickedly sexy my panties filled with moisture long before my eyes did. The split in his top lip enhances his wonky smile; his stacked shoulders reveal he’d have no trouble pinning a woman to a wall and fucking her until her legs gave out, and the most deliriously sexy dimple rests in the middle of his chin. You have no idea how hard it was for me not to whack my chest and say, “You Tarzan, me Jane,” upon spotting him.
It was a close call. The only thing that stopped me was recalling how long it took me to calm Skylar down from “dumping” her at the game. I had left Becca unaccompanied for over twenty minutes, giving her plenty of time to dob me into the cops.
Becca is as sweet as pie and was extremely convincing when she said I could hide out in her palatial home until the heat died down at the football stadium not too far from here, but I’ve been fooled by pretty faces before.
Not many rich people are nice. It’s not their fault. They’re just so hungry from the constant diets they’re on, they can’t help but be cranky. I’m not putting down skinny people; I’m talking facts. I was the crankiest bitch on the planet when I followed my strictno more than 1000 calories a daydiet, so wouldn’t it be the same for everyone else? We are, after all, cut from the same cloth.
Realizing I’m letting my hunger get the better of me, I tap Becca on the shoulder. “Hey. . . ah. . .”Come on, Willow, you’ve been able to talk under water since you were nine months old.“I’m gonna head off. The sirens have settled, and your man is here now, so you don’t need me hanging around anymore.”
Although I used Becca’s offer of shelter as a way to flee prosecution, for the most part, I wanted to make sure she was okay. She copped a nasty sting to the head a month out from giving birth. I would have felt really bad if she was left concussed and alone.
“Don’t go. Please. I was going to order Chinese before cracking open a bottle of wine. . . for you and Willow,” she adds on in a flurry when the dark-haired hottie plastered to her side growls. “Please, Will. At least let me buy you dinner for everything you did.”
Her plea is as cute as fuck, but I’m not a five-year-old. The pouty lip,I’m the answer to all your dreamslook doesn’t work on me.
If she were the brute eyeing me from afar, different story. I don’t run after any man, but this bitch might powerwalk for him.
“I’m sorry, I really have to go. My friend isn’t happy she’s been left to celebrate the victory by herself.” My eyeroll is relinquished halfway. I had no clue the pain associated with acting like a bimbo. I won’t make the same mistake twice. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” Because my reply is sincere, it sounds that way. “That’s all the reward I need.”
“If your friend is upset about missing the game, I can arrange for replacement tickets for both of you—”
“No!” I scream, interrupting Becca’s husband mid-offer. After lowering my voice to an acceptable volume, I add on, “That’s real nice of you, butcompletelyunnecessary.”
