Page 39 of The Playmaker

He frowns and looks down, like he knows something I don’t.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing, keep going.”

“He was a bartender, but apparently his brother was a cop, so I guess he must have gotten him to do a search on me or something, and found out my pen name. He read my books, Cole, and he…” A hiccupping sob catches in my throat as my mind dredges up that painful memory. “I guess he thought it would be fun to recreate some of the scenes.”

He scrubs his chin, a new look of understanding in his eyes. “Shit, I get it now.”

“I didn’t even realize it at the time, but he made a big joke out of it when it was over. I was mortified. It actually made me ashamed of what I write and made me feel dirty. Actually, I felt like a whore.”

“This is on him, not you. What you write is romance and people falling in love. Sex come naturally from that, and you should be proud of yourself. I sure as fuck am proud of you.” Anger backlights his eyes and his fingers curl into fists. “Fucking pig. Where can I find him?”

A laugh crawls out of my throat. “You have a concussion, you’re not going after him.”

“Well, you were going to go after Burns when I told you he was the one responsible for my concussion. Actually, you wanted to meet him in a dark alleyway, and you’re all of one hundred pounds.” He grins and gives my chin a nudge. “What a pair we are.”

“Yeah, well, no need to go after him. I’m over it.”

“You sure about that?” I nod, and he says, “I’m an expert asshole, Nina, but I’d never do something like that to you. I hope you know that.”

I nod. He might have been a jerk growing up, but I guess deep down, I don’t think he’d do something so cruel. “I don’t share my pen name.” I narrow my eyes and look at him. “How did you figure it out?”

“Your bro. He’s proud as shit of you, girl.”

“Cason told you my name?” I shake my head. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Nah, he’s just super happy that you found something you love doing after your injury, that’s all.” He leans in and nudges me with his shoulder. “We both are.”

“God, I hope he hasn’t read any.”

“Me too,” he says, and makes a face like he’d just sucked a lemon.

“It’s not real,” I blurt out. “It’s not like I go out and do those things so I can write about them.”

“I know that, and I’d never ask you to do any of those things.”

My mind races to last night, and all the amazing thing he did with his hands and his tongue. My editor asked me to write hotter, and to be honest, there’s a part of every writer that draws on personal experiences. Too bad I’m lacking in the sex department, and I fear my more intimate scenes are all staring to sound the same. Insert object A into slot B and repeat.

“Then again…” I say.

“What?”

“While we’re working out our anger issues, maybe we can, you know, try some new things. You can teach me some new plays so I can add some spark to those scenes. Two birds with one stone and all.” My gaze droops to his lap. One very big stone, indeed.

Confusion comes over his face. “I thought you just said—”

I place my hand on his chest, and his muscles ripple beneath my palm as I stop his protest. “You’re not asking me to do things from my book behind my back. I’m a willing partner, fully aware of what’s going on.”

He thinks about it for a moment. “Do I get credit in the book? You know, like in the dedication?”

I whack his stomach and meet with a wall of muscle. The hit hurt me more than him. “Of course not. No one can know about us.”

His smile momentarily drops, but then it’s in place again so fast, I can’t help but think I’ve imagined it. “No, don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone about us.”

“So you’ll do it then? Teach me some hot new moves for the sex scenes?”

His grin turns wicked. “That’s what I was trying to do earlier when you stopped me.”

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