Catching the Player (Hamilton Family) Page 2

He’d traveled the country, kicked some ass, and dedicated his life to the game.

  Football was his one true love. His life. His wife. His only long-term commitment. He had no interest in sharing his heart with anything or anyone else. The Saviors held the whole thing, and he liked it that way. He wasn’t single by necessity. He was single by choice.

  That was never going to change.

  Just because his sister was engaged, one of his brothers was married, and his other brother was close to following in their footsteps, that didn’t mean he had to follow suit. He and Cole were the last men standing.

  That was just fine with him.

  He’d leave the happily-ever-afters to his Hamilton siblings.

  Someone knocked on the door three times, and he frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone and wasn’t particularly in the mood to deal with someone showing up on his doorstep unannounced, either.

  Placing his MacBook on the couch, he stood, stretched, and made his way to the door. He peeked through the peephole and stiffened. All he saw was a hell of a lot of balloons and a small, feminine hand holding them. “What the…?”

  Slowly, he cracked the door open, half expecting this to be some sort of trap. When the woman didn’t pounce on him and profess her undying love…he frowned. She didn’t do anything. Just stood there, hiding behind balloons. When she didn’t say anything, but just mumbled something under her breath, he cleared his throat. “Uh, can I help you, miss?”

  “You’re a guy?” She sighed. “Of course you’re a guy.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I just assumed since a guy sent a singing telegram that it was to a girl…”

  He choked on a laugh. “Sorry?”

  “Whatever, it’s fine.” Without moving the balloons, she said, “I’m here to deliver a singing telegram from Brett Ross. I’m so sorry.”

  Before he could ask her what she was sorry for, she opened her mouth and started singing…and he knew. Fuck, he knew. He’d heard dying cats that sounded more musically inclined than the woman hiding behind the balloons.

  Swallowing hard, he stepped back into his house, fighting the urge to shut the door in her face. His mother had raised him to be polite, but Jesus, the girl could not sing. He gripped the knob, wincing, and forced his feet to stand still. As soon as she finished, he let out the breath he’d been holding, and said, “Wow. Uh, thank you. Please, come in, place the balloons over there.”

  “Yes, sir,” she mumbled, still hiding behind the balloons.

  As he headed for his wallet so he could tip her, he said over his shoulder, “That was great, thanks.”

  “No, it wasn’t. But thanks for lying.” He heard her moving behind him, and then she said, “Again, I’m sorry. Here’s the card that came with it and—” She broke off with a gasp when he turned around. “You’re Wyatt Hamilton.”

  Even though he shouldn’t have been surprised by her reaction to him—and he wasn’t—he was surprised by his reaction to her. She wore a tiny green outfit that fit like it was painted on, her blond hair had been teased eighties-style, she had on dark red lipstick, and her body had more curves on it than an Alfa Romeo.

  She was probably five-foot-two, but the way she held herself suggested she had a personality to match a much bigger frame. Her blue eyes were wide at first, but they quickly narrowed as she stepped backward. “It’s…it’s…you.”

  “It’s me,” he said slowly.

  There was something about her, something intoxicating, that drew his eye and refused to let go. He wasn’t sure what it was—it certainly wasn’t her singing—but he simply had to find out. He especially wanted to know why she seemed to blame him for something, when they’d never met before. If they had, he would have remembered the way she twisted him up in knots without even trying.

  “And you are…?” he said, drifting off and hoping she’d fill in the blank.

  “Here because of you.” She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot. Her actions pushed her breasts up even more, and it took all his self-control not to gape at her like some pervert. The sight did make his jeans too tight around the zipper, though. “How’s your arm, by the way?”

  He frowned. “Uh…good.”

  “Obviously.” She uncrossed her arms and stepped back again. “You can thank your rapidly healing arm for that little song you just endured. If you had just sat out one more game so your team could lose like a good sport, this never would have happened.”

  He cocked his head.

  Lose? Sit out? Those words weren’t in his vocabulary.

  Most of the time when women met him and knew who he was, they asked for photos, or hyperventilated, or cried. This one yelled at him for his arm healing too fast, and for winning the game for his team. “What happened? Did you make a bet against me?”

  “A terrible one,” she muttered, pushing her hair out of her face distractedly. “Almost as bad as my singing.”

  “I thought your singing was lovely,” he said, lying through his teeth and not regretting a single second. He crossed the room and stopped inches from her. She smelled like flowers and sunshine, if that even made sense. “It was definitely memorable, to say the least.”

  Slowly, he held out a twenty-dollar bill, locking eyes with her and refusing to let go.

  “What’s that for?” she asked.

  “Your tip.” His pulse sped up, and his fingers itched to touch her hair. Even as messy as it was, it looked softer than any flower petal he could ever touch. “It’s a customary practice, and it’s the least I can do for upsetting you by winning. I didn’t peg you as a Pelicans fan.”

  “I’m not.” She snorted and backed up again. “I love the Saviors.”

  He lifted a brow. “But you wanted us to lose?”

  “No, of course not. But I thought you would be out, and without you—” She broke off, shaking her head slightly. “Anyway…yeah…thank you for choosing Thomas Florist.”

  She took one more step backward—which was a major mistake.

  As she’d been busy telling him he sucked for winning, she hadn’t noticed how close she was to the vase behind her.

  He had two choices as she stumbled into it and lost her balance. He could catch her…or the priceless vase that had been in the Hamilton family since the eighteenth century.

  Moving quickly, he caught her arm and hauled her against his chest, sucking in a breath as all her curves melded into his hard muscles, making him question everything he’d ever thought about instant attraction and chemistry. She rested her hands on his shoulders, gasping in through her perfectly red lips as the vase crashed to the floor behind her.

  Fisting his shirt, she lifted her chin, staring at him.

  “Oh no,” she breathed.

  He silently echoed her.

  She was gorgeous. This close, the little dots of green in her blue eyes gave them an almost aqua appearance. Her hair touched his hand, and he confirmed that it was indeed as soft as he suspected. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She lost her death grip on him. Glancing behind her, she groaned. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. What did I break?”

  “Nothing. It’s fine,” he said quickly.

  “I took off my glasses so I couldn’t see you laughing at me—”

  “I’m not laughing at you,” he said, frowning. “Why would I laugh at you?”

  “And now I can’t see a thing. The only reason I knew who you were was because everyone knows who you are, and you’re gorgeous and even cuter in person, which isn’t fair, but now I’m breaking shit, and singing horribly, and yelling at Wyatt Hamilton for winning and being amazing, and you’re touching me, and you’re amazing, and so frigging hot, and I need to shut up.”

  His lips twitched. Her babbling was adorable, and quite frankly, she could carry on for as long as she wanted, as long as he got to hold her soft body against his while she did so. “I think you’re doing just fine. Keep going. How hot am I?”

  “Oh my—” she said again, ro
lling her eyes and flipping her hair over her shoulder. She still didn’t move out of his arms. “Please tell me whatever just broke behind us isn’t valuable.”

  He swallowed hard, lying through his teeth. “It wasn’t valuable.”

  “Whew.” She craned her neck, glancing at it. “I can’t see. What is it?”

  “Just an empty vase.”

  She gasped again. She seemed to be big on that. Gasping. He’d rather make her gasp over something a hell of a lot naughtier than some broken glass on the floor. “No one puts an empty vase on a table by itself like that unless it’s valuable. How much do I owe you?”

  He blinked. “Uh….”

  “Tell me.” She stepped out of his arms, letting go of him instantly, and he did the same, even though he didn’t really want to. Something about having her in his arms had seemed nice. “How much?”

  “I don’t want your money, ma’am.” He stepped back, curling his fists at his sides, and forced a smile. “It’s fine. An honest mistake. It could have happened to anyone.”

  “How much?” she repeated, touching her sides where her pockets would have been, but coming up empty. “I can run out to my car and—”

  “It’s fine. Like I said, I don’t want your money.” He dragged a hand through his hair and laughed. His phone lit up with a calendar reminder of his dinner with his possible investors, which immediately made his mood darken because he was going to have to go back to listening to that woman speak and failing to comprehend it. “But, hey, if you know someone who speaks Chinese, I’d gladly take them as repayment, though,” he said jokingly.

  Half jokingly.

  Okay, fine, not jokingly at all.

  She hesitated, tipping her head adorably to the side. “Take them…in what way? Are you going to lock them in your basement and keep them as collateral? Sell them on the black market?”

  “Of course not,” he said immediately, heat flushing through his veins as he laughed uneasily. “I’d just…borrow them. I have a dinner later on, and it’s with Chinese men who are interested in possibly endorsing me, but I can’t speak their language. I’m trying, but incapable of wrapping my head around it. I just wish I could have learned fast as a sign of friendship or whatever. Greet them in their own tongue.”

  She blinked at him.

  He shifted his weight on his feet.

  Had he sounded like an incapable idiot?

  ’Cause he was one.

  When she remained silent, he forced a smile and said, “Honestly, though, it’s not a big deal. It’s just a vase.”

  “What time?” she asked slowly, her chest heaving erratically.

  “Huh?”

  “What time would you need me for this dinner?” she asked, her cheeks almost the same shade as her lips.

  “You speak Chinese?” he asked, his heart picking up speed for more than one reason.

  She nodded hesitantly.

  “Fluently?”

  If she was the answer to his prayers, not only would he be able to attend this dinner with someone who could carry on long conversations with his potential investors, but he’d get more time with this bewitching beauty that called to him like no other woman had before.

  She nodded once, jerkily. “Mao mao lin.”

  “Yes.” He caught her hand excitedly, his fingers rough against her much smoother skin, caught up in the excitement of the possibility of greeting his potential sponsors properly. The biggest thing in this game was respect, and what better way to say it than mao mao lin? “Are you sure you don’t mind? Please don’t feel like you have to. I was just kidding.”

  Mostly.

  “Please. It’s the least I could do,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “What time, and what attire?”

  “Eight, and you could wear that if you want,” he said, grinning because he’d lucked out when she knocked on his door today, in more ways than one. “It’s…fetching.”

  She crossed her arms again and stared at him.

  Dead ass stared.

  He cleared his throat, losing the grin he’d been wearing since she spoke Chinese. “Uh…wear a dress, I guess?”

  “Got it.” She tucked her hair behind her ear nervously, glancing at him then lowering her gaze. “Like, ball gown, sundress, or cocktail dress?”

  Shit. He had no clue what kind of dress was what. Ask him how best to throw a fifty-yard pass in an easterly ten mile-per-hour wind, and he’d be golden. “Like, one that goes like this…” he ran a line down his shoulders, showing a tank top, “and maybe stops like here?” he touched his thigh above his knee. “Pretty fabric, but not, like, diamonds, or anything like that.”

  Her lips curved into a smile. It was the first time she’d smiled since walking into his life, and it was breathtaking. There was no other word for it. “So…cocktail?”

  “Sure, yeah. Cocktail.” He ran a hand through his hair, laughing uneasily because he couldn’t understand what it was about her that kept throwing him off balance. He’d been around a lot of women, most of them beautiful, but this one…she was different. Why? “I’ll be wearing a black suit and a tie.”

  “Got it.”

  Forcing his eyes off her, he crossed the room and picked up his phone. “Can I have your address? I’ll pick you up on the way there.”

  She hugged herself. “I could just meet you there, if it’s easier.”

  “I’ll pick you up.” He unlocked his phone, opened his contacts, and glanced at her. “Address?”

  “S-Sure.” She followed him into his living room. She glanced around a little bit, but considering she’d admitted to being basically blind without her glasses, he could only assume she wasn’t actually seeing anything—just avoiding him because she was nervous, which was endearing. “Five-twenty Forty-Sixth Street, right in the middle of Atlanta.”

  “Great.” He typed in the address quickly. “And your phone number?”

  She spouted it off to him, her voice trembling.

  “Thank you.” His finger hovered over the place to put her name, and it occurred to him that she’d never actually given it to him. He glanced up, his heart hitching in his throat when he saw her biting down on her plump lower lip. It was innocent and yet sexy at the same time. “And…uh…your name, ma’am?”

  She laughed uneasily. “Oh, yeah, I guess that would help. Kassidy. Kassidy Thomas.”

  “Great. I’m Wyatt Hamilton.” He held his hand out to her. “Nice to meet you.”

  “I gathered,” she said sarcastically. “I promise not to sing, by the way.”

  He laughed. “I told you, I enjoyed it.”

  “Sure.” She gestured at her body. “Also, be warned, I don’t usually dress like this.”

  “How disappointing. It works for you.”

  “It does something, all right.” She let go of his hand. “I’ll see you at…?”

  “Seven-thirty.”

  She nodded. “Okay.” She took a step toward the door, then paused, her shoulders stiff. “Seriously, though, how much was that vase?”

  “I can’t really say. It’s been in my family for years.”

  Choking on a laugh, she said, “Please don’t tell me that Alexander Hamilton once owned it, or something insane like that.”

  “Well…” he said, wincing.

  “Shit, you’re kidding, right?”

  “It’s fine,” he said again. “It’s just a vase.”

  She covered her face with her hands. “No, it’s not. Like, what if Eliza gave that to him for his birthday, and it was his favorite, and he always put flowers from their garden in it to cheer her up after Phillip died because it was quiet uptown, and now I broke it because I’m stupid and took off my glasses—?”

  Clearly, someone was a fan of Hamilton.

  “Kassidy,” he said softly, capturing her hands and pulling them down gently.

  She froze with wide eyes. “Yeah?”

  “I don’t give a damn about the vase.” Her skin under his was electrifying, and he stepped closer, instinctively
craving more. There was this invisible pull between them, this undeniable lure, and all he wanted was to sweep her into his arms and see if she tasted as good as he was pretty sure she would. “I assure you, having you at my dinner with me is a hell of a lot more valuable to me than some stupid piece of glass that Alexander owned. Okay?”

  She swallowed hard, her blue eyes still locked on his. Her lips were parted, and every breath that escaped tickled the skin of his throat. There was a heat to her eyes, a spark of attraction that told him she wasn’t immune to that weird pull between them—if anything, maybe she was being pulled, too, which did nothing to help him cool the hell off. “O-okay.”

  “I’ll see you at seven thirty?” he asked, his voice lowering for some reason.

  She nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

  “I look forward to our date…” he said, lowering his voice even more. “Kassidy.”

  She pulled free and ran, leaving behind nothing but balloons, a faint whiff of flowers and perfume…and a shattered, priceless Hamilton vase. Speaking of which…

  His mother was going to kill him.

  Chapter Three

  This was not, and never would be, a real date.

  No matter what Wyatt Hamilton had said earlier, this was just repayment for breaking his personal property, and nothing else. Guys like Wyatt didn’t date shy, normal girls like her, and that’s all there was to it. He’d called it a date out of habit, or perhaps to be kind, but they both knew she wasn’t his type.

  She kept reminding herself of that, because he was due to arrive at her house any minute now. After all, she’d seen the pictures of him with his endless parade of women on his arm. He never kept any around for long, but each one was always prettier than the last, as if he was trying to one-up himself in dating as well as on the field, and it was clearly working. He preferred tall, leggy, skinny, drop-dead gorgeous supermodels who owned the runway and the world around it.

  Even if he did, for some reason, find her slightly attractive, she would never, ever, ever in a million years believe it, or act on it, or even really see it.

  That didn’t stop her from thinking about it, though.

  Even for just a second.