Most Valuable Playboy

I hope to hell Trent isn’t pissed at me, but when my eyes find him in the audience, he looks more like he’s rubbernecking. No surprise—he knows Violet and I would never be together. I’ll just make sure he knows the score later, on all counts.

Sierra gives me an expectant look. “Well?”

“Well, what?” I ask, knitting my brow. What else does she want from me? She’s got the story, she has a record-high bid, and the auction was a hit. Time for us to strut off stage, toast to our little ruse, and go our separate ways home. Problem solved, game over.

Right?

But Sierra pins me with her journalistic gaze. She gestures pointedly to the lady in my arms. “Don’t you want to kiss the girl who just gave ten thousand dollars for a date with her boyfriend?”

That was a play-action fake I wasn’t expecting.

I square my shoulders, clear my throat, and sneak a peek at Violet. Her amber eyes are unreadable, and I’m honestly not sure what to do next.

Then, someone starts clapping. Another woman cheers. Hoots and hollers bounce off the walls.

Seems the audience wants a show.

When you play a game on TV in front of millions, and in front of fifty thousand people in the stadium, you aren’t uncomfortable with an audience witnessing your failures and your victories. But when I angle to look directly at Violet, nerves spike inside me, and I’m not sure why. I’ve known her for more than twenty years, since that day she thought I was yucky.

Maybe I’m still yucky to her, and that’s why she’s frozen.

Hell, the woman saved the day, but I can’t imagine Violet wants to amp up the ruse. Maybe she’ll want to come clean this second, and admit we aren’t really a couple.

I swallow, prepping for the unraveling of our little fable. Instead, her gaze shifts to the audience, as if she’s pointing at them. As if she’s saying give them what they want.

I blink. Holy shit. She’s serious?

“Kiss me,” she whispers so damn quietly.

She’s serious.

“She’s open, Coop. Give her a kiss!” someone shouts from the crowd, and I suppose I should ask for Trent’s permission. I should check and see if he cares that I’m about to kiss his sister. But she’s already signed the permission slip, and she’s the one calling the shots.

As I bend closer to her, I don’t think of a damn thing but her lips, and her request.

Kiss me.

I tell myself to keep it chaste. Keep it tasteful, because this is being simulcast. But hey, it’s local cable access. So maybe a little tongue is fine. TV tongue, not porno tongue. Just a quick kiss to seal this charade. No one will know she’s just my best friend’s sister.

Her chin is tipped up, her amber eyes are inviting, and there’s that scent again. Peaches. It does something to me. Floats into my nostrils. Scrambles my brain. Makes me want to taste her pretty peach lips for real.

Kiss me.

I brush my lips to hers and tell myself to pull away, pull away, pull away. All we need is a kiss for the cameras. For the show. To put a neat little bow on this night. Then, we can dust off our hands and return to what we’ve always been.

Buddies.

But I don’t pull away.

I don’t break the contact. Nor does she. Neither one of us makes a move to stop. And that, right there, changes the game. This isn’t a peck anymore. It ratchets up the kiss scale. Violet slides her lips over mine, and I groan from the feel. My head is a haze, and I’m not sure I can move. She moves, though. She kisses me as if she’s telling the whole crowd I belong to her. As if she wants everyone to know she’s claimed me. That she’s taking me home tonight and every night.

Hell, this girl can act.

The problem is my dick is a method actor.

Because this should just be an ordinary staged kiss.

But he’s gone rogue.

The idiot between my legs is malfunctioning, pointing at the wrong person in an absolutely inappropriate manner. Violet resides in the not-allowed-to-think-of-as-hot category. I’m friends with her whole family, for Christ’s sake. I’m not supposed to be attracted to her, I shouldn’t be turned on by her, and I’m not going to let myself get carried away with this performance. But tell that to my body, because I’m immensely turned on as Violet and I kiss more deeply. I’m sinking into this kiss, and I need to wrestle some control back. It’s not possible for me to be this goddamn attracted to a woman who’s been like a sister to me.

I let that word echo in my head. Sister.

Except, there’s nothing sisterly about the softness of her lips, or the peach taste of her gloss, or the scent of her fresh and minty breath.

I’m not thinking of sisters. I’m thinking of this woman.

I take over, cupping her cheeks with my hands. I hold her face and seal my mouth to hers with a deeper, more passionate kiss. I forget where I am. I forget the crowd. The attendees. The emcee. My teammates. Jillian. Maxine. Trent. I kiss Violet on stage, savoring her taste, reveling in the sweetness of her lips, delighting in the scent that engulfs me. I kiss her like she is my girlfriend, like she’s the only one who should be winning a date with me, because she’s the only one I could possibly want.

When our lips slide apart, her lip gloss is smudged. Her amber eyes are glassy and dazed. I wonder how mine look and if they match hers.

The crowd goes wild.

Sierra cheers, then says, “The quarterback and the hometown girl. Now, that is a winning bid.”

The collective awww tells me this is a story they like.

But when I head backstage, Violet’s hand in mine, I see we’ve slid into a whole new pack of problems.

5

Jillian marches up to me, her heels clicking on the floor. Her eyes drill holes through me. Her lips approximate a thin line. Her arms go straight in front of her. She pushes my chest. She’s tough, but I don’t move.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, confused, because she should be happy, right? “Your pretty kitties earned so much money.”

The smile that spreads quickly tells me she’s one happy mama cat. “I know! I’m so thrilled!” She shoves me again.

“Then why are you pushing me?”

Another shove. “Because you didn’t tell me.” Jillian gestures wildly from Violet to me. “How could you not tell me you were dating? We were all in the suite together, and I had no idea.”

Jones gives me a satisfied smirk from his post backstage. He knows Violet and I aren’t together. He keeps his mouth zipped, though. Harlan, too, is quiet, and so is Rick.

I take a deep breath, and in that span of a few seconds, I consider my choices. Let her believe the fib, or let her in on the ruse. The thing is, Jillian works for the team. Even though she’s friendly with us, she’s still management. She’s not a teammate. She’s not taking hits for me on the field.

If I told the guys the truth, they’d have my back, since that’s what we do for each other. But I don’t know where Jillian’s loyalties lie, so it’s best not to tip my hand.

“You know how these things go,” I say, keeping it vague as I squeeze Violet’s hand. I startle when I realize I’m still holding it. How did that happen? I guess I grabbed on when we left the stage and never let go. She squeezes back, giving me a smile. Okay, fine, we’re officially still holding hands.

Jillian’s eyes widen, and her grin is huge and hungry. “No. I don’t know how it goes. Tell me.” Her tone is rich with excitement. I suppose these stories can be the fun ones for a publicist. She’s eating it up, like Sierra did. “I want details. You know I’m going to get calls from the press asking about the two of you. I already have reporters texting me, wanting to know the story, wanting to know who your lovely stylist-turned-girlfriend is.” She brandishes her cell phone.