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“No, you don’t,” she said with absolute certainty, shaking her head. “Guys who play football have no necks.”
He smiled faintly, remembering that Lottie had said that. “European football, darling. Soccer, as you barbarians call it.”
“Soccer,” she repeated, her brow furrowing.
Moving closer to Rachel, he stroked her hand with his finger. “We’re doing this, and I realized how much I want with you, so I’m going to lay it all out. I’m very successful.”
“Um, I kind of got that.” She shook her head. “You’re in anad.”
“I thought you might appreciate the campaign since you’re in public relations.” He looked her in the eye. “If you can get over the fact that I am who I am.”
Her brow furrowed as she stared back down at the screen. “So you’re saying that you’re hot stuff.”
“You could say that.” He put in his name in the browser and handed her his mobile.
“Jamie MacNiven,” she read softly, scrolling through the list of articles and pictures.
He tried to relax—he tried not to grip her hand too tightly—but he knew some of the tabloid articles weren’t complimentary. And then there were the pictures of him with half the women in the world, as Coco liked to say. No woman liked to see that, and he felt like Rachel especially wouldn’t, given how she reacted about the supermodels.
Hell—he wasn’t certain how he’d feel if he saw a picture of Rachel with a man from her past, and he wasn’t the jealous type.
“Um, Jamie?”
He focused on her face, trying to suss her thoughts. “Yes, love?”
“There’s page after page on here about you,” she said, scrolling. “You’re more than famous.”
“Infamous?” he offered.
She looked directly into his eyes, holding up his mobile. “This says you’re Europe’s most eligible bachelor.”
“That was last year. It’s Didier this year.”
She gasped, a light coming on in her eyes. “You all play soccer together. Now it makes sense. I couldn’t figure out your relationship with Didier and Erik. It didn’t make sense before, but I can see it now. What I don’t get is why you guys are here of all places. Monte Carlo was all booked this season?”
“Monte Carlo is overrated,” he said, only half joking.
“Don’t dash my dreams,” she said in a wry tone. “Well?”
“We came here to find Erik a nice girl, one who didn’t know who he was or the contents of his bank accounts.”
“So where do three hot, rich, famous guys go to find women but Chicago?” She nodded slowly. “That makes sense, especially since according to Google you’ve dated every single woman in Europe.”
“I’ve only dated half. Didier’s dated the other half.”
She snorted.
“You’re taking this awfully well,” he commented cautiously, glancing at their still-clasped hands.
“It hasn’t sunk in yet.” She looked into his eyes. “Why are you withme? I have nothing in common with the way you live. It’s like we’re from different planets. You’re apparently a superstar, and I’m just average.”
“You’re not average. You’re worth more than any other woman I’ve ever met.” He touched her face. “Does knowing who I am change how you think about me?”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
It didn’t escape him that she didn’t answer his question. “I started playing football when I was sixteen. My rookie year I met Claudia.”
“Oh my gosh, I hate her already.” Rachel squeezed his hand. “Sorry I interrupted. You were saying?”
