He sits up and leans across the table, his ocean-blue eyes hidden behind the mirrored lenses of a pair of expensive sunglasses.

  “Her name’s Beth. We started dating when we were kids.”

  “Kids, as in the fifth grade?”

  “College,” he corrects. “I sat next to her in Applied Sciences. She smiled at me, and I was a goner.”

  “So, she’s pretty.”

  “Very.” He dips his chin.

  “And you two argued enough to break up several times?” I guess.

  Either frustration or regret flattens his mouth. I’m surprised when he answers. “We argued a lot. Over stupid shit. Then I was drafted by Miami and the move to Florida prompted another breakup. Six months later, she moved down there.”

  “She moved in with you.”

  “Yep.” He leans back again, face pinched, head turned. Topic over. But I’m not done yet.

  “And that was it?”

  He shakes his head gravely. “Why do you want to know? You’re not writing about it.”

  “I’m shamelessly nosy. Comes with the job.”

  He huffs in agreement.

  “Please?” I press my palms together. A few silent seconds tick by before he gives in.

  “She lived in Florida for a while, and then we had another argument and she moved back to Ohio. I stayed in Miami and ultimately injured myself. Once I was out of the game permanently, we reconciled, and I moved into her apartment here in Columbus.” He spins his water glass on the table. “She booted my ass out, so I lived with my buddy Dax for a few months. Helped him redesign his new bar until I found a place of my own.” He shrugs. “And that was it.”

  “Are you sure? You two have found your way back to each other every other time. Why not now?”

  “Trust me. I’m sure.”

  “Did one of you stray?”

  “Cheat? No. I don’t cheat. Neither does she. Things just became...hard.”

  I know exactly what he means. North and I had our share of dumb arguments and avoidance, and neither of us cheated, either. Sometimes breaking up is as easy and as complicated as two people who can’t work out their differences.

  Our lunch arrives and we dive in.

  “Maybe our story should revolve around you and Beth reconciling,” I say. “Readers love a second chance.”

  He finishes his tacos, swipes the cloth napkin over his mouth and, still chewing, watches me from behind mirrored shades.

  “Maybe our story could revolve around the way you want North back.”

  My stomach pools with disgust. “I don’t want him back.”

  “I don’t want Beth back.”

  Put in my place, I forlornly nibble a plantain chip.

  “Thought the story was about us,” he says a few minutes later. “About you and me.” He pushes the sunglasses onto his head and spears me with those hypnotizing blues.

  “It is.”

  “You’d rather write about Beth and me than you and me?”

  “There is no you and me, Barrett. We’re dating for an article. Our boundary lines are a little blurry but—”

  “You like kissing me.”

  “I...do not.” Lie.

  “Yeah. You do. I can tell by that whimpering, mewly sound you make in the back of your throat whenever I do it.”

  “That... I don’t... That’s not what I do.” I’m flustered. Embarrassed. And lying through my teeth.

  “Okay, Kitty Cat.” He reclaims his relaxed posture after shoving his empty plate aside. “You keep telling yourself that. I was there for each one of those lip-presses and I know what I heard. You. Mewling. I also know what I felt: You. Climbing me like a ladder.”

  I toss my napkin onto my plate, prepared to stand and storm off for another episode of I Can’t Even with Barrett Fox.

  “Don’t turn tail for once,” he says. “You wanted the bad boy of the NFL as a date, sweetheart, you got him. Stick around and see where it goes. At least you’ll have somethin’ fun to write about.” He returns his sunglasses to the bridge of his nose. “Want me to do something outrageous so you have some fodder?”

  “Ha!” My laughter is a touch loud and draws attention from the surrounding tables. A few gazes linger on my ginger-haired date. “Your performance on stage is plenty of fodder.”

  “Oh yeah?” He grins, a cunning fox in a coat of red.

  “You know it was impressive,” I mumble. “You have a nice voice.”

  “Sure you wanna write that? Sounds awfully flattering.”

  “Could you be more conceited?”

  “Used to be,” he states. “Then I blew my shoulder and learned a lesson in humility.”

  He’s serious. And for a scant, and rare, moment I catch a glimpse of the heart hiding under his laid-back, cocky exterior. Like the day I told him North dumped me, I sense that there’s more to Fox than overblown charm and lewd comments.

  “Now what?” he asks, his voice tempting and suggestive.

  I point at various booths dotting the grounds. “Funnel cake? Face paint? Temporary tattoo?”

  He crunches on a piece of ice from his glass. I wish he’d take those sunglasses off so I could see his eyes again.

  “Face paint,” he decides.

  It’s either face painting or I admit that I’d like another of those deep, wet, delicious kisses he’s so good at surprising me with. Is it hot out here or is it me?

  He throws money on the table without waiting for a bill, but fifty bucks will more than cover our tacos, and then he takes my hand and leads me from the patio area.

  I relax, confident that the bout of crazed lust that hammered me earlier has receded. He tugs me in the direction of a photo booth with a line stretching around one of the sculptures that permanently sits outside. A tall, red, curvy...whatever it is. Sort of looks like a deflated ampersand.

  “Let’s do this first.”

  “That line is probably forty minutes long,” I whisper, taking in the many, many people patiently waiting their turn.

  “Hey, ’scuse me, buddy,” Barrett says to a younger guy standing hand in hand with his girlfriend at the front of the line. “If I give you twenty bucks, would you let my girl and me cut in front of you? We’re pressed for time.”

  The guy recognizes Barrett and his face splits into an awed smile. “Uh. Yeah. Yes. Sure. Go ahead.”

  “Perfect.” He fishes a twenty from his pocket. The kid stares at him in awe. “Can you sign it? Or... Can you sign my shirt?”

  “I’d love to, kid, but I don’t have a—”

  “Here you go.” I thrust a black Sharpie into Barrett’s hand. He levels me with a narrow-eyed glare.

  “You happened to have this in your bag?”

  “Yep.”

  He makes quick work of signing the kid’s T-shirt, and the twenty. When an older couple steps from the photo booth, Barrett drags me in. He taps the touchscreen as we get cozy on a bench that’s barely big enough for two.

  “Tight quarters.” I wiggle my hips into place. “At least it’s air-conditioned in here.”

  “I bought three sessions.” He faces me, sunglasses on his head again. We’re so close the freckles dotting the bridge of his nose are visible. “Make ’em good, Kitty Cat. Mia might want these for the column.”

  A flash of light blinds me and in a blink and Barrett’s mouth is on mine. Just as I’m sinking into the kiss, the flashes barely registering, he pulls his lips from mine and tucks me close. “Smile if you can.”

  “Damn, I missed it.” I smile for the next one, though, and then the one after that. We quickly change expressions for each photo: the typical eyes-crossed, stick-out-your-tongue poses as well as a surprise one from me when he tucks his finger into the top of my sundress and peeks down it. By then I was caught up in the silliness and tossed my head back to laugh.

  He pulls the three strips of photos from the developer, thankfully located inside the booth. We step out and into a flurry of people with stars in their eyes, all waiting for a piece of Barrett Fox. I offer him my Sharpie and slide out of the way.

  Fox sends me an apologetic smile, hands me our photo booth strips, and starts signing for his myriad fans.

  Chapter 16

  Catarina

  Our driver turns into my apartment building’s parking lot and my heart ka-thumps in my chest.

  Barrett rattled off my address and now here we are, about to say goodbye for the evening before he returns to his own apartment.

  “Mind if I take this shit off before I leave?” He gestures to his face, painted to resemble a fox. Thick white paint covers his eyebrows and slopes down his nose, ending in a black circle. The artist was very good, choosing colors that complement Barrett’s golden brown facial hair.

  “You can’t scrub your face at home by yourself?” I ask, giving him a hard time.

  “I can, but I bet you have makeup remover that would cut this job in half.” He arches a foxy eyebrow. “Plus, I can help you take off yours.”

  He taps my nose—which is painted bright pink. Since I didn’t have whiskers of my own, my face painter drew them on. I’m a kitty cat. Of course.

  “What’s it going to be? You taking him up or am I taking him home?” Our driver, a sixty-three-year-old retiree—he told us—asks with a kind smile. “He seems safe enough.”

  “Well, you don’t know him.” I smile at Barrett. “Come on up.”

  “Am I waiting for him to come back down?” the driver asks.

  My eyes clash with Barrett’s heated ones. It’s crystal clear what this date is leading to. If tonight doesn’t end with us in bed, we both know it’ll end with us in a knot on my sofa.

  “No need to wait,” I tell the driver.

  The elevator ride is a quiet one. We press our backs to the wall. Look at our shoes. We do not reenact any of the elevator make-out scenes from any number of books I’ve read or movies I’ve watched.

  Inside my apartment, I flip on some lights and then toss my purse and keys on the kitchen table. “Master bathroom is through here.” I lead, Barrett follows. When I flip the light on in the master, he stalks toward me in a way that’s as animal as his face paint.

  “Will you do it?” he asks.

  “Sure. Sit.” I point to the closed toilet lid, and he obediently lowers himself onto it. I shove a brush, a bottle of lotion, and my curling iron into the vanity drawer. Luckily the rest of the bathroom is clean. I grab a pack of makeup remover towelettes and tug one from the packet. Holding his chin, I swipe one over his right eyebrow. “Photo evidence of this will definitely make the column. Mia loves to embarrass me.”

  Barrett forked over his cellphone and asked our artists to snap photos of us. Later on he took a few himself, including one of me eating an ice-cream cone.

  “I’m so full, I’m no longer buzzed. What a waste of a designated driver.” I’m talking to fill the tense air.

  Barrett’s eyes are closed, his reddish-brown lashes shadowing his cheeks, his skin pink from my scrubbing. He looks like a boy, save for the prominent stubble and masculine angle of his jaw. He’s almost painfully gorgeous.

  “All done.” My voice is tight with lust, the innocuous act of removing face paint somehow nearly as sensual as removing clothing. When his eyes open, I fall into them like pools. I toss the used towelettes into the wastebasket.

  “Anything else?” I clear my throat, suddenly and strangely nervous.

  “Your turn.” We trade places and he carefully swipes the paint from my cheeks, forehead, and chin, his eyebrows lowered in concentration. I enjoy the pampering, and the attention.

  When he’s through, I slowly open my eyes, chin elevated. “Thanks, Fox.”

  “You’re welcome, Kitty Cat.” He looks at my mouth with a longing I feel but doesn’t kiss me. I can tell he’s about to leave. I don’t want him to, but it’s the best idea for both of us... Isn’t it?

  I don’t know anymore.

  “I’m going to go,” he says, those four words as distancing as they sound.

  “Can I drop you at home?”

  “You’re already home, honey. I’m not making you go out.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t go out, either. It’ll take too long to get a car,” I argue and then desperately add, “Hey, we could brainstorm on what we’ll be writing this weekend.”

  At that suggestion he grows visibly tired, his shoulders slumping. “No thanks.”

  “Guess I’m the workaholic out of the two of us, huh?”

  “Depends on what kind of work you’re talking about.” He offers a palm and helps me stand, then he leads me through the bedroom and (I’m guessing) to the front door.

  With each step we grow closer and closer to him walking out. I’m racking my brain for an excuse to keep him here. The why doesn’t matter any longer. I’m not interested in whys, only my body’s needs.

  “It’s our third date. Technically. If you count both golf dates as one,” I say.

  He pauses mere feet from the exit and raises his eyebrows.

  “How shall we write that it ended? With face paint removal?” I take a tentative step closer to him and then another. “Or a kiss goodnight?”

  His eyes darken to navy, his pupils growing with interest. His fingers feed into my hair, tearing down my ponytail and coming out with the elastic. He doesn’t take his eyes off mine as he drops the band on the floor. His lips hitch with interest and, I hope, in surrender.

  He arranges my hair over my shoulders, leaving it in a big wavy mess around my face. My beer buzz has long faded, but my head swims. I might be drunk on Barrett Fox.

  I mentally fast-forward past the kiss, the sex, and to the morning after. “This would be a disaster, wouldn’t it?”

  “A beautiful disaster,” he murmurs.

  “You can sleep on the couch.” I step so close my toes bump his. “Sneak out in the morning. Or you can stay, and we can spend the morning writing our columns.”

  “God, woman. You know how to kill a mood, don’t you?” A rocky laugh leaves his chest. I smile up at him, smitten. Then his expression grows serious. Everything around us crumbles to dust when he lowers his lips to mine.

  The kiss is sweet. Soft. Then hard and needy.

  His fingers return to my hair, sending shivers down my spine. I stand on my toes, claw at his shoulders. My will is weakened from the long day, from hearing him sing, and by the gentle way he has when he’s not playing famous.

  The hand in my hair grips a fistful and he tips my head back so that I’m looking up at his shadowed face. “I’m not sleeping with you tonight, Kitty Cat.”

  “Why not?” I whine.

  He grins. In control and loving it. “You saw all the best parts of me today.”

  “Yeah, well I’ve seen the worst parts of you already.” I wad his T-shirt in my hand and yank it up to reveal a panel of defined abs interspersed with golden-brown hair. Another whimper edges from my throat.

  “You haven’t. Not yet. I don’t want you to regret anything.”

  “I won’t. I’m itchy,” I say, referring to our discussion about how long it’s been since we’ve each had sex. “Assuming you haven’t slept with anyone since that conversation, I bet you’re itchy, too.”

  “Like I’m covered in fire ants,” he mutters, and somehow manages to make that sound sexy. “But the timing’s off.”

  Like a teenager who’s been told “no” I pull a sulky expression.

  “Ah, ah.” He shakes his head. “I’ll still set you off, sugar. I just don’t have the time to kiss to the insides of your knees like I promised. Or tickle that space where your thigh meets your ass with the tip of my tongue.” His kisses my bottom lip, tasting sweet from the ice cream we shared earlier.

  A sharp ziiiip! sounds and my dress sags at the front. I snap my spine straight when his warm palm touches my bare skin.

  “Let’s see how far we can get you by only taking off your bra.” He wears a predator’s smile as he steers me toward the couch.

  “Frustrated. That’s where you’ll get me.” I sit with a graceless whump.

  He leans heavily against my body, his lips devouring, his tongue stroking mine. I forget what we were arguing about and kiss him back. He pulls my dress down to my waist, baring my upper half. I arch toward him, trying desperately to rub against the erection that has to be there. It has to.

  When I reach for his belt, he grabs my hand and pins it over my head. The other follows when I reach for his shirt.

  He rains kisses down my throat and over my bra, biting the fabric and gently grazing first one nipple, then the other. I let out a sharp “Oh!”

  His expression is no longer cocky ease, but pointed, eager longing.

  “We can go fast this time, slow the next time,” I say. “Just... Let’s do it. Sex now. Please?”

  “She begs.”

  I growl low in my throat and struggle futilely against his hands acting as shackles.

  He silences me with another kiss, and once I’ve capitulated, slips his hand behind my back and removes my bra. When that pesky material is out of the way, he swirls his tongue over my nipple. My growl of frustration morphs into a pleading moan.

  My hips pump, my fingers feeding into his thick, short hair. Wordlessly, I beg for whatever he’ll give me.

  But he has no intention of making me wait. His fingers vanish beneath the skirt of my dress and trail up my inner thighs. Once past the barrier of my damp cotton underwear, he strokes my folds. My cries of delight are lost in his mouth.

  When he moves his tongue to my breasts again, I’m panting, gasping, about to explode into a million tiny cosmos. He finds my clit easily and delivers one debilitating stroke after another. With a breathy cry, I grip his shoulders and come.

  My head slams back onto the pillow. My fingers dig into his shoulders as a thoroughly satisfied moan crawls out of my throat. I’m limp, my muscles jelly. My lips tingle, and the very satisfied part of me between my legs thumps happily in time with my erratic heartbeat.

  After a few buzzy moments, I lazily open my eyes.

  Barrett kisses my nose. “How was that?”

  “Phantasmagoric.”

  “Is that a word?” He looks amused and so handsome I can’t stand it.

  “It is, though I’m not sure I used it right.”