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I almost choke on the laugh that crawls up my chest. “Only if you want to, but remember… men are visual creatures.” I offer her my best playboy smirk, the one that usually makes women swoon, only to find it has no effect on Ryleigh.
Strange.
She treats me like I’m a regular guy and not a famous millionaire sports star who easily melts women with just a smile. Ryleigh has no idea that I’m Alex Ivan, pro football player for the Chicago Hawks. She doesn’t swoon and bat her eyelashes or try to impress me. In fact, she doesn’t follow any of the normal protocols. Clearly, she’s not a gold digger, because if she were, she could talk me out of way more than three hundred bucks. An even bigger part of me knows I could add several zeroes behind that figure, and she’d need every damn dime.
“Fine. I’ll take the ride. But it’s going to be a hard pass on the boobs.”
“Whatever you want.”
The truth is, she’s gorgeous, and if she wanted to share her body with me, I’d jump at the chance. But something about her no-nonsense demeanor tells me that’s not going to happen, which is probably for the best. I don’t have time to get tangled up in something right now, anyway. I have to focus on myself and my career now more than ever.
After another moment’s hesitation, Ryleigh looks back at the club one last time, then to my car. I can see the moment she makes up her mind, letting out a soft sigh.
“Don’t make me regret this,” she mutters under her breath before she follows me to my car.
I hit the button on the key fob to start the engine, then unlock the doors. When we slide inside, I turn up the heat and direct the vents toward her.
“Thank you,” she says, buckling her seat belt. “Nice car.” Her gaze lingers on the sleek wood paneling, supple leather, and chrome fixtures.
“Thanks,” I murmur, suddenly feeling sheepish about the opulence of my luxury sedan while she has to consider back-alley propositions just to feed a baby that isn’t even hers. I shift into drive and pull out onto the road.
In the enclosed space, I’m suddenly aware of everything: the faint smell of smoke clinging to her jacket from the club, layered underneath with something softer—vanilla, maybe, or something warm like that. Her hands are tucked under her thighs, trying to get warm, and she’s sitting very still, like she’s not sure she belongs in a car this nice. Like she’s trying to take up as little space as possible.
“So, where to?”
“Oh, right.” Ryleigh rattles off her address, and I wince.
I’ve only been to that area of the city once, and it was by accident because I was lost. It’s not a safe or very nice area, and I hate to think about her walking around after dark alone, petite beauty that she is.
“So, your name, Alexei, is that . . .”
“Russian. My parents moved here when I was six.”
“Do you remember much of it? Living in Russia? I’ve never been out of the United States. I’ve barely been out of the Midwest.”
“A little. My parents tried to keep up the traditions for us. They were proud of their heritage. We spoke Russian at home, and every Friday, my mother would make a big traditional meal.”
“What kinds of foods are in traditional Russian meals? Like borscht?”
I chuckle. “Borscht is disgusting.” It’s a beet soup that looks like a bowl of blood. “My favorites were the cabbage rolls and herb-and-meat-filled pies she would make.”
“That sounds amazing.” She’s quiet for a beat, and I catch the way she swallows before she adds, “I haven’t eaten a real home-cooked meal in a long time.”
She says it without any play for sympathy—just a fact, same as the Midwest thing—and it lands harder than she probably intended. All this talk about food makes me wonder if she’s hungry, if I should offer to stop and get something for her to eat. Then I decide against it because I don’t want her to feel that I think she’s a charity case. Plus, dinner together seems too personal, and I can’t do personal right now. She’s a big girl. She can feed herself.
The conversation with Slate rings through my head. Keep my head down. Stay focused on winning. Prove that I’m worth the contract. Period.
“What about you?” I ask. “Family in the area?”
She shakes her head, folding her hands in her lap. “I was an only child. Both of my parents have passed on.”
“I’m sorry.” Now I wish I’d never asked. No family, no roommate, barely any money, a baby that isn’t hers, and a job that requires creeps to look at her half-naked for tips.
She shakes her head, still looking out the windshield. “It’s okay.”
It’s not okay. None of this is okay. But I don’t say that.
We drive in silence for a few minutes, and I notice her posture has softened slightly. She’s not sitting so rigidly anymore, and her hands have come out from under her thighs. The heat is finally doing its job, warm air filling the car between us. I catch her glancing around the interior again—the navigation screen, the heated seat controls, the stitching on the steering wheel. She doesn’t comment, but I can see her cataloging the details.
