Jill Shalvis - Slow Heat

“No. Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

He was always starving. Probably because he burned God knew how many calories a day between his five-mile runs, weight training, and the game itself. “We can stop and get something to go. Rosa’s?” she asked, naming the closest café. Look at that, she was getting the hang of taking care of him already.

“DQ is good.”

She’d never met a grown man with such a love for fast food before. But whatever he wanted, she’d get. It would make him happy, and a happy Wade was a hopefully compliant one. With a nod from her, the driver started the engine and they began their trek, heading through town toward Dairy Queen.

Santa Barbara was a colorful blend of the Spanish history of California and beach living. Wade was looking out the window, taking it in, giving her his profile as they turned onto Highway 1, heading south. The sparkling Pacific was on their right, the green, craggily Santa Ynez peaks on their left, both breathtaking.

They stopped at Dairy Queen and quickly got back on the road. Wade was quiet as he ate, watching as they left the affluent homes and ranches, heading into the outlying county and the less privileged areas. She knew he’d been underprivileged himself. Despite his many faults, he was surprisingly humble and quick to laugh at himself, and often joked he’d grown up so far from the proverbial train tracks that he hadn’t even been able to seethe tracks.

And her?

Well, she’d grown up with a silver spoon in her mouth and everyone knew it. It was certainly all Wade knew about her, because it’d been the only thing she’d ever let him see. He had no idea that the two of them had a hell of a lot more in common that he’d ever guess.

He polished off two burgers and went to work on his fries. “So…” His green eyes were relaxed but assessing as they met hers. “When were you going to tell me they want us to do this boyfriend/girlfriend thing for a whole month?”

“You heard?” she asked in surprise. She’d been asked to talk him into it.

“I work with a bunch of women, Sam. They tell all.”

“You work with a group of professional athletes, male.”

“Who gossip more than a bunch of teenage girls after cheerleading practice. Pace heard it from Henry, who overheard Gage talking to you.”

Pace being Wade’s best friend and the Heat’s pitcher. Henry was their shortstop. Gage, their team manager. And yes, the supposedly professional clubhouse really was similar in nature to a high school locker room.

Sprawled out, relaxed, Wade watched her with a half smile, looking far too appealing. She took a careful breath. “A month shows stability. It’s more impressive than just a weekend wedding fling.”

“So you’re okay with being joined at the hip for a month?”

“If you are.”

He considered this. “Are there benefits?”

“No.”

He sighed. “So much for fun.”

“Hey, I’m fun.” He didn’t say a word, which burned. “I am! And I just realized, there are benefits.”

He cocked his head.

“Well… I can be a pretty convincing bitch when I want to be.”

“Noooo,” he said with feigned shock. “But how exactly is that a benefit?”

“I can scare away all the crazy women that chase you around, thereby giving you a break. And in return, you can relax knowing you won’t have to take care of me like your usual fan-girl, clingy type who bores you within the span of one date.”

He arched a brow.

“Just calling ’em like I see ’em.”

He didn’t say anything to that as he finished his fries, then tossed all the trash into the bag and set it aside. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and said another entire boat-load of nothing.

“It’s just a role, Wade. And it could have been worse. We could have lost the endorsement entirely, or they could have traded you.”

“They’re that desperate for good press?” He shook his head in disbelief.

“Hey, baseball isn’t exactly showing its best foot to the public lately. We need this. The Heat needs this.”

“And your father’s okay with it?” he asked carefully.

With good reason. Her father was one of the owners of the Heat. Her uncle owned their sister team, the South Carolina Charleston Bucks. The McNead brothers were famous for getting their way, or more accurately, infamous.

And they were baseball royalty.

Or had been until Samantha’s brother Jeremy-her PR equivalent at the Bucks-had stepped over the ethics line, the moral line, and several other lines as well, and brought the wrath of the press down on the McNeads. It hadn’t gone over well, and damage control was required. Gee, guess who was in charge of damage control? “Yes,” she said quietly. “My father thinks it’s a good idea.”

“So they’re willing to pimp out their princess when it suits them.”

Ouch. But the answer was yes, a McNead was expected to stick to the pack. She’d known that by the time she could talk in full sentences. “It’s just an illusion.”

“It’s an entire month.”

The reminder made her stomach quiver. An entire month of being his girlfriend. “We’re grown-ups.”

“Really?” His stark green gaze was more genuine curiosity than sarcasm. “Because we’ve not spent more than two minutes together without snarling at each other.”

God. So true.

“Well, except for the elevator,” he said.

Also true, and her stomach executed a double gainer with a twist as the memory flew back, hot and sexy, resurrected by nothing more than the sound of his voice and the sudden sleepy look in his eyes.

It’d happened last season. The Heat had just lost, bad. The press had been ruthless, and her father had been pissed at her for somehow not being Super Woman. She’d been in desperate need of some alone time.

What she’d gotten instead was stuck in an elevator on the way to her hotel room with Wade and a couple little bottles of airplane Scotch, and her pity party for one had turned into a naked party for two. The erotic, alcohol-tinged memories came to her in slow-mo and as always, always, sent her spinning between total and complete humiliation and an even more devastating aching hunger and desire.

If she could just erase from her memory banks the picture of Wade taking her straight to heaven in under five minutes she would, but the pictures in her brain seemed to only strengthen with time instead of lessen. She darted a quick glance at their driver, who was currently sipping a seventy-two-ounce DQ soda and rocking his head to the radio as he beat the steering wheel like a drum. “I don’t want to discuss that night.”

Wade shrugged. No skin off his nose. Hell, he’d probably had lots of nights like that since. She concentrated on the view. Not a hardship. Santa Barbara wasn’t called the American Riviera for nothing, and she watched as they passed four-thousand-foot peaks covered in unique and beautiful chaparral and sandstone outcrops. “So we’re good?” she asked quietly.

Wade smiled. It was his professional smile, the one that could melt a woman’s panties at fifty paces and make men wish that they had half his athletic prowess, and it was a charmer. She knew its potency, braced herself for it, and stillfelt her panties begin to melt. “What the hell.” He stretched out even farther, his leg sliding to hers. “We’re good. Girlfriend.”

“Fake girlfriend,” she corrected, shoving him over, telling herself she was absolutely not noticing the heat of him, the feel of his rock hard thigh…

He stretched some more, straightening his arms above him, briefly exposing a flash of washboard abs between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his jeans. Jeans that were faded at all the stress points. He had some very fine stress points…

She saw more men in a day than the average woman dreamed of. Many of those men-if she was in the clubhouse before a game-in various stages of nakedness, leaving her utterly immune to tantalizing glimpses of male skin.

Which didn’t explain why her mouth went dry.

“Maybe we should kiss on it,” Wade suggested. “Seal the deal.”

Her tummy quivered, a fact she firmly ignored. “What? No!”

“Spoilsport.”

He’d probably have fallen over if she’d said yes, which she absolutely wouldn’t do. Even if he was the kiss master.

Which he was…

His leg was touching hers again. He was hogging the backseat, albeit unintentionally. He was a big guy and he needed space. He also smelled good. He looked good, too, which really didn’t seem fair at all. But he was here, not pitching a diva fit, and she owed him for that. “Thank you,” she said. “For agreeing to this.”

“You’re welcome.”

Well, that seemed surprisingly genuine, and she had to wonder if maybe she’d anticipated trouble with him simply because of their past. Maybe… maybe deep down he really was a good guy.

It was possible.

Maybe they could laugh about this, her having to keep up the pretense of being his lover, when they’d already done the deed.

That could possibly be fun. Maybe.

Sort of.

And maybe they could even become friends. It would be nice-

“You packing any Scotch today?” he asked, looking around the limo. “Should I be bracing myself for you to tear my clothes off again?”

With a sigh, she leaned back and closed her eyes. She could safely check both fun and friends off the list.

Wade didn’t have a problem playing dress up with the sexy, tough-as-nails Samantha McNead. Hell, he’d been playing dress up in one form or another since birth, using bravado, sheer grit, and a good amount of bullshit to get to where he was today. His life was a virtual Mr. Cinderella story.