Page 6 of One and Only

“Poppy, I’m not dragging a new client into our family drama.”

“I’m looking at the Voyagers website now,” she said absently. “There is another Beckett on the defense. He’s not a starter.”

“Please stop.”

“Too late, I’m already googling. Alvarez is married. Maybe it’s Coleman.”

“Poppy.” I sank my forehead into my palm and stared down at the table. “I will find out who it is in about two minutes, so please stop.”

“Gawd, I hope it’s Coleman. He is gorgeous. This opportunity iswastedon you.”

“Because it doesn’t matter,” I burst out. “He’s a football player! So fucking what?” Okay, I was yelling a little. Hunger and me and bad dates and big scary emotions that were driving me to Portland to try to find a husband apparently made me a wee bit edgy. Poppy went quiet on the other end of the phone.

My heart was pounding. I didn’t really mean it, but all I could think about sitting in that stupid booth was my dad’s gaunt face and hearing his tired voice saying how badly he wanted to walk a daughter down the aisle before he died.

My chest started caving in the longer I thought about it. Caving into something hollow and sad and scary.

All the little bricks holding my emotions into place started crumbling, one by one by one.

I blew out a hard breath, ruthlessly shoving them back into place.

“I don’tcarewho it is, Poppy, because he’s just a man who wears tight pants and tackles dudes over a stupid leather ball for a living, and I don’tcareabout that. There are so many other things I care about more.”

A throat cleared above me.

I pinched my eyes shut.

Shit. Shit.Shit.

“Poppy, I have to go,” I whispered. Slowly, I set the phone down on the table and wondered if it would be an obvious evasion to crawl under the table and hide there until he left.

My gaze tracked over to a big hand hanging loosely at his side, mapped with veins and free of a ring. Then it kept going up, and up, over a trim waist, a white button-down shirt covering a very nice chest and shoulders, to a truly, incredibly spectacular face.

Symmetrical and firm-jawed, with the kind of dark hair and golden skin and stubble and piercing dark eyes that would cover a magazine.

I swallowed. “You must be Beckett,” I said quietly.

Slowly, so very slowly, he arched an eyebrow.

Gathering the tattered shreds of my dignity, I stood from the booth, let out a controlled breath, and extended my arm toward him.

Beckett eyed my hand for a beat, then his palm slid over mine, his big, warm fingers curling over my own in a firm grip.

Something ominous trailed up my spine, warm and quiet.

“Greer Wilder,” I said. Then I cleared my throat. “I apologize for what I said. It was … unprofessional. And untrue.”

He made a low humming sound.

Things I never, ever experienced: nerves in front of a man. Not because I was impervious to nerves. But I’d been around a lot of impressive men in my day. I had two brothers who were professional football players. The whole chiseled abdomen thing didn’t cause me any tummy flutters.

But as Beckett eased his long body into the booth, legs sprawled open, hand drumming on the table, and eyes locked onto me, I felt a foreign kind of unsteadiness.

I didn’t like it. Not one little bit.

“I like football. I don’t think it’s stupid.” I swallowed. “Love it actually. I’ve been watching Parker and Erik play my entire life, so it would be ridiculous for me to judge someone negatively for something like that.”

“Okay.”

---