Huddle With Me Tonight (2 page)

Maybe she should have said something about this story instead of harping on the recipe titles?

Paige shook off the thought. Her fans would accuse her of going easy on Torrian Smallwood, and she didn’t go easy on anyone, no matter who they were.

She set the book aside so she could sift through the backlog of e-mails inundating her inbox.

“Nope, don’t need to refinance my house, and I definitely don’t need any discount Viagra.”

Paige deleted the rest of the spam, then replied to a couple of fan e-mails. She soaked in the praise. Every response on her blog or e-mail she received from a reader who agreed with her assessment sent her brain on its own private little victory dance. Her newfound success was the ultimate payback to those classmates who’d snickered when she’d been called on to read in class; the teachers who’d called her slow. Stupid.

Paige’s eyelids slid shut. Her body tensed. It always did when she remembered the acute fear that held her prisoner for so many years. Sitting at her school desk, trying to make herself invisible, praying she could get through the day without anyone finding out.

And when they did. God, how she’d suffered.

The popularity of her weekly column was vindication. The girl who couldn’t read was making a name for herself as a writer. It was poetic justice at its finest.

Determined to shake off the lingering queasiness she always suffered when memories of the years before her reading disorder had been diagnosed decided to bombard her, Paige sorted through more e-mails, forwarding review requests to Angela Pensky, the content manager for the magazine’s Web site. She sifted through invitations to several new gallery exhibits, copying those that were feasible into her computer’s calendar that linked electronically to her BlackBerry.

Already tired of e-mail, she clicked over to the comments section on her blog. In the fifteen minutes since she’d uploaded her latest book review, there had already been thirty-two responses posted. Paige grinned as she read the comments from her loyal—bordering on zealous—legion of readers, who thanked her for her honest assessment of Christopher Sanderson’s book. Paige posted a response, thanking them in return for continuing to support her blog and weekly column.

An e-mail notification popped onto the screen.

ARE YOU CRAZY!!!!!
was written in all caps in the subject line of an e-mail from [email protected]. The message in the body of the e-mail was a request for Paige to call her ASAP.

Just as she reached for her cell phone, it rang.

“Hello, Angie,” Paige answered, recognizing the number.

“Are you crazy?” Angie screeched. “The people at Goldstein Publishing are going to go ballistic. They’re tired of you trashing their books.”

“Then why do they still request reviews? Better yet, why don’t they find a few quality writers?”

“I’m sure they believe they
do
have quality writers. You’re the one who keeps trashing them! I know the fans thrive on the criticism, but couldn’t you tamper it a little?”

“I get paid to give my opinion, Angie.”

“Well color your opinion,” Angela said.

“Absolutely not!” She pointed to the computer screen. “Look at the responses I’ve gotten already. Dozens of people are thanking me for saving them $26.95.”

Angie’s sigh came through the phone loud and clear. “And what about your review of Torrian Smallwood’s book?”

“What about it?” Paige lifted the hardback book from the desk. There may not be much substance between the pages, but the cover could be framed and mounted on the wall. The man’s chest was a work of art.

“Fans of the New York Sabers should be relieved that Torrian Smallwood plays ball better than he tells a story?” Angela read directly from the review Paige had e-mailed her an hour ago.

“And?” Paige asked.

Another sigh from Angela. “You’re shooting yourself in the foot with this review, you know? The grand opening for his restaurant coincides with his book’s release. If you give him a good review, maybe we can score an invitation. There’s still time to change it.”

“As much as I would love to be surrounded by Sabers players, I’m pretty sure the reservations for opening night were scooped up the minute Torrian Smallwood announced he would be opening a restaurant. He doesn’t need to bribe restaurant critics into visiting his place. Besides…” Paige paused to drain the remainder of her now lukewarm tea “…I wouldn’t sell out my integrity for one of those invitations, no matter how coveted they are.”

“Not even if it were at a table with Randall Robinson
and
Kendall Fisher?”

“Not even for them,” Paige said. Although the thought of spending time with a heavily muscled football player did have a certain appeal. It had been a while since she’d been in the company of
any
man, let alone the likes of the fine cast of the Sabers.

“I don’t believe a word out of your lying mouth,” Angie laughed.

“I need to head out to the market so I can pick up the ingredients for…” Paige peered at the cookbook “…Tailback Tilapia,” she finished with a snort. “These recipe names are so ridiculous.”

“Yet you’re trying them out?”

“I didn’t say the recipes were bad, but you’ve got to admit the names are silly.”

“Just remember that Torrian Smallwood is a huge name in this town,” Angie warned before disconnecting.

After changing into a light sweater and jeans, she picked up the book and flipped through a few more pages. She jotted down the ingredients for Point-After Potato Soup, Sideline Sweet Corn Casserole, and the Field Goal French Dip Sandwich.

Paige rolled her eyes again, and knew this wouldn’t be the last time. The recipe names weren’t even clever, they were just plain stupid. Hopefully whoever had given the star wide receiver these recipes—Paige had no doubt that someone else had developed and tested them; she couldn’t imagine the Sabers player in the kitchen—had done a better job than whoever came up with the recipe titles.

Setting her computer to hibernate mode, she tucked her list of ingredients in her purse and headed out the door.

Chapter 2

P
aige rounded the corner of Mancini’s Grocery and spotted the owner in his usual spot, just outside the door, a green apron tied around his waist and a broom in his hand.

“How’s it going, Bruno?”

“Just fine, Ms. Turner,” he answered, giving the sidewalk in front of the store’s entrance a sweep, then extending his hand to help her up the single step. “Got a special treat in the store today: celebrities,” Bruno said.

“Really? You finally got Jerry Seinfeld into your store?”

“Not yet.” Bruno shook his head. “A couple of Sa—”

A large woman with a teased hairdo stomped out of the store. “Bruno Mancini, this artichoke is not fresh,” she barked.

Paige gave Bruno an apologetic shrug as she left him to handle the irate shopper. She unfolded her canvas grocery bag and went straight for the produce section. She wasn’t sure about the artichoke in question, but as far as Paige was concerned Bruno stocked the freshest produce for miles. It was one of the reasons she walked six blocks out of her way to shop here.

Paige squeezed a Roma tomato and placed it in her bag. She heard the slight commotion before she looked up and saw it reflected in the mirrored wall behind the tomato display.

Paige’s eyes widened. “Oh, good God.”

Torrian Smallwood and Theo Stokes. They were there.
Right
there.

And here she was, looking like a rag doll.

Torrian finished signing an autograph and left his teammate, stepping into the produce section. Paige pulled her Running Princess cap farther down until the bill nearly touched her brow. She tucked her canvas bag in close and tried to surreptitiously walk away.

No such luck.

She ran smack into a solid wall of muscle instead. Her grocery bag fell to the floor.

“Oh, excuse me,” Paige said, glancing up. The sight caused an instant zing to shoot down her spine. He was twelve hundred and eighty times more gorgeous in person than he was on her tiny fifteen-inch television screen. He’d have to get rid of that shirt for her to determine if the real-life Torrian could top the picture on the cover of his book, though.

He wore a cap. Pulled low across his forehead.

“Excuse me,” he said, his voice as smooth as butter.

Paige stooped to the floor to retrieve her bag. Torrian crouched beside her. “Let me help you with that.”

“It’s okay, I’ve got it.”

They reached for the tomato at the same time, their fingers touching. Electricity raced through her blood, traveling like lightning to the spot where his slightly rough fingers connected with hers. He looked from their hands to her face and that same electrical current shot across the span of air between them.

Paige pulled her hand away first, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from his. They slowly rose from their crouch together; their twin gazes never wavering.

“Here you go.” Torrian held the tomato out to her. “Wait.” He pulled it back before Paige could grab hold of it. “This one’s a bit bruised.” He picked another tomato from the display. “Here we are. This one’s perfect.”

“Um…thank you,” Paige said, reaching for the tomato.

He pulled it just out of her reach and extended his right hand instead. “I’m Torrian, by the way.”

“Yeah, I know,” Paige answered, staring at his extended hand. Something in her brain told her not to touch it. Temptation came in so many forms, and six-plus feet of decadent chocolate male was definitely temptation at its worst.

Or best.

“I guess my attempt at going incognito has utterly failed,” he said, the corner of his mouth tipping up in a smile. The effect was devastating to her good sense. Despite her brain’s warning, Paige captured the hand he offered.

“I’m….” The review of his book she’d just posted jumped to the forefront of her mind. He’d find out who she was soon enough.

A different churning started in Paige’s gut. One she wasn’t used to. Regret.

“I’m Olivia,” she said, offering her given name, which she hadn’t gone by in years. Her mother was the only person who still called her Olivia.

“It’s nice to meet you, Olivia,” he said, finally handing her the tomato. “In fact, it may just be the best thing that’s happened to me all day.”

Oh yeah, he was good. Like many of his New York Sabers teammates, Torrian Smallwood had a reputation of only having to crook his finger to bring ladies flocking to his side. He didn’t have to use a finger, Paige thought. One shot of that smile was enough.

He wouldn’t be smiling if he knew about her review.

“Thanks for helping,” Paige said. She tried to walk past him, but he caught her elbow. Paige looked down to where he gripped her arm, then back up into his mesmerizing hazel eyes.

He let her go, as if he hadn’t realized he’d been holding on to her. “Can I treat you to a cup of coffee?” he asked. “You know, to make up for running into you.” That grin lit up his eyes again, and Paige knew if she didn’t get away soon she would be lost.

“I’m sorry. I have to go,” she said.

“Hey, Wood, you done?” Theo Stokes called.

“Almost,” Torrian said. He returned his attention to Paige. “Come on, Olivia. Let me be a gentleman and buy you coffee.”

Paige was a hot second from falling under the spell of that sexy voice.

“Really. I have to go,” she said. Tossing the tomato back with the others, she shot out of Mancini’s like a rocket.

“Boo yah!” Cedric Reeves slapped the domino on the table in Torrian’s rec room with a loud smack. “Deal with that.” The third-year running back leaned back in his chair, a huge grin on his face.

Torrian looked over at Theo, and they both shook their heads, matching rueful smiles tugging at their lips. The fourth member of their quartet, Jared Dawson, shot Cedric a barrage of curses that had them all laughing.

“We need to start laying some funds on these games so I can really get serious with you clowns,” Cedric said.

Jared raised his hands. “Once money hits the table, I back the hell up.”

“Ah, man, the league can’t say anything about you betting on a friendly game of dominoes,” Cedric said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jared shook his head. “I’m not taking any chances.”

Torrian didn’t blame him. The cornerback and punt returner had nearly been kicked out of the league because of his gambling issues.

“The whole point to this is relaxing after the game. It’s not about money,” Torrian reminded Cedric.

Their Sunday afternoon tradition began three years ago, during Cedric’s rookie season, when his tendency to speak before thinking nearly got his butt kicked by the Sabers entire offensive line. Theo had been the one to suggest they find another place to hang out after home games, away from the rest of the team. Torrian’s well-equipped man cave, with its high-def flat screen, pool table and card/dominoes table, turned out to be the perfect spot.

“Can we please get back to playing dominoes,” Theo suggested.

Jared went for the last slice of pizza. “Damn, Wood, I sure miss your sister cooking for us,” he said, calling Torrian by the nickname most of his teammates used.

Torrian had suffered the obligatory ribbing over his last name. It had been especially brutal in the testosterone-suffused NFL locker rooms, but he never let it bother him. He’d had enough compliments from past girlfriends to offset any of the “small wood” jokes.

Cedric gestured toward the TV. “Turn it up. They’re talking about today’s game.”

Dominoes were forgotten as all eyes focused on the seventy-two-inch LCD flat panel television mounted to the wall.

“It looks like Torrian Smallwood has shaken off the sting of last year’s devastating loss to Green Bay in the NFC Championship game,” the blond sportscaster said. “His game-winning touchdown in the final seconds of today’s showdown against Arizona helped to extend the team’s winning streak to six and one on the season. Now, let’s see if Mr. Smallwood’s luck on the field will extend to his newest venture as author and restauranteur.”