Her Secret Fling. Sarah Mayberry
and punched the button for her floor. By now, most of the players would be drunk or well on their way to it, and probably half of the press corps, too. She’d been too tired to take Macca up on his invitation to join him, Hilary and Jake for a postcoverage drink. Even if she hadn’t been hours away from being ready to file her story by the time the others were packing up to go, she’d had enough of The Snake over the past few days to last a lifetime. She wasn’t about to subject herself to his irritating presence over a meal. Not for love or money.
She scrubbed her face with her hands as the floor indicator climbed higher. She was officially exhausted. The leadup to the game, the game itself, the challenging atmosphere of the press box, the awareness that she was part of a team and she needed to deliver—all of it had taken its toll on her over the past couple of days and she felt as though she’d staggered over the finish line of a marathon.
She was painfully aware that she’d been the last of the team to file her stories every day so far. She’d sweated over her introductions, agonized over what quotes to use, fretted over her sign-offs. Writing didn’t come naturally to her, and she was beginning to suspect it was something she would always have to work at. No wonder her shoulders felt as though they were carved from marble at the end of each day.
She toed off her shoes as she entered her hotel room. She’d given up on high heels after the first week in her new job. Not only did they make her taller than most men, she couldn’t walk in them worth a damn and they made her feet ache. She shed her navy tailored trousers and matching jacket, then her white shirt. Her underwear followed and she made her way to the bathroom and started the shower up. She felt ten different kinds of greasy after a day of being jostled by pushy journalists and fervent football fans and hovering over her laptop, sweating over every word and punctuation mark. She tested the water with her hand and rolled her eyes when it was still cold. Stupid hotel. No one had warned her that the Herald were a pack of tightwads when it came to travel expenses. It was like being on the national swim team again.
She glanced at her reflection while she waited for the water to warm. As always, the sight of her new, improved bust line made her frown. She’d never had boobs. Years of training had keep her lean and flat. But now that she’d stopped the weights and the strenuous training sessions and relaxed her strict diet, nature had reasserted itself with a vengeance over the past few months.
She slid her hands onto her breasts, feeling their smooth roundness, lifting them a little, studying the effect in the mirror. She shook her head and let her hands drop to her sides. It was too weird. She wasn’t used to them. Kept brushing against things and people. And she’d had to throw out half her wardrobe. Then there was the attention from men. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to that. Never in her life had she had so many conversations without eye contact. She’d quickly learned not to take her jacket off if she wanted to be taken seriously. Which meant she wore it pretty much all the time.
The water was warm at last and she stepped beneath the spray. Ten minutes later, she toweled herself off and went in search of food. The room service menu was uninspired. What she really felt like eating was chocolate chip ice cream and a packet of salty, crunchy potato chips. She eyed the minibar for a few seconds, but couldn’t bring herself to pay five times the price for something that was readily available in the convenience store two doors down from the hotel.
She pulled on sweatpants and a tank top, decided against a bra since she was making just a quick pig-out run, then zipped up her old swim team sweat top. Her feet in flip-flops, she headed downstairs.
The latest James Bond movie was showing on the hotel’s in-house movie service. She smiled to herself as she thought about Daniel Craig in his swim trunks. Sugar, salt and a buff man—not a bad night in.
She was still smiling contentedly when she returned to the hotel five minutes later, loaded down with snack food. She was in the elevator, the doors about to close, when Jake Stevens thrust his arm between them. She stood a little straighter as he stepped inside the car.
Damn it. Was it too much to ask for a few moments’ reprieve from his knowing, sarcastic eyes and smug smile?
She moved closer to the corner so there wasn’t even the remote chance of brushing shoulders with him.
His gaze flicked over her briefly. Suddenly she was very aware of her wet hair and the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra. She shifted uncomfortably and his gaze dropped to her carrier bag of goodies.
“Having a big night, I see,” he said.
“Something like that.”
He leaned closer. She fought the need to pull away as he hooked a finger into the top of the bag and peered inside.
“Chocolate-chip ice cream and nacho-cheese corn chips. Interesting combo.”
Up close, his eyes were so blue and clear she felt as though she could see all the way through to his soul.
If he had one.
“Do you mind?” she said, jerking the bag away from him.
He raised his eyebrows. She raised hers and gave him a challenging look.
“Just trying to be friendly,” he said.
“No, you weren’t. You were being a smart-ass, at my expense, as usual. So don’t expect me to lie down and take it.”
His gaze dropped to her chest, then flicked back to her face. She waited for him to say something suitably smart-assy in response, but he didn’t. The lift chimed as they hit her floor.
Thank God.
She stepped out into the corridor. He followed. She frowned, thrown. Then she started walking toward her room, keeping a watch out of the corner of her eye. As she’d feared, he was following her.
She stopped abruptly and he almost walked into her as she swung to face him.
“I don’t need an escort to my door, if that’s what you’re doing,” she said. “I don’t need anything from you, which I know probably sticks in your craw since your ego is so massive and so fragile you can’t handle having a rookie on the team.”
Jake cocked his head to one side. Then he smiled sweetly and pulled a key from his pocket. The number 647 dangled from it. Two rooms up from hers.
Right.
She could feel embarrassed heat rising into her face. Why did this man always make her so self-conscious? It wasn’t as though she cared what he thought of her.
She started walking again. She had her key in her hand well before her door was in sight. She shoved it into the lock and pushed her door open as quickly as she could. She caught a last glimpse of his smiling face as she shut the door.
Smug bastard.
She grabbed a spoon from the minibar and ripped the top off the ice cream. She needed to keep an eye on her temper around him. And she had to stop letting him get under her skin. That, or she had to somehow develop Zen-like mind-body control so she could stop herself from blushing in front of him.
Large quantities of chocolate-chip ice cream went a long way to calming her. She turned on the TV and opened the corn chips. An hour into the movie, she was blinking and yawning. When the movie cut to a love scene, she decided to call it quits for the night. She liked watching James run and jump and beat people up, but she wasn’t so wild about the mandatory sex scenes. She knew other people liked them, even got disappointed when they didn’t get enough of them, but she so didn’t get it.
She contemplated the issue as she brushed her teeth.
Sex, in her opinion, was one of the most overrated activities under the sun. She figured she was experienced enough to know—she’d had three lovers in her thirty-one years, and none of them had come even close to being as satisfying as George, her battery-operated, intriguingly shaped friend. Disappointing, but true.
Of course, it was possible that she’d had three dud lovers in a row, but she thought it far more likely that sex, like most anti-aging products and lose-weight-now remedies,