“Go ’head, Marilyn. Get in all the shots you want at my Narnia wardrobe. I’m secure in my manhood to take ’em.” I pause. “That and I saw you sneak my DVD into your purse. That might have more sting if you weren’t stealing my movie to watch.”
“Prove it.”
She strides into the great room and stops short at the back of the couch, attention snagged by the game still playing on the seventy-inch television mounted above the gas fireplace. For several long moments, she watches the back-and-forth action on the screen, and I join her, halting directly behind her. It strikes me that from the instant her image appeared on that video camera, my frustration and guilt over not being with my team disappeared. That’s Miriam’s superpower. Making me forget. Causing everything but her to fade into the background.
It’s a dangerous gift.
“I knew it,” she murmurs, her gaze still fixed on the TV. “That’s why I came over. You needed me.”
A teasing joke hovers on the tip of my tongue, but it dies a swift death there. My fingers curl into my palm, the tips pushing into the flesh so hard a dull throb of pain flares in protest. A shiver works its way through me, tripping down my spine. The need to touch her, to wrap one hand around the vulnerable column of her neck and the other on the soft curve of her hip, has me damn near vibrating like a tuning fork. And she’s the frequency that’s calling me. I want to press into her, cover her, bury my face into those thick curls, and ... inhale.
But I squeeze my eyes closed and settle for “Are you going to tell me what’s in the bag or what?”
Maybe she doesn’t hear the grit in my voice. Or maybe she pretends not to. Either way ... I’m grateful.
“When I tell you I braved the crowds of the market on a Saturday and damn near ended up in a catfight right in the middle of the deli just to grab the last tray of ...” She rounds the couch and, after setting the large paper bag on the glass table, reaches in and pulls free a medium-size tray of Italian pinwheels. “Your favorites. Why, I have no idea. I mean, make a sandwich, and call it a day. But hey! This is about you!”
She sets the black plastic tray on the table and reaches into the bag again, then emerges with a carton of Arnold Palmer. Two more retrievals reveal a family-size pack of vanilla Oreos and an unopened deck of UNO cards.
“Holy shit.” I laugh, checking out her haul of all my favorite snack foods and game.
It’s funny; my chef left a refrigerator full of prepared food, including appetizers such as these miniquiches, stuffed meatballs, and parmesan bites with marinara. I guess he thought I’d have company over this weekend. But I haven’t even thought of touching them, my stomach in knots over this game. But Miriam shows up with discount deli food and cookies that my very expensive chef would probably have an apoplectic fit over just seeing in the house, and I’m suddenly starving.
“I know, right?” She wheels around and pads on sock-covered feet—when did she get rid of her boots?—toward the kitchen. “I’ll get the glasses. You start filling your gut with all that processed meat.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice.
I grab the tray. Damn. It’s plastic and flimsy, but getting it open is like trying to wrestle a bag of wet feral cats.
A huge sigh reaches me from the depths of the house. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. You know I’m only friends with you because of your house, right?”
Chuckling, I finally pop the lid off the deli tray. Another person wouldn’t have the balls to say something like that to me, but it would undoubtedly be the truth. I might have come into this league young and brash with a big mouth, but I’ve never been naive. Growing up the way I did, experiencing all I did, knocked the rose-colored glasses off early—if I ever owned a pair in the first place. I’ve never deceived myself into believing it’s just my face that lures women or people in general to me. It’s all that comes with this lifestyle and what I can do for them. Money. Fame. Perks. Connections. I can recognize a user before they open their lips. And Miriam, despite her words, isn’t a user.
Still, I get what she’s saying. It’s a lot of house. Yeah, I freely admit it. I was the typical athlete who bought his mama a new house after his first contract and then himself one. And after living in one trailer park after another, one shitty apartment after another, I ensured both of us lived in houses with so much space we wouldn’t have to see our neighbors if we didn’t want to, much less hear their arguments—and other shit they were doing—through the walls. And to make sure we had views other than concrete parking lots and other mobile homes. And my six-bedroom, five-bathroom home that backs up to a wildlife preserve definitely fits that bill.
I should be at least a little ashamed over the excess. But yeah, I’m not. Only people who have never had to sleep on a thin mattress that should be too embarrassed to call itself a bed while their mother slept on a nest of blankets because she couldn’t afford another frame or a place with another bedroom would feel anything close to shame.
After nabbing a pinwheel in triumph, I bite into it. Pepperoni, salami, prosciutto, and provolone cheese with the sweetness of red peppers and honey-dijon mustard explode in my mouth, and I groan. Yes, I’ve dined in Michelin-starred restaurants in the last ten years, have been served food by the most celebrated chefs. But in this moment, this supermarket pinwheel ranks right up there with the best of their food.
“I hope you saved some for me,” Miriam says, voice as dry as the bottle of wine she carries in one hand.
“All I’m going to say is you’re lucky you returned when you did.” I accept the wineglass she extends to me. And snort. The Arnold Palmer half-lemonade, half-tea drink in wineglasses. Classy. “Here.”
I trade her the glass for a pinwheel. She pops it whole into her mouth, and I valiantly try not to stare at her lips and the slender column of her throat as she swallows. Try not to let my mind wander.
Try and fail.
If her goal in showing up here today was to distract me from the game, mission accomplished. Hell, all Miriam has to do is breathe.
While she’s distracted with demolishing the deli food, I gently take her flute and the bottle of merlot she helped herself to from my wine closet and pour wine into the glass. She takes it with a hum of thanks and sips. This time her hum is of pleasure, and it strokes over my chest, trails down my abdomen. My stomach clenches so hard against the sensation that my teeth grind together, imprisoning the growl clawing up my throat.
I swear to fuck, everything this woman does is intended to seduce. It’s not intentional, but that doesn’t make it any less agonizing.
“The wine must be extra fabulous because these things can’t be this good,” she says, snatching another one off the tray.
“Oh, just admit it, Marilyn. I’m right; you’re wrong. And you secretly love my ... pinwheel.”
She eyes me over the rim of her glass. “Yes, your pinwheel is like no others.”
