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A wall clock chimed in the corner. Noon. Usually, he’d be hitting the weight room right about now, but a weight bench wasn’t enough separation from Perry at the moment. The very thought of him, his smug tone, the way he’d all but admitted to hitting his wife, made Booker’s blood boil.
The league was investigating, but they were too slow. They didn’t have to hear Perry’s innuendos. Not like Booker. The first two times, he’d turned a deaf ear, but the third time Booker hadn’t been able to stop himself. He’d thrown the punch on instinct and there would have been more had Martinez not stepped between them.
Booker shook his head. From his peripherals, he saw a pizza man park across from the house. He thanked God he’d called the order in on the way over as he jerked his head toward the delivery car. “Ok, so you don’t need me. You still need lunch, right?”
Dee peered over his shoulder and into the street while he let her initial reaction register. He’d not anticipated her push back. Honestly, he’d imagined her welcoming him with open arms the way most women did. He didn’t date much but he’d never had a woman turn down spending the day with him. Not since he’d been drafted. Her refusal both humbled and intrigued him.
“Right?” he repeated, hoping to nudge her to acquiesce.
“Well,” she shrugged. “I can’t stand to cook at the moment and Chicago deep dish is my favorite.”
Dee bit her lip while she mulled over his offer. He stood there watching, entirely captivated by the smooth pink of her cupid’s bow until she sighed.
“You win,” she obliged. “But only because the pizza is here already and I’m starving.”
“A win is a win.” Booker forced himself to look back up, finding blue eyes as bright as a clear summer sky.
His insides twisted. Why hadn’t he got to know Dee Ingram sooner? In his pocket, his phone buzzed, reminding him of the impersonal contact he’d changed earlier and the reason he was just now getting to know this woman.
Because you’re selfish, that’s why.
Booker glanced around the living room. Spying the sofa, he pointed to the seat nearest her. “Sit down and I’ll go grab the food.”
Dee tried to move toward the couch. She turned with a half bunny hop toward the seat and winced. Pain flashed across her profile and Booker sprang into action.
“Here, let me help.” Before she had time to refuse his assistance, Booker swept her off her feet.
“Excuse you,” she chided. “Put me down.”
Even as she said it, Dee clasped her arms around his neck. He knew he should do as he was told, but her body movements contradicted her demand. He chose to listen to the latter. Booker stalked across the room. With measured movement so as not to bump her foot against the coffee table, he settled her gently on the couch.
“Who do you think you are?” Dee shot daggers at him with her stare.
“A guy who hates to see a lady in pain?” Booker shrugged. “Can’t help the manners. It’s the country in me. Ma’am.”
With that, he tipped his hat and went out the front door, making sure he was far enough away that Dee couldn’t see him as he facepalmed. “Ma’am?” he said again under his breath. He didn’t usually revert to the unsmooth version of himself he’d been in high school, but when he did, cringeworthy didn’t begin to cover the experience.
He didn’t lie, though. A southern gentleman never changed. To be sure, Booker remained the gentleman his grandma had made him. The football swagger he’d adopted on the field often hid that side of him unless he became angry or excited or flustered.
Dee Ingram, the virtual assistant he’d now made a personal interest, had elicited all those emotions at once. Seeing her in pain made him mad, her smokey stare sent a thrill straight through him, and her initial rejection to his offer left him discombobulated. The complete trifecta.
No wonder his southern slipped out!
After paying for lunch and tipping the driver well for his wait, Booker headed back toward the house. He snuck a peak at his reflection in the driver’s side mirror when walking by his truck. He could have lied and told himself he wanted to make sure he looked good in case any tabloids were lurking around, but he didn’t give two flying figs about what the gossip magazines said about him.
His virtual assistant, though? She was another story altogether.
Chapter Four
Dee
Dee blinked at Booker as he waltzed in, shut the door behind him, and laid lunch out on the coffee table.
Mortified didn’t begin to describe her. First, she’d tried hopping—hopping—to a seat in front of her boss, which would have been bad enough if he’d been a normal, everyday guy. But no part of normal touched Booker Watson. Not his broad shoulders, thick biceps, or his rich southern accent. Definitely not his odd display of concern and kindness for a lowly virtual assistant like herself.
Booker sat down on the other end of the couch. Tentatively, he glanced from the food to her before finally clearing his throat. “Do you, uh, say grace?”
She nodded, telling herself that prayer was a southern thing and not to be too awestruck by his respectful nature. The reminder didn’t stop her from swooning, though.
