Dare To Love Series: Daring to Chance It (Kindle Worlds Novella) (11 page)

“I can hardly wait to tell Toby,” he went on, tracing the curve of her jawline with the tip of one finger. “Maybe we can get started pretty soon on getting him a little brother or sister.” Then he sobered. “If that’s what you want, I mean. I want whatever you want.”

“We’ll work it out together,” she assured him.

“I know your job is important and—”

She touched her fingertips to his mouth. “Lots of mothers have careers today and are excellent moms to their children. We’ll manage, especially with Babs.”

“Well, all right then!” he exulted, sweeping her up in his arms. “I think we need to take this discussion to the bedroom to celebrate. And later today, when I’m better prepared, I have a very important question to ask you.”

She gently bit his lower lip. “And the answer will be yes.”

Richmond Rule #1: Set a clear goal.

When a player tucks a football under his arm and turns to run, the yard lines tell him where he is and how far he has to go to score. Life is trickier. It’s up to you to set your goals and chart your progress. Until you do, you’ll run in circles while the defense prepares to pile on…

Fullback Connor Wright smiled as he read Carolina Richmond’s latest post. Her
Go Long
blog taught women how to achieve success in sports and in their careers, but since she mined the exploits of the Miami Thunder each week for her examples, he wasn’t the only player on the team who read her work avidly. He didn’t feature in this week’s post, but sooner or later he’d turn up again. Carolina had a soft spot for him since he’d helped her make her first contact with the team, and she regularly dropped his name on her blog.

She was right on the money this week, as usual. Like most players, he constantly set goals and tracked his progress toward them. Recently he’d hit a big one—in his bank account rather than on the field. He finally had the money he needed to buy a ranch out west in his home state of Colorado, the reason he’d gotten into the game in the first place.

Actually, that wasn’t quite true. He’d gotten into the game because he loved football. He loved everything about it from the base physicality of charging an opponent, to the camaraderie of playing on a team, to the adrenaline rush of stepping out onto the field on game day. He’d miss it when his career ended, but he’d had a good run. Hell, make that a great run.

Now it was time to tackle a new goal—one that would define the next stage of his life. His friend and teammate, Terrence MacKenzie, called it the picket fence package. House, wife, kids. Although in his case it was ranch, wife, kids.

“What the hell do you want a ranch for?” Terrence had asked him the first time Connor brought it up. The halfback had lived in cities all his life and the thought of a wide open sky unnerved him.

“I grew up on one. Ranching is what Wrights do.” Connor didn’t mention that the Wrights had never owned a spread. They worked for other folks and could lose their jobs, houses and security at the drop of a hat. He’d only been nine when he decided he wanted far more than to work someone else’s cattle. He’d been fourteen when someone pointed out the answer.

“You keep playing like that, son, and you’ll go pro someday!” William Yates had been an assistant coach at Ohio State and a friend of Connor’s high school coach. The man had encouraged the other players in a similar fashion when he came to visit their team, but Connor took him at his word. If he was pro material, that changed everything. Professional players earned lots of money. It took money to buy a ranch; his father said that all the time. He’d always seen football as a distraction from his need to pay his way. It ate into time he should have spent on chores with his dad, or picking up a part-time job to earn some cash. The idea he could play football all the way to the bank revolutionized his entire approach to life.

Where once he’d trail in last to practice, far more interested in game day than the drudgery of drills, now he was the first one dressed and ready to play. Where he used to disdain strategy, now he studied the playbook like his future depended on it. His future did depend on it; Connor Wright was aiming for the NFL.

He’d made it, too. First he’d played for Colorado State. Then he’d been drafted. He’d played for a couple of teams out west and spent the last eight years with the Thunder. His career had been everything he’d hoped for and more. He certainly had no regrets. He’d miss just about everything about playing football when he retired, but he’d long ago decided that wasn’t the way to view this change. Everyone had to leave the team sometime. He wanted to go with his head held high and his body intact. He also planned to dive into the second phase of his adult life with as much gusto as he had the first. It wasn’t enough for him to buy a ranch; it had to be a spread worth keeping in the family for generations to come. He wasn’t just going to have kids; he would work with them, play with them, teach them to ride, rope, and catch a pass for a touchdown. He wasn’t just going to marry any woman, either.

He wanted Carolina.

That’s where things got tricky. He’d only known the woman a single day when she’d announced her plans never to marry. She’d been burned before by a man—badly. She refused to be hurt again.

Connor was smart. He’d backed off right away, sure she’d change her tune over time. She hadn’t, though. He’d tried a hundred tricks to convince her he should be the exception to her rule. He’d even dated other women when nothing else worked. Carolina didn’t blink. He’d have thought she simply wasn’t into him if it wasn’t for the way she’d kissed him.

Once.

Afterward she blamed it on the booze, the crowd, the night, but Connor knew better. Carolina wanted him too.

She was just too stubborn to admit it.

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“Damn it!” She’d put a run in her pantyhose. Leslie Benson and pantyhose didn’t mix. She could go through four pair in an hour. Somehow, she always managed to put runs in them. Today she’d been running late and hadn’t had time to stash extra pairs in her messenger bag.

“Just take them off,” Madison said. “This is Miami. You don’t need hose.”

“I get blisters with these shoes if I don’t wear hose.” They were Gucci knockoffs some guy was selling out of the trunk of his car. Leslie didn’t make it a habit of approaching the cars, let alone the trunks, of strange men, but the shoes had called to her from that trunk. She had to rescue them. “They look like the real thing, though, right?”

Madison appraised her shoes. “It’s uncanny. That guy who peddles them from the trunk of his car?”

Leslie grimaced. “Yeah.”

Madison nodded. “I know him. Took me two pairs before I learned. They’re gorgeous but they shred your feet. Softer leather would take care of the blister problem.”

Madison could afford the real thing, now, being married to Alex Dare. Leslie planned to be able to afford the real thing someday. She eyed the shoes with a mixture of adoration and hate, and then kicked them off. She moved to take off the hose, and then hesitated.

She really had no choice. Either take the hose off or interview Dean Wilson, former running back for the New York Wolves, with a huge run in her stocking.

“Just do it. They won’t be here for a bit. In the time you’re taking to consider it, you could've had them off already.” Madison got up from her chair and crossed the large office to close the door.

Madison Evans Dare’s office was located at the Thunder Dome, the Thunder’s corporate offices. She was the reason Leslie was here. She’d given Leslie several story ops since she’d started running the new training program that helped prepare football players for life outside of the game.

Thanks to Madison, Leslie had access to many players, not only from Thunder, but from other professional teams as well.

“Okay.” Leslie quickly tugged down the pantyhose, making sure her skirt covered her bottom and other areas. In her haste, she didn’t realize until they were in her hand that she’d whipped her panties off too. “Oh, God.”

Madison laughed. “Just shove them in your Prada knock-off reporter’s bag. Same guy sells bags?”

“Yeah, he keeps them in the backseat.” Leslie jammed first the pantyhose and then the panties in the bag. She took a deep, calming breath. “There.”

“What’s up with you today? You’re kind of out of sorts.” Madison watched her curiously.

Leslie shook her head. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Bullshit. Tell me.” Apparently Madison’s social worker bullshit radar was in full gear.

She sighed. “If I don’t get a great story from Dean Wilson, I’m out of a job.”

Madison pulled a face. “What? Why? You’re a great reporter.”

Leslie smoothed her skirt down and stepped back into her shoes. She winced. She really did need to buy better shoes. “The Miami Star has been sold. The new owner is bringing in his own talent, with the exception of an editor. Ned is leaving, but he’s choosing the new editor to fill his spot. 

Apparently the new owner trusts Ned to choose someone who will make the change seamless.”

Madison gave a little shrug. “It should be no problem, then. You’re fantastic.”

Leslie tipped her head to the side. “Well, thanks. I like to think so. But I’m up against another reporter for the position.”

Madison’s brows furrowed. “Who?”

“Spencer Baine.” The name tasted bitter in Leslie’s mouth.

Madison rolled her eyes. “Ugh. He’s a bottom dweller. It should be no problem, then. The job is yours.”

“Spencer’s father is friends with Ned. He’s some bigwig real estate mogul. Rumor is that Spencer has a trust fund that he can’t get his grubby hands on until he shows he is a responsible member of society, and can hold down a job. Apparently he burned through a ton of Daddy’s money after graduating from Harvard. Spoiled rich kid stuff.”

Madison squinted. “Why doesn’t he just become a car salesman or something?”

Leslie sat down and slumped in the chair, already feeling defeated. “He fancies himself a journalist. It’s what he went to Harvard for. Anyway, Ned is making this a fair competition. Still, I don’t trust Baine. He’s pond scum. He’ll fight dirty.”

Madison gave a dismissive wave. “Just wow Ned with your work. This story is a good one. And it’s yours. Dean hasn’t spoken to the media since he’s come out of the coma six months ago. He’s been focusing on rehab and he’s bounced back amazingly. But he is not a big fan of reporters. He was in the news pretty steadily before the accident.”

Dean Wilson. He was a player on and off the field. Leslie remembered some news story about him and the wife of a prominent politician a couple of years back.

But according to Madison, he was turning over a new leaf. He had a new lease on life. The nasty tackle that had launched him into the air and dropped him on his head had knocked him out cold. For two years. He’d woken up a new man.

Every radio station, TV news show, and newspaper wanted the scoop.

And she was getting it. Thanks to Madison and her husband Alex; program director of the Thunder. What they were doing was amazing. Their unique program focused on training the players to budget their money and reintegrate into the real world once they retire from the game. There was no other program like it.

Dean Wilson would be participating in the program. He had the background, and he was an inspiration, especially for football players who were forced to retire due to injury, as he had been.

Madison sat down in the chair across from her. “You’re just a better writer, Leslie. You always write about the players in a way that really brings them to life. People see that they’re actually people under the football uniforms. You have a rare gift. Not all journalists can pull that off.”

Leslie glanced up at Madison and gave her a shy grin. Madison was classy, with her willowy frame and blonde hair tied back in a twist. Leslie admired her and valued her opinion. She was the perfect combination of lovely and kind; truly beautiful inside and out. “Thanks.”

“Oh, I think I hear them coming. Yes, that’s Ian’s voice.” Madison stood and waited to greet Dean Wilson and the president of Miami Thunder, Ian Dare.

Leslie followed suit, standing with her pad and pen, and scribbled a last preliminary note as she listened to voices approach.

“Don’t be nervous,” Madison whispered. “You’ll do great.”

Leslie opened her mouth to say she wasn’t nervous, but decided against it. She was nervous as hell. She needed to get this right, or she’d be out of a job before the end of the week.

“Leslie!” She lifted her gaze in time to see the tall, handsome, and imposing figure of Ian Dare and an extremely sexy man come through the doorway. Dean Wilson’s green eyes locked onto hers and she felt her breath catch in her throat.

Her heart did a somersault in her chest and butterfly wings fluttered in her belly. The photos and news footage she’d seen of Dean Wilson didn’t do him justice.

Get a grip. So he’s good-looking. Big deal. Lots of football players are
. 

But it wasn’t just his looks. His nose had definitely been broken at least once, and his jaw was a little too large, but the man seemed to ooze sex. His entire presence was sensual. Was he even aware of that? He must be.

And his eyes…Good Lord. They were…hypnotic.

“Leslie Benson, this is Dean Wilson, New York Wolves alumni.”

“Ian’s being kind. I was forced to retire. I’m sure you know the story.” Dean grinned at her and held her gaze longer than necessary for polite introductions.

Leslie remembered that she wasn’t smiling. She tried to place one on her face, but the effect the man had on her was so disconcerting that all she could manage was a twitch.

Then he gave her a lopsided, boyish grin and that did it. She dropped her gaze to his full lips and a loopy smile crossed her face. Those lips were so full and kissable. She could kiss them all day long. Then all night long. Then all day long again.

She heard Madison clear her throat softly and out of the corner of her eye, she saw her shift her weight.

Say something! Anything!
 “Yes, I did hear that,” she all but sputtered. “Is everything okay, now?”

He squinted at her. “I don’t know. Which one of the three of you am I talking to?”

Leslie felt her eyes widen.

Dean chuckled. “Gotcha.”

She giggled
. Stop it! Don’t giggle. It’s not professional.
 “Nice to meet you, Mr. Wilson.”

“Call me Dean. Mr. Wilson is my dad.”

She lifted her eyes to his again, and noticed that his intense gaze still penetrated hers. A furious flush moved over her entire body, heating her neck and face. She knew she had to be turning scarlet. She tried his name on her tongue, and found that it tasted like candy. “Dean.”

“Before we go forward with the interview, I need to warn you. Since the injury, my mental filter is sometimes a bit faulty. So if I say anything to offend you, I apologize in advance. When that happens, I usually don’t realize that I’ve said something offensive until I see the obviously unimpressed expressions on the faces around me.”

“You must be a blast at parties,” Madison grinned.

“I don’t know. I haven’t been to any since I woke up,” Dean said, “but I could really use one. I’ve slept through a bunch. I’ve been missing out.”

Leslie scribbled a note on her notepad. “Has your brain injury resulted in any other manifestations that might be troubling to you?”

“I think they’re more troubling to others. Licking window glass and performing a striptease while singing the national anthem has given a few people pause.” He winked at her.

Leslie stared. The picture in her head wasn’t all that troubling.

“Kidding,” Dean said. “It hasn’t been that bad. It’s really just the lack of filter thing, poor or no impulse control depending on the situation, and the occasional word salad. You know, mixing the words in a sentence up. But I’m not ruling any other manifestations out. So be warned.”

Leslie smiled and tried to focus. “Is your lack of filter and impulse control temporary, or a permanent result of your trauma?”

His smile widened and he tilted his head a little; his strawberry blond waves bounced a slightly. Stray locks hung softly over his forehead and around his ears. “Your hair is really pretty.”

“Oh, thanks.” She cleared her throat. “It’s a tangled mess today. All the humidity.”

He studied her hair, and then his eyes flicked back to hers. A secret smile tugged the corners of his lips. “No, it’s really nice. It suits you. Love the cat-eye glasses, too. Really funky.”

“Thanks.” Leslie pushed her red cat-eyes up out of habit, feeling exposed.

She tried to keep her gaze on his face, though her eyes wanted to drift down to his large chest. He’d clearly been working out, trying to get back into shape. All that rehab was working.

And no filter? Did that mean he couldn’t lie? “You’d make the perfect boyfriend.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to stuff them back in. Seemed her filter was missing, too. “I mean, you must be a lot of fun. Interesting, I mean.” 
God. Shut up!

Dean chuckled. “I don’t know about that. I didn’t have a great track record before the accident. Not sure if getting my head bashed in has been an improvement.”

“I’m sure it has. I mean, not that you were bad before, or anything.” Leslie shook her head. What the hell was wrong with her? She glanced at Madison, who grinned at her, brows lifted.

“How would you like me?” Dean asked her.

Leslie felt her mouth drop slightly open. “Excuse me?”

“Would you like me here, sitting, and you can just fire questions away at me?”

“Oh! I’d like you sitting, yes.” I’d like to climb on top of you and sit in your lap. 
Giddyup!

She caught Ian’s knowing smile and the way he tilted his chin down, looking up at her with obvious amusement.

Oh, Lord. Please help me not look like a complete idiot in front of this freakishly sexy man.

“Okay.” Dean sat in a chair next to and slightly facing her. “Please be gentle with me. I haven’t done this in a really long time.”

Mmmmmm.
 Leslie stared at him. She nodded. “Oh, okay.”

His slow smile made heat gather in her nether regions, and she squirmed slightly in her chair.

He leaned forward, closer to her, and his proximity made her all by swoon. The man was like a drug. A sexy, yummy drug.

When he spoke, his voice was like a purr, and seemed to vibrate through her. “Leslie, normally, because of my current circumstances and my nonexistent filter, I’d ask the media to agree to follow a specific line of questioning. But I’m going to trust you to cut out anything I say that is inappropriate.”

She felt his nearness, smelled his clean soap-and-water scent, and her brain went completely and utterly muddled. She murmured, “I don’t usually have a specific list of questions when I interview. I let the interview happen organically. So how about if I come up with a list of questions and you can go over them and think about them. Take some time to form your answers?” She smiled, pleased with herself. That sounded pretty good, considering her state.