Page 106 of Match Me If You Can (Chicago Stars 6)

Heath smiled. “It looks like you’ll never find out. Your loss.”

Robillard snapped the Oreo in two with his teeth, gave him a cocky grin, and sauntered from the kitchen. “Later, Heathcliff.”

Heath sent Leandro off in a cab. He couldn’t stop grinning. There wasn’t one thing between Dean and Annabelle except mischief. Annabelle didn’t love him. She treated him exactly the same way she treated the other players, like they were overgrown kids. All that crap she’d fed Heath was totally bogus. And if Dean had been in love with her, he sure as hell wouldn’t have left her alone with another man tonight.

She lay on her side, little puffs of air stirring the lock of hair that had fallen over her mouth. He fetched a blanket, and she didn’t stir as he covered her with it. He found himself wondering how bad it would be to reach under that blanket and slip off her jeans so she could sleep more comfortably?

Bad.

Try as he might, he could only come up with one reason Annabelle had set up her charade with Dean. Because she was in love with Heath, and she wanted to save her pride. Funny, feisty, glorious Annabelle Granger loved him. His grin grew broader, and he felt lighthearted for the first time in months. Amazing what clarity could do for a man’s peace of mind.

The phone awakened him. He reached across the nightstand for it and muttered into the mouthpiece. “Champion.”

There was a long silence. He turned his face deeper into the pillow and drifted.

“Heath?”

He rubbed his hand over his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Heath?”

“Phoebe?”

He heard an angry, in-drawn breath and then the crack of a broken connection. His eyes shot open. Another few seconds passed before he confirmed what he feared. This wasn’t his bedroom, the phone he’d answered didn’t belong to him, and it was—he gazed at the clock—not quite eight in the morning.

Great. Now Phoebe knew he’d spent the night at Annabelle’s. He was screwed. Double screwed, once Phoebe heard that he’d broken up with Delaney.

Wide awake, he climbed out of Annabelle’s bed, which unfortunately didn’t contain Annabelle. Despite the career implications of what had just happened, his good mood from last night wouldn’t go away. He headed downstairs from the attic to shower, then shaved with Annabelle’s Gillette Daisy. He didn’t have a change of clothes, which meant he could either pull on yesterday’s boxers or go commando. He opted for the latter, then slipped into last night’s dress shirt, badly wrinkled from Annabelle’s fists.

When he got downstairs, he found her still curled into a ball on the couch, the blanket pulled up to her chin, one bare foot sticking out. He’d never had a foot fetish, but there was something about that sweet little arch that made him want to do all kinds of semiobscene things with it. But then most parts of Annabelle’s body seemed to have that effect on him, which should have been a big clue. He pulled his eyes away from her toes and headed for the kitchen.

He and Dean hadn’t done the best job of cleaning, and the morning light revealed remnants of Chinese food stuck to the counters. While the coffee brewed, he grabbed some paper towels and got up the worst of it. By the time he looked into the other room again, Annabelle had made it into a sitting position. Her hair draped most of her face except for the tip of her nose and one cheekbone.

“Where are my jeans?” she muttered. “Never mind. We’ll talk about it later.” She pulled the blanket around her and staggered toward the stairs.

He went back into the kitchen and poured himself coffee. As he was about to take the first sip, he noticed that a big pot of African violets had been shoved under the table. He didn’t know much about plants, but the foliage on this one looked a lot the worse for wear. He couldn’t actually prove anybody had peed in it, but why take the chance? He took it outside and hid it under the back steps.

He’d just finished reading the motivational messages on Annabelle’s refrigerator when he heard a rustling noise. He turned to enjoy the sight of Annabelle shuffling into the kitchen. She hadn’t made it as far as the shower, but she’d twisted her hair up and washed her face, leaving her eyelashes spiky and her cheeks flushed. A pair of plaid cotton sleeping boxers stuck out from beneath an oversize purple sweatshirt. He followed the line of her bare legs down to her feet, which were tucked into ratty chartreuse running shoes. All in all, she looked sleepy, rumpled, and sexy.

He handed her a mug of coffee. She waited until she’d had her first sip before she acknowledged him, a little gravel still in her voice. “Do I want to know who took off my jeans?”

He thought it over. “Robillard. Guy’s a sleaze.”

She glowered at him. “I wasn’t that out of it. You copped a feel when you unzipped them.”

He couldn’t have looked repentant if he tried. “Hand slipped.”

She sank down at the kitchen table. “Did I imagine it, or was Delaney here last night?”

“She was here.”

“Why didn’t she stay and help out?”

Now came the tricky part. He made a play of rooting around in the cupboard for something to eat, even though he knew she’d been cleaned out. After he’d shuffled around a couple of cans of stewed tomatoes, he closed the door. “The whole thing was a little too much for her.”

She sat up straighter. “What do you mean?”

Too late, he realized he should have been figuring out how he wanted to spin this instead of hiding African violets and standing in front of the refrigerator reading inspiring quotes from Oprah. Maybe a shrug would help stave off this particular discussion until she was wide awake. He gave it a try.

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