No Strings Attached. Alison Kent
“You mean, the men you go through like diet soda?” he asked, spinning her now empty glass on the bar. “The first sip satisfies, but then the ice melts and the fizz is gone?”
She narrowed her eyes. “That’s not one hundred percent accurate.”
“What is accurate, Chloe? Because no matter how hard I try, I can’t find enough fingers and toes to count the number of men I’ve seen you with this year. And it’s only April.”
Was it really over twenty? She’d obviously lost count. “I like men. I like dating. But it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out immediate incompatibility.”
“Wait a minute. Let me get this straight.” Eric shook his head, signaled a time-out. “Every time you go out with a new guy, you give him a compatibility test? You don’t try for friendship first? Or for just plain fun?”
“Fun and friendship also require compatibility, sugar.”
All girls had their expectations and fantasies, didn’t they? So what if hers were nonnegotiable. She knew she’d heard at least one song about a woman bemoaning the absence of her own John Wayne.
Chloe’s preference just happened to be Cary Grant.
“And you and me?” Eric asked. “You think we’re compatible?”
They had fun together. She counted him as a friend. It was a start, wasn’t it? “We spent a month digging through one another’s baggage and I’m still here, aren’t I?”
Eric seemed momentarily at a loss for words. But his thought processes seemed equally stunned, judging from the sudden blank look on his face. But then he caught her off guard, retorting, “Didn’t we just determine that you’re here because you need a favor? Not because of any compatibility issue.”
“I do need a favor. I need an escort.” She stated it flat out, hoping the shock value would knock him off balance and into capitulation.
“You want me to take a poll? See which of my customers meet your criteria?” Eric cast a sweeping glance around the bar, then narrowed his gaze on her. “Or you want I should call in a favor from a buddy you haven’t met yet? Press one of the high-profile athletes I know into service?”
As if! “No. I want you.”
He frowned, backed a safe step away and crossed his arms. “What do you mean, you want me?”
She placed both hands, palm side up, on the bar. “I want you to be my escort.”
“So you can bust my chops all the way to next Tuesday?”
The first uncomfortable twinges of failure stung the backs of her eyes. “You’re jumping to unfounded conclusions, sugar.”
“Unfounded conclusions and unqualified no’s. Yep. I can see why that would make me the man you want.”
She wasn’t so sure any longer. Not this way. Not with this bitterness she’d never seen coming. She reached for her red leather mini knapsack and her wallet inside, intending to settle up for the cosmopolitan and the diet soda.
Men. Never again.
With a hand placed gently over hers, Eric stopped her from paying and from leaving. His expression had softened, as had his voice when he said, “C’mon. Let’s go talk in my office.”
2
HIS HAND AT THE SMALL of Chloe’s back, Eric guided his unexpected visitor across the bar’s common room, past the swinging doors leading to the kitchen and into a short hallway toward a door boldly marked: No Admittance Without Proper Authority or Play-Off Tickets.
The small of Chloe’s back was really small. The girl had a mouth on her, a big one, and an attitude to match. But boy, was she a curvy little thing. Made it hard to decide whether he wanted to date her or adopt her.
One thing he knew was that he wasn’t going to say yes to whatever cockamamie scheme she’d come here to pitch. If she didn’t want him for more than her own self-serving reasons, then screw her.
And screw him if he hadn’t learned not to let himself be used.
Chloe may have thought she’d come away from their scavenger-hunt month holding the upper hand, but he’d done his share of scouting, and he knew a thing or two about Chloe he doubted she knew about herself.
As tough as she seemed, she was appealingly vulnerable. He didn’t know why she protected herself with her big bad attitude, but if made her feel safer, he’d play along. At least until he learned more about what had brought her here.
Because Chloe Zuniga didn’t show up out of the blue looking like a cross between a Maxim cover model and a soccer mom without a damn good reason. A better one than needing an escort.
He reached for the doorknob, guided her forward, moved his hand from the small of her back to her shoulder. A surprisingly muscled shoulder, come to think of it, considering she hated physical activity.
His office decor reflected the rest of the bar, which meant Chloe would no doubt be just as uncomfortable in here as she had been out there. He’d give her an A, though, for effort, because she had made a big one. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her wear athletic shoes.
As he watched her take in the long wall covered with autographed photos, he couldn’t help but wonder what she’d look like having worked up a good sweat. He couldn’t even imagine, having never seen her with a single blond hair out of place, unless tousled on purpose for the sake of being sexy. He’d seen rational men turned into blubbering idiots by that bedroom hair and those big, violet-colored eyes.
Eric chuckled to himself. He loved tinted contacts. He loved the idea of mussing up her hair. He also loved the way she looked in play clothes. And the way she looked in his office.
He moved to lean back against the huge wooden desk he’d purchased at a rural school auction, crossed his arms over his chest and waited. He didn’t have a lot of time; Jason would be needing backup soon. But Eric had a feeling that whatever he was waiting for would be worth weathering a rebellion in the ranks.
“Bagwell, Biggio, Olajuwon, Lipinski, Campbell, Ryan, Lewis.” Chloe named off the past and present Houston sports figures, stopped when she reached the one frame set off from the others, and gave Eric the look most gave him with they came across the autographed shrine. “Anna Kournikova?”
Eric lifted a shoulder. “She plays tennis.”
Chloe’s only reply was a loud huff. She continued to tour his office, moving from the autographed photos to the matted and framed ticket stubs he’d collected since attending his first professional sporting event at the age of five.
He hadn’t framed every stub from every event. Most he’d randomly stapled to the wall, which made for wallpaper worth reading. But once in a very rare, memorable while, a frame was called for.
He watched Chloe lean in closer to read several of the stubs, watched her stand on tiptoe to read others. Watched her lips move as she mouthed the words. She smiled, she frowned, she sighed.
He wanted to ask which of the souvenirs generated which response, but he was too busy enjoying the way her calf muscles flexed when she lifted and stretched, the way the denim cupped her backside, the way the jersey molded her shoulders.
Either she’d pumped a lot of iron over the past couple of months or he’d really been blind as a bat the few times he’d had his hands on her before. Especially that time they’d danced at Lauren and Anton’s housewarming party…after he’d licked the salt from her skin, downed a shot of tequila and sucked the juice from the lime she’d held in her mouth.
God Bless America, but the woman could kiss.
Catching him in his intent study of her rear view, Chloe suddenly turned and flopped down on his office couch, which was some local designer’s interpretation of a cushy baseball dugout.