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Shaking off thoughts of unavailable men and all the complications of horndogging the fuck out of them, I hit Remy’s number on speed dial to check on my six-year-old daughter, Lexi.
Rem was the oldest in our brood of five, and no doubt he was Lexi’s favorite uncle—though, I made sure to downplay his status when I spoke directly to him.
He doted on her constantly and took every opportunity to babysit, which benefited me greatly when the Mavericks had me traveling to away games. It also helped that he was single and not keen on commitment—I seemed to be drowning in this particular subset of men—and generally worked from home as a day trader. He rivaled Cassie’s husband Thatch in the whole good with numbers and investments department, but he lacked in enthusiasm, and as a result, his bank account didn’t end in nearly as many zeroes. Then again, neither did mine—or practically anyone’s.
“Hey, hey, little sister,” he greeted on the second ring, outing himself spectacularly as the Billy Idol superfan he often tried to hide. “How’s Miami?”
“Hot as balls.” I groaned, trying to silence “White Wedding” as it droned on uninvited in my head. “The Florida heat makes me thankful for the urine-dyed snow of New York.”
He chuckled. “I’m guessing you’re only saying that because you’ve yet to step in urine-dyed snow this year.”
He was probably right. I cringed as I thought about how soon that season would be upon us and added buying a new pair of snow boots for both me and Lex to my mental to-do list.
“Looks like your boys played a hell of a game,” Remy remarked. “Lex nearly lost her mind when she saw Bailey hit the three-hundred mark for passing yards.”
I grinned. Since I had taken the job with the Mavericks, Lex had become fixated on anything and everything NFL football. Her little brain had been relentless in its task of absorbing every single stat like a greedy sponge.
Lex wasn’t your average kid—she was well above it. Diagnosed as high-functioning on the autistic spectrum, she was highly intelligent and advanced in things such as math and reading and writing. By the age of two, she had mastered the alphabet and could write out every letter. By the age of three, she had accomplished basic mathematics. By the age of four, she had been able to read. And now, at six years old, she could compute mid-level algebra better than most sophomores in high school.
She had struggles too, but her willingness to compensate in order to overcome was humbling. There was no doubt about it; my daughter’s brain was an amazing thing.
“So, how late did you let my daughter stay up tonight, Rem?”
“Not too late. She was in bed by ten.”
“Ten?” I questioned, knowing full well she wouldn’t have seen Bailey’s stats until after the game was over, which had most likely ended a little after ten.
“Okay,” he answered with a smile in his voice. “Ten fifteen, tops.”
I glanced at the clock on the hotel nightstand and saw 11:35. “You’re so full of shit. I bet you just finished reading her a book and tucking her in fifteen minutes ago.”
He chuckled again. “I’m sticking to ten fifteen.”
“Whatever, asshole,” I teased. “You keep letting my daughter stay up past eleven, and I’m going to have to let Ty watch her.”
“Lex would never stand for it. She loves me the most.”
I laughed. “Hmm…I don’t know. She’s been talking a lot about Jude lately.”
“Shit. Maybe I should wake her up,” he grumbled.
“Do that, you die,” I threatened, the antics of a brother-sister relationship only maturing slightly over the years. Those two snot-nosed kids were always inside us, waiting to whine about who touched whom first.
“Did you make it back to your hotel okay?” he asked, ignoring my jab and falling straight into his role of playing the typical, overprotective big brother. Out of all four of my brothers, Rem probably tried the hardest to shelter me. With my combination of an absentee father, poor taste in men, and a special-needs child, he hadn’t been entirely successful—much to his chagrin.
“Yes, Dad,” I teased. “I made it back about forty minutes ago. I’m showered and ready for bed.”
“Good,” he responded. “I don’t want to read about you out partying with a bunch of horny football players in the paper.”
“Oh, get over yourself.” I scoffed. “If I want to stay out all night and take body shots off our offensive line, that’s my business.”
“That’s not fucking funny.”
“Rem.” I mimicked his disapproving tone. “I might be your little sister, but I’m also a grown-ass thirty-one-year-old woman. When are you ever going to realize that?”
“Never. You’ll always be my little sister.”
“You’re worse than the rest of them.”
“That’s because I’m the best brother you have.”
“You’re the most annoying brother I have.”
“I’m your favorite brother.”
“No way. Jude’s my favorite.”
“Bullshit.”
I laughed. “All right. I’m calling it a night. Have Lex call me in the morning, okay?”
“You got it,” he agreed, and despite our teasing and my many minor complaints, I knew in the lottery of life, all four of my brothers were big ol’ winning tickets. “Love you, Win.”
“Love you too.”
I ended the call and decided that a quick trip to the vending machine was in order. A bag of Ruffles and a bottle of Coke had never sounded so good. Since I knew most of the team and staff had gone out for dinner and drinks after the game, I figured I didn’t have to worry about my appearance and lack of bra.
Because, seriously, who wore a bra to bed? Not this chick, that was for damn sure.
I tossed my still-wet locks into a messy bun, threw on a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top, slipped on my flip-flops, and headed out of my room with only my credit card—because I was notorious for never having cash in my wallet—and my room key.
God bless the person who made sure vending machines now accepted credit cards. The only downside was the evidence of my gluttony when all of the transactions read out in a list on the statement at the end of the month. Funny how Visa never denied my card on the forty vending machine swipes for suspicious activity.
“Hallelujah,” I shouted as I made it to the machine. It was fully stocked with Cheddar and Sour Cream Ruffles, and my excitement was a very real, tangible thing. They were pretty much a lock, but I never confirmed the answer as final until I had all the information. Snacks late at night, to me, were just as good as a chance at a million dollars. As I softly sang “Baby Mine”—Lex’s favorite lullaby—to myself, I tapped my fingers against the glass and perused my options.
Pretzels? Nope. Not in the mood for salted cardboard.
Skittles? Maybe.
Pop-Tarts? Sounds like breakfast.
Yeah, Cheddar and Sour Cream Ruffles it is.
Three swipes of my credit card later, I had both hands full of chips and soda and a bag of Skittles for good measure. As I turned for the hallway, my advance was abruptly stopped as I barreled into a hard chest. And I knew it was a chest…a really fucking nice one. There might have been doubt in someone else’s mind, but not in the intimacy-starved recesses of mine.
My bag of Ruffles crunched loudly between our bodies, and two strong arms reached out and prevented me from tripping over my flip-flops and tumbling to the carpeted floor by gripping my shoulders and steadying me back on my feet.
My gaze moved up, up, up until it met an intense yet very familiar set of hazel eyes.
Wes Lancaster.
“You okay?” he asked, searching my face with concern. The veil he wore nearly constantly was gone, and his expression was at ease in a way I’d never witnessed. No ticking muscle in his jaw, no furrowed brow, just a man in his sleepwear out for a late-night trip to the vending machine.
How…human of him.
He didn’t seem nearly as intimidating like this—but his presence was still undeniably imposing. When Wes Lancaster was in a room, he was in it.
“Yeah.” I nodded, making my lips move around the numb shock. “Sorry about that. I didn’t realize anyone was behind me.”
How long had he been standing there?
Hopefully, not long enough to hear my off-key singing.
I watched him as he took inventory of my body, slowly moving down, down, down until he had pretty much full-on checked me out without shame.
And with that simple action, all the unusual calm of our interaction was gone.
God, he pissed me off. And turned me on.
I wanted to smack him. I wanted to kiss him.
I wanted to climb his body like my own personal pole. I was certain no man had ever evoked this type of bipolar reaction from within me.
When his eyes met mine again, I raised a defiant eyebrow. “All set? Or do you need me to give you a little twirl just to be sure?”
His mouth—his perfect, lush, obscenely kissable mouth—crested into a suggestively wry grin. “Do you want me to give a little twirl?” he asked and crossed his thick, muscular arms over his chest. “I wouldn’t mind.”
I couldn’t stop myself—the exact opposite of out of sight, out of mind, thanks to his provocation—glancing down at his body and homing in on every perfect inch of his fit form, clad in a simple white cotton T-shirt and black knit shorts. Christ. And I’d thought Wes Lancaster made a suit and tie look explicit in the hottest possible way.
