Page 63 of Her Coach

COLTON

She looked stunning. I kept stealing glances at her as my hand rested against her knee. Her hand fell lazily, and I couldn’t help how precious it looked sitting on top of mine. My skin was tan and hairy. My hand, gigantic. Well, compared to hers, at least. Her chubby little fingers slid along my skin, the light tan of her skin contrasting with the darkness of mine.

I wanted that dress she wore on my fucking living room floor.

“So, where are we headed?” Brynn asked.

She broke the silence in the car, and I let the silence sit for a beat. “Somewhere with a view.”

“Mmm, I love a good steak.”

I grinned. “Especially if it’s paired⁠—”

“—with a nice bourbon?” she asked coyly. And when I grinned at her, she gave me the sweetest giggle. A giggle meant only for me. “I’m more of a wine and steak person myself.”

“What wine do you drink with your steak?”

She snickered. “Whatever’s strongest.”

I barked with laughter. “Spoken like a true college kid.”

“Hey now,” she said as she nudged me playfully, “I haven’t been in college in a hot second.”

“Yeah, neither have I,” I said with a smirk.

She nudged me again, only this time her laughter filled the air in the cabin of my car. I enjoyed how easy things were with her. We arrived at the restaurant and I clocked the hostess the second we walked in. She didn’t reach for the reservation book. She just smiled, said, “Mr. Mercer,” and led us straight through to the elevator. No wait. No “let me check.” We rode up to the rooftop level and stepped out into the warm desert night, and I watched Brynn stop walking the second she saw the view. The Strip stretched out below us in both directions, every light in the city going at once, the kind of thing that was impossible to look at and not feel something about. She stood there for a second with her hand on the railing and I stood beside her and let her have it. I’d done enough research to know this was the best rooftop in the city, and I didn’t want the team coming up and interrupting us at every turn.

Or the fucking press, for that matter.

They led us to a table at the edge of the rooftop with nothing between us and the city. Brynn sat across from me and looked out at the Strip and was quiet for a moment in a way she almost never was.

“I grew up here,” she said, “and I still can’t get used to it.”

I looked at the Strip and then back at her. “Good,” I said. “Means it’s still worth looking at.”

We didn’t do much talking as we ordered drinks and food. We debated over appetizers for a while, but I just went along with whatever she wanted. I had no food allergies. I’d try anything twice, just to make sure I did or didn’t like it. Whatever she wanted to eat was fine by me.

I wanted to know more about her.

“So, Brynn, tell me,” I said as I handed my menu to the waiter, “tell me about the book you want to write.”

She paused for a second, as if she didn’t know what I was talking about. Then her eyes brightened. “Oh! Yes! Well, it’s a work in progress. The bar and the stadium keeps me pretty busy.”

I nodded as the waiter delivered our drinks. I nodded my head in appreciation before I picked up my bourbon and took a glug. “So, is it written?”

She shrugged. “Well, I mean, yes. But I keep changing my mind about things.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Tell me about it.”

She relaxed as well, sipping her wine as she crossed her leg over her knee. I couldn’t see the motion, but I did see the shuffling of her torso as she propped herself up onto one side.

What I wouldn’t have given to see how the motion plumped up her thick thigh.

“Well,” she said with a heavy sigh as our appetizer was delivered in what felt like immediate fashion. Brynn squealed and grabbed her fork before she stabbed at a garlic-roasted shrimp and brought it to her lips. I watched those juicy, glossy lips of hers curl around the fork, sliding that shrimp off the prongs.

I’d never been so jealous of cooked fish in all my fucking life.

“Mmmmm,” she hummed as she chewed. “Good god, that’s good.”