Page 16 of Irresistibly Risky

“Well, I’m here to cut you open, and it might not be pretty when I do.”

“Everything about you is pretty.” My eyes skate across her face, and when I land on the bottom of her neck, I reach out and gently place my fingers over her racing pulse point. “Is this for me?”

A blush rises up her cheeks and her pupils expand. “I thought you said the only one of us who would be doing any touching is me.”

“I lied.” My fingers trickle up her neck and then back down toward her pulse and the sexy dip just beneath it. I watch as goosebumps erupt across her skin, and she shudders ever so slightly.

Oh, I affect her all right.

“I don’t like flirts or football players, and I definitely don’t like it when my patients touch me inappropriately.” She shoves my hand away, and I sit up, smirking as I do.

“That all may be true, but it won’t stop me from trying to change your mind about that.” I hop off the table, throw my shirt back on, and head for the door. “See you tomorrow, Doctor.”

5

“There’s something about that football player,” I muse to myself for at least the tenth time since I left here yesterday afternoon. It niggled at me until I finally gave in and looked him up. I didn’t scroll through the pictures—I didn’t need more visuals of him—but I did read his Wikipedia page as well as a few celebrity tabloids.

He was the backup guitarist for Central Square, and while I never listened much to their music—other than what was played on the radio—I think that must be where I recognize him from. His face was plastered across posters and magazines and was everywhere it could be when he was with the band. I remember that.

I remember thinking those guys were hot because they were.

Or maybe it’s the fact that he affects me, and that has his voice, his face, and his words slicing through my brain.

I haven’t had sex since that night in the club, and before that, I wasn’t exactly rolling in men. So suffice it to say, I haven’t had good sex in a very long time, and when hard-pressed, I’ll admit I don’t think I’ve ever had great sex. My vagina is a sad, cold, lonely old woman who spends her days in a rocking chair knitting herself a sweater. Even my vibrator is tired of seeing her. It’s only natural that a good-looking man who seems physically attracted to me would wake the old lady up.

But Asher Reyes is not the man to hop back in the saddle with.

Mixed metaphors or not, the point is the same. He’s trouble, and I don’t have any time or space in my life for it.

Then there’s Joe, who is watching me with deliberate eyes as I walk out of the cool, dark tunnel into the bright August sunshine and over to the sideline of the field where the team is practicing. My mom and I talked about him for a long time last night. I don’t like knowing he’s followed my career—both on the ice and in medicine. It only infuriates me more because I don’t know why.

Why would he bother doing that with a child he abandoned?

Asher is on the field, talking with a few of the players, the ball in his hand that he gesticulates with as he speaks. He’s tall, and his presence is commanding, both on and off the field. I’ve never seen him play before, but I can tell he’s passionate about what he does, and he’s not even in game form. The first day of training camp was Monday, and that’s when he took the hit.

Movement on my right has my head flipping in that direction and immediately locking onto another player wearing the same red jersey Asher is wearing whereas every other player is wearing white. I’m going to assume that makes him another quarterback, but I don’t know for sure. He’s giving me the “I’m a stud” smirk, and inwardly I roll my eyes in derision.

Football players. They’re all the freaking same.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” he says by way of a greeting. “Girlfriend or wife?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you someone’s girlfriend or wife? Since I know you’re not press.”

I raise an eyebrow. “How do you know that?”

His brown eyes drop to my stomach. “Wrong badge. Yours just says, Visitor.”

“If you already knew that, why did you feel the need to take another look?”

He breaks out into a huge smile in a way that tells me he’s not the least bit embarrassed. “Leo Dodd. QB2, but soon to be QB1. But you never answered my question. Are you single?”

“Yes. I’m a single mother.”

He laughs. “That doesn’t scare me off the way it does other guys. I love kids. I’m the oldest of six.”

“Congratulations to you, but I don’t date ball players.”

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