Most Valuable Playboy

Then I reroute the conversation for real this time. I glance around her shop, gesturing from her to me. “It’s kind of ridiculous that something like this—us supposedly being together—makes a shop more popular.”

She pats my arm. “Sometimes, I think you don’t realize the effect you can have on people.”

My brow pinches. “What do you mean?”

“You think just because Jeff was so popular that you can fly under the radar. That doesn’t happen anymore. Everyone wants to see you succeed because they love the team. They equate things like this—you and me supposedly being a thing”—she puts a heavy emphasis on supposedly, maybe as a reminder that it’s all trumped up—“as part of the key to success.”

“I suppose that’s true. Greenhaven certainly saw it like that, and I don’t want to rub him the wrong way. The GM basically does what Greenhaven wants when it comes to keeping players and letting players go.” I give her the lowdown on what the coach said, then on my meeting with Ford. “He made it clear he doesn’t want me backpedaling during the negotiations. It’s all very sensitive. Like a dance.”

“How long do you think they’ll last?”

I drag a hand through my hair. “I’m not sure. Sometimes it takes a few days. Sometimes it takes weeks.”

Her eyebrows inch up, and she stares at me as if I’ve done something terribly wrong.

“What?”

She leans closer. “Your hair.” Her voice is softer, like it was earlier.

I watch her lift her hand. “Sticking up again?”

“You messed it up.”

“You’re dying to fix it, aren’t you?” I ask, teasing.

She runs her teeth over her lip. “It’s taking enormous self-restraint not to.”

I throw down a challenge. “I’m not sure you can fix it without your lotions and potions.”

She lasers me with a sharp-eyed stare. “You doubt me?”

“Yes. I doubt you,” I say, loving the twinkle in her light brown eyes.

She pokes me in the sternum. “You don’t see me getting on the field and telling you that you can’t get the ball in the end zone. You don’t come into my shop and tell me I can’t fix your hair with my bare hands.”

My smile spreads. Damn, I love this feisty side of her. “It’s so sexy when you talk like that about your . . . bare hands.”

She lifts them, as if she’s Wolverine and these are her weapons. She rises to her knees, inches closer, and smooths a hand over my hair. I tell myself to be cool, to be still, to not get turned on. Like I can enter the mind-over-erection zone.

But the funny thing is, I don’t ruminate on how good it feels when her hands slide into my hair.

Instead, I study her. I stare at her neck. I’m mesmerized by the way she swallows—almost harshly as she licks a few fingers to wet them. I’m intrigued by how her shoulders rise and fall in a steady rhythm. My ears home in on the sound of her breath hitching as she slides her fingers back onto my head.

My chest burns, and the space between us falls silent. Her fingers glide through my messy hair, smoothing, straightening, taming. The only sounds are the hum of the heater and the faint sound of traffic from outside.

Her voice breaks the quiet. “I don’t think I’ve told you this before . . .”

“Told me what?” I ask, my voice raspy, and for the briefest second, I hope that she’s about to utter something magnificent like I’ve never been this turned on before or can I just rub my tits against your face?

The response to the first is me, neither, and the answer to the next one is for as long as you want to, please.

But she says something better. “Cooper, your hair is so soft.”

The emphasis is on the so. As if she’s tasting the word. As if it’s rolling around on her tongue, lingering in her mouth. And when she moves back, sitting next to me, crossing her legs, I let my eyes drift down to her neck and the exposed skin above her cleavage, flushed pink.

As if she’s aroused, too.

I raise my gaze, blinking, trying to center myself and reconnect to this moment. To my friend. To my best friend’s sister.

My voice comes out gravelly. “We probably need to let Trent know we have to keep this up.”

“Yes, Trent,” she says, and there’s nothing to kill a mood faster than his name.

I’m grateful for the buzzkill. Being this close to Violet is dangerous. Something changed last night. I’m not sure how to name it—the way I feel being near her. But I like it. I like it too much for my own good.

She calls Trent and puts her phone on speaker on her thigh. Quickly, she explains what went down with the landlord, and I tell him about Ford.

“So, we wanted you to know,” she says.

“Hey, I get it,” Trent says, because even if he doesn’t want us together, he’s not a dick. He’s a good guy. “And I’m glad this game of pretend can help you both. Feel free to tell any of your new clients, Vi, that if they want to go to the best sports bar in the Bay Area they should hit Trent’s Brew Company.”

I laugh. “I’ll always send business to you, too, man.”

“All right. Holly and I need to do inventory.”

I scratch my chin. “Why do I feel that’s code for something?”

“I wish it were. We really do need to do inventory,” he says seriously, and I meet Violet’s eyes and stick out my tongue.

She laughs quietly. “If you say so.”

“Have fun pretending, and Cooper, don’t touch my sister,” he says in a deliberately stern tone, as if he’s giving me a Very Serious Warning. He says it as if it’s a ridiculous idea, too. As if I’d never want to touch his sister.

But as we end the call and Violet grabs her pink purse, whatever shifted last night has become clear. I know how to name the feeling. I understand what it is.

I want to touch her.

I want to kiss her.

I want to taste her.

Last night, my body wasn’t playing tricks on me. It was telling a truth that perhaps has existed for some time now. A truth that was dormant and is now awakened and insistent. It doesn’t want to take no for an answer.

I’m wildly attracted to my best friend’s sister, but I have to pretend I don’t want to kiss her, touch her, fuck her, and take her home with me.

That’s where the true faking starts for me.

12

It’s our impromptu first date.

We stroll along the streets of downtown Sausalito as night falls across the sky and the town’s Christmas lights sparkle on signs and trees above us. We wander past the ice cream shop, and we drop into a wine store that’s having a tasting. The sommelier is oblivious, but a customer drinking a red can’t take his eyes off us. That might have to do with the fact that he’s wearing a Renegades jersey. It’s a Jeff Grant jersey, but hell if I care.

When we leave, he calls out, “Kick some Dallas ass this weekend.”

I turn around. “Absolutely. Nothing less.”

Out on the street, with the cool December breeze softly blowing, Violet takes my hand, and her touch ignites a spark inside me.

I look at our joined hands for a moment, liking how we fit. Then I remind myself she’s just touching me as part of the date.

“Are you ready for this weekend?” she asks.

“Yeah. I think so. We had a tough practice today, but I think we’ll take no prisoners on the field. I’m going to spend more time tonight studying the playbook.”