Fair Play (8 page)

Stepping out onto the back porch is like walking into a magical fairy tale, with the glowing water and flowers pouring out of any place something could grow.

I’m so engrossed with taking pictures that I don’t even hear Nick approach. His hands slide over my eyes from behind, and I jump out of my skin.

“Holy shit!”

“What are you doing out here?” he says into my ear, propping his chin on my shoulder.

“You scared the crap out of me.”

“Sorry. I saw this beautiful wild creature wandering around in my yard taking pictures, and I had to find out why.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. When something this beautiful comes along, I sort of forget my manners and start trying to capture it.”

“I know the feeling.” He lowers his hands from my eyes, trailing his fingers over my shoulders and down my arms. He releases me, and goose bumps spread over my skin.

I half expect him to turn me around and kiss me until I hear his shoes against the cement walking away. I release a breath I started holding when his hands were resting on my shoulders and watch him make his way around the pool to the pool house.

He removes a skimming pole from two large hooks and slides it into the water. There isn’t much to clean; someone does an excellent job with the pool upkeep.

“What do you do with all of your photographs?”

“The ones I take for pleasure?”

He lifts his eyes from the water to look directly at me.

“Yes, the ones for pleasure.”

I swallow when he says pleasure. He can make the most ordinary statement sound alluring.

“I uh, I have a portfolio, and the ones I’m particularly fond of, I blow up and hang on the walls of my loft.”

“Is your loft all one room?”

“Yes.”

“What do you have on your walls right now?” he says, scooping a few leaves from the surface of the water.

I sit down in a chair next to a large table with an umbrella and raise my camera, aiming it at him.

“I have a shot of a lion I took in Africa.” I take his picture. Click. He looks up, startled by the flash.

“Did you get my good side?”

“You have a bad side?” I ask and take another.

He’s got the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, exposing his tan, toned forearms. His hair is tussled from the wind at the beach. It looks better that way to me. The first couple of buttons of his shirt are unbuttoned, showing a hint of what I can only imagine are incredibly chiseled pectorals.

“You tell me.”

I lower the camera, and our eyes meet. “No, all your sides look pretty good to me.”

A slow smile spreads across his face, and he blushes, again. Just like in the plane, a slight tinge of pink springs to his cheeks when I compliment him.

“You’re blushing.” I snap a picture, and he laughs and holds out his hand to block me, but he’s too late. It’s a perfect shot.

“I like it.”

“I’m glad my body’s inability to accept a compliment from you without blushing brings you pleasure.”

“Do you always blush?”

“Yep, since I was a little boy. My mother adored it. She would say things to embarrass me in front of her friends so I would turn pink.”

“Aw, what does your mother do?”

“Well, she’s a mother,” he says playfully.

“Duh, come on, tell me about your family.”

“My mom is from Scotland, she moved here when she was a teenager. She owns an art studio downtown. My dad is Italian, born and raised in New York. He’s a stock broker, and my little sister Nora is in college at Duke.”

“Wow, impressive. How old is your little sister?”

“Twenty-one. She wants to be a model, but Mom and Dad insisted she go to college first.”

“Good idea, most models don’t make much money. Not to say she can’t, but I’m in the business, you know. I see what a lot of those girls go through for a couple bucks. What’s your mom’s studio called?”

“Edie, which is also her name.”

“Is that Scottish?”

“Yes, and your next question is going to be why my last name is Wood, isn’t it?”

“Well, now that you mention it.”

“My father’s name was Tessaro. In New York when he was growing up, there was a mob family named Tessaro. They were no relation to him, but he caught a lot of crap because of it. He changed it when he was in high school. My grandma let him because she thought the name was cursed after my grandpa died in a freak accident building a high-rise.”

“Wow, such a colorful past.”

He hangs the skimmer back on its hooks and rounds the pool to stand in front of me.

“Like a rainbow. You’re pretty colorful, what are your parents like?” He reaches out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear, and a shiver runs up my spine.

“My mother died when I was eleven, and my dad is a mechanic for Carl McGovern.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your mother.”

“It’s okay, I never really knew her. I was young when she died.”

“You have that in common with Scarlet. Her mother died during childbirth.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry, that had to be tough.”

He nods, and sadness floods his eyes. My heart breaks a little for this man who lost his wife and raised their baby alone. I always sensed my father missed my mom, but I never saw the pain in his eyes because we never talked about it, ever. 

He offers me his hand to help me up. “Let’s go inside and have a drink.”

He leads me through the kitchen back to the living room at the front of the house, never letting go of my hand.

“How far did you get on your self-guided tour?” he asks when we’ve reached the couch.

“Oh, just through to the kitchen and out onto the back porch.”

He gestures to the couch and releases my hand so that I can sit. I miss the warmth of his touch as soon as our hands separate.

He strolls to a small built-in bar just inside the adjoining dining room.

“I’ll show you the rest tomorrow. Brandy?” he says, holding up a glass bottle of the amber-colored liquid in one hand and a brandy snifter in the other.

“Sure, thanks.”

I’ve never had brandy, or at least I don’t think I have. Anything’s possible when you attend hundreds of parties in college.

“So how personal can we get with our questions?” I ask.

He stops pouring and looks up at me.

“As personal as you’d like.”

“How long were you and your wife married?”

He returns to pouring our drinks and makes his way back to me before he answers. I scoot over on the couch to make room for him.

“You can take your boots off and get comfortable if you want. You’re living here for a while, and it’s been a long day.”

“Are you avoiding my question?”

“No, but I want to take off my shoes so I figured I’d see if you’d go first.”

I laugh and roll my eyes while I unlace my left boot with one hand and take a drink of brandy using the other. I swallow a big gulp and choke when the strong liquor hits my throat.

Nick pats me on the back vigorously. “You have to take small sips. Are you okay?”

I sputter and hand him back the brandy. “I don’t drink much, and I’m not drinking that ever again.”

He sits down next to me and sets our glasses on the coffee table.

“Give me your foot.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your foot, up, right here,” he says, patting his thigh.

“You’re going to take my shoes off for me?”

“It’ll take your mind off of the burning in your throat.”

He’s got that right.

I wrinkle up my nose and shake my head.

“I don’t think you wanna do that after the day we’ve had running around on the beach.”

“I have a four-year-old who has a great love for mud. You can’t possibly shock me with your stinky feet.”

I shrug, “Okay, it’s your nose. Have at it, champ.”

I lift my leg and lean back against the plump beige and blue pillows behind me and watch as he begins to loosen my laces.

“I was married to Mariah for five years, we met in college. We waited to have children until we both were established in our careers, if you call playing football a career.”

“I think anything that brings in enough money to live in a place like this should be considered a career.” I gesture around the room at the floor-to-ceiling windows covered in drapes that pool on the floor and the grand stone fireplace that commands your attention.

“Mariah decorated the house. She loved every minute of it. That’s what she did though, she was an interior designer.”

“She did a beautiful job.”

He’s loosened the laces all the way to my toes, and now he’s working it off of my foot. When it’s off, he drops it to the floor and pats his leg. I switch feet and he starts the process over.

“She did. It was hard when she was gone. She handpicked every single thing in this house. Memories of our life were everywhere. She worked nonstop from the moment we bought the house to make it the perfect place to raise a family. As hard as it was to stay, I had to respect her wishes to raise Scarlet here.”

“That’s really sensitive of you.”

“I loved her very much.”

“It shows.”

He has both of my boots off now with my feet resting in his lap.

“So, are you ready to try your brandy again?”

I scrunch up my nose in distaste.

“It’s gross.”

“It’s not. You chugged it like a glass of water. You have to take tiny sips and build a taste for it.”

I groan and toss my head back onto the pillows.

“Why would I want to drink something I have to build a taste for? Shouldn’t I just like it or not?”

“Humor me.”

I sigh and hold out my hand without looking at him. He hands me the snifter and I raise my head to take a microscopic sip. It’s not bad. I don’t want to admit it, but his face is so hopeful that I do.

“Okay, you’re right. It’s better in small doses.”

“I won’t say I told you so.”

“Thank you.”

“So, are you going to take off your shoes too or am I going to be the only one with bare feet?”

“God, yes, I hate shoes.” He toes off his shoes and takes a sip of brandy.

“Thanks for feeding me all day.”

“No problem. I couldn’t let my favorite photographer go hungry.”

“Oh, so now I’m your favorite photographer, huh? Just how many photographers do you know?”

“Actually, I know quite a few. They’re sports photographers, but none of them take pictures as beautiful as yours.”

“I don’t think you can compare the two.”

“Okay, maybe it’s not just your work that is my favorite.”

“Yeah? It’s my shining personality, isn’t it?”

“Yep, you’re pretty bright,” he says, tickling my feet.

I wiggle and laugh and nearly spill my brandy, but he doesn’t stop until I accidently kick him where it counts.

He buckles over and groans. I bolt upright and swing my legs over the side of the couch to take his glass out of his hand. I set them both back on the table in front of us and slide onto the floor on my knees to look up into his face.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I’m really ticklish. I couldn’t help it.”

He grimaces, covering his crotch with his hand.

“It’s fine. My fault. Shouldn’t tickle.”

His answers come in short bursts, making me feel even guiltier.

“Can I do anything?” I ask, regretting the stupid question.

He lifts his miserable eyes to mine and gives me an I-think-you’ve-done-enough look.

I grimace and tip my head to the side, placing my hands on his knees.

“Sorry, again.”

He slides his hands over mine as he starts to relax. It’s almost worth racking him to have his hands on me again.

“This is another thing you have in common with my daughter. She always ends up getting revenge this way when I tickle her.”

“We must be soul sisters.”

“I hope not.”

“Why?”

“Because I couldn’t do this with my daughter.”

He leans forward and presses his lips against mine. A lightning bolt of electricity explodes through my body, and I lean into the warm kiss I’ve been thinking about all day.

He tastes like brandy, and he smells like the ocean and fabric softener and strawberries. The combination is oddly pleasant and intoxicating. He’s masculine and domestic and paternal all rolled up in a perfect package of lean muscles and tanned skin topped off with a sexy, commanding manner and a kind disposition.

His strong, talented hands slide up to my elbows, and he pulls me forward until I’m nestled between his legs and his arms are holding me against his body.

I thread my fingers through the soft curls of hair at the base of his neck.