Kick Off: Secret Baby Romance (Bad Ballers) Read online

  But Yvette laughed, delighted, and clapped her hands together, “All right, Savage. I don’t have time for you today. I’m sorry. What is it you wanted?”

  Burke thought about it a minute, clearly enjoying that he was taking up her time. “A date,” he said. “Friday night.”

  “Impossible,” she said. “I am having dinner with friends.”

  “Change your plans,” said Burke, staring her down intently.

  Yvette was a sucker for jerks. It was why she kept going back to Luis. I could see her thinking about it. Finally, she said, “Okay. Friday night. I’ll change my plans.” She sent me a meaningful look as I wrote down a note: change Friday plans.

  Burke moved past Yvette, coming closer to my desk. He reached out a hand and plucked a pen and a pad of post-its. He then peeled off a post-it and stuck it to the desk. His number.

  2

  Burke

  “Mr. Tyler.” Yvette sauntered out of her building wearing a gorgeous black dress that clung to every inch of her toned and incredibly banging body. If you’d been living under a rock and didn’t know who Yvette Delacroix was, she was the Victoria’s Secret Angel with the “don’t fuck with me” strut, dark chocolate brown hair, and bedroom eyes. I’d been bugging Becca Barnes to hook us up for months.

  Yvette wore a pair of five-inch silver stiletto heels and was pretty damn close to my height. I wanted to grab her up, flatten her against the door of my Maserati Levante, and give her a good tongue-fucking. Maybe I was the savage she’d accused me of being. I smiled at her, bowing slightly, and opened the passenger side door. She gave me a cat-with-the-cream smile and folded herself into the front seat, crossing her legs so that the black dress slid up and revealed several mouth-watering inches of creamy white thigh. Fuck. Me.

  “Ever been to Andre’s?” I asked her after I’d closed the door behind me. I’d called her assistant (Sarah?) to figure out if Yvette Delacroix was a gourmet gal or a burger and beer kind of babe. “Gourmet,” the assistant had answered. Andre’s was going to blow Yvette’s mind.

  “That little bistro in Cambridge?” she asked, pursing her lips. “C’est ca va.” And then she smiled and translated for me, “It’s okay.”

  “Ca va?” I asked. “Well, then you clearly haven’t had their crab dip.” I spoke in flawless French with a damn solid Parisian accent. I had been a French minor in college, motherfuckers. Also a little known fact, I have my masters in comparative literature from the University of California Berkeley. Don’t tell the boys at Dudley’s Coffee. They don’t pay me to be smart.

  “Mmm,” Yvette purred, considering me. “So, not just a pretty face, eh, bad boy?”

  “Oh, I didn’t say I wasn’t pretty,” I winked. “And I didn’t say I wasn’t bad either.”

  Thank God the ride to Andre’s was short. Yvette was blowing my mind, and being that close to her and not being able to touch...

  I got out and gave the keys to the valet, opening Yvette’s door and offering her a hand to step out. She took my hand lightly in hers, and her touch was cool.

  The owner was a big Patriot’s fan, and he came out to show us personally to our seat. I don’t think he had a clue who Yvette was, because he asked after the identity of my “beautiful guest.” I bet Yvette wasn’t used to being unknown, for she was frowning when we sat down.

  “Ready to have your mind blown?” I asked her.

  Yvette considered it, her brilliant eyes meeting mine across the table. Then she shrugged. When the waiter came up, I ordered a bottle of the white burgundy, the mussels and crab dip as an appetizer, and two of the arctic char entrees. I might look like an extra off of The Vikings set (hell, I had been an extra on The Vikings last summer), but I could pull off elegant when I chose to.

  As we waited for food to arrive, I tried to get to know Yvette a bit better. I asked her questions about her parents and about modeling; I asked about her travels and her favorite foods. I’ll tell you what – she was flirty as hell. Her every shift in her seat seemed calculated to make me drool. A strap sliding down her shoulder, her dress sliding slowly up her thighs, the neck dipping down over her cleavage, and her hair brushed back behind perfect ears. She answered every one of my questions with a small smile or a charming wink and a clever retort.

  It was halfway through the meal before I realized that she hadn’t asked me a single question. In fact, we’d finished the bottle of wine before I realized that for all that shifting, those clever remarks, and her winks – she was bored. She wasn’t at all interested in me, in the dinner, or in my conversation. Somewhere between the time I’d picked her up and the end of the appetizers, I’d managed to bore her.

  Fuck. Fuck.

  I switched tactics. I’d been trying to be friendly and warm. Maybe she wasn’t into that shit. Maybe she wanted Berserker Burke, the idiot tight end who spent his weekends in a DJ booth. Women were fucking difficult. Come on too strong with some of them, and you’re a misogynist, insensitive dickhead, but try to be fucking polite – you’re boring.

  “D’accord,” I said, switching to French, for we’d been speaking in English. If she wanted a dickhead, I could be a dickhead. “Don’t tell me you’re not at all interested in me? We’ve been speaking about you for an hour. Are you going to play into all of the model stereotypes? Or are you going to be interesting?”

  That had her. She sat up straight and looked startled. I stared at her, thinking about all of the delicious things I’d like to do to her in bed and letting it show on my face. Rather than get angry, she seemed to consider me for a moment. She leaned forward, accepting my challenge. Fuck, this woman was so fucking hot.

  “Okay, Sauvage,” she said, her eyes sparking with sudden fire. “You speak French – have you been to Paris?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “So, you’ve never been to Le Cinq? You’ve never seen Opera at le Garnier?”

  I blinked. Shit. “Not yet.”

  “Have you been to Milan? What about Japan?”

  “On my list of places to go.” What the hell? Was this some kind of test?

  Yvette sat back as if I’d confirmed something, and the waiter chose that moment to come up and ask if we wanted anything else.

  No way was I giving up that easily; I started to order another bottle of wine, but Yvette cut in. “Just the addition.” The waiter blinked at her.

  “The check,” I translated, dumbfounded. The waiter had it on him, and I handed him my Black card. Yvette dabbed the sides of her perfectly lipsticked mouth with her napkin, and she filled the silence he’d left by talking about Becca Barnes and saying how maybe she’d come by and watch a game this season.

  She was letting me down easy! She was fucking letting me down easy! Flashbacks to college when I’d thought being a football star would land me all the girls I wanted, but the cheerleaders hadn’t known what to make of the star tight end who wanted to talk about Emile Zola…

  The waiter brought the check back, and Yvette stood up as I was signing. She politely waited for me as I rose. I offered her my arm, and she took it (thank God!) and let me walk her out.

  “Do you want to get a drink downtown?” I asked as the Valet rushed off to find my car.

  “Oh no,” she said, pointing to a dark Cadillac pulling up around the corner. “I’ve got a party to go to.” She leaned up, her perfume wafting up around me as she kissed my cheek lightly. “Thank you for dinner, Sauvage.”

  And before I could object, she strolled toward the Cadi, opened the door, and disappeared inside.

  3

  Sarah

  “I’m telling you, Roz; I don’t think he’s as dumb as he appears on TV.”

  “You’re kidding, I hope?” said Roz from her spot on my bed. She was examining her cuticles and looking through People Magazine, her long legs crossed at the knee and her foot bouncing impatiently.

  I was sitting at my computer going through all the pictures of Burke Tyler I could find. It was a totally pointless and incredibly fantastic way to
spend one’s Sunday. There were a lot of photos of Burke out there. My favorite? It was a tossup between the ESPN Body Issue (his abs, oh my God, his abs!), his stills as an extra on The Vikings (where they’d given him some really cool blue face tattoos), and a ridiculous spread he’d done for Sports Illustrated where he was playing in a large pile of bulldog puppies.

  “Sarah, this is the guy who went onto the Late Show with Jimmy Fallon after the Super Bowl and said that winning was a ‘disenfrazzling’ moment.”

  “I think he puts it on,” I said. I really shouldn’t be looking at pictures of Burke. Not when he was out on a date with my boss. But you couldn’t blame me. Really. You had to see Burke Tyler in person. He was just too gorgeous to believe, and with that hair and that tattoo…

  My phone buzzed.

  “Who’s that?” asked Roz, uncrossing her legs and sitting up. Roz and I were college roommates who’d decided to continue living together after college. Roz was attractive in an unconventional way. She had dark skin; thick, untamable hair; and a large, hooked nose. She also had incredible, gold-colored eyes and pretty lush lips, now turned downward in a frown. Something in People had upset her. She tossed the magazine toward the trash, missing.

  “I don’t know,” I said, unwilling to check my phone. Maybe it was Yvette, but it was Sunday, and Yvette took Sunday off as a rule. Plus, I was busy ogling Burke Tyler’s butt. “Who’s it from?” asked Roz.

  “Who cares,” I muttered.

  “Sarah Jane!” snapped Roz. “Stop drooling over some football player who’s dating your boss. Who texted?”

  I glanced down at the phone. Fuck. “Andrew.”

  Roz stared at me, her brow furrowing in confusion and then understanding. “Andrew? Like Andrew Sullivan? Like, weren’t we done talking to Andrew?” Roz had a boyfriend who lived across town, but she still talked about my relationships as if she was a voting member in them. Who are we going out with this evening? Weren’t we through with him? Did we think he was good in bed?

  “Chill,” I advised Roz. I picked up the phone and checked the text.

  Hey! My contract ended in Chicago, and I’m back in Boston for a few months. Care to meet up?

  “He wants to meet up,” I said, my stomach seizing a little. I hated that it still did that. I hated that Andrew, my first love, might always have that power over me. “His project in Chicago ended, and he’s back in Boston.”

  “Well, what are you going to do?”

  I thought about it. “I don’t know. It’s Andrew.”

  “Yah, well, why bother with him again? Especially when he’s the one who keeps dumping you!”

  Why bother with Andrew again? Because I’d loved him so incredibly hard; because a part of me will always love him.

  “All the more reason to stay away,” said Roz quietly, reading my silence.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I keep thinking that maybe there’s a reason we keep coming together…”

  “Maybe there’s a better reason you keep breaking up.”

  I shrugged. “That’s what growing up is, isn’t it? You change, and maybe you change in ways that bring you closer together. Maybe you change in ways that make you incompatible.”

  “Sounds like bullshit to me.”

  I laughed. Roz was a skeptic.

  “Well, whatever,” Roz continued. “At least Andrew might keep you from thinking about Burke Tyler. Screwing around with the man your boss is dating – that’ll get you fired pretty damn quickly.”

  “Maybe I want to get fired,” I suggested.

  “Yah, sure,” said Roz, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “And stop jet setting, stop dining at nice places, and stop spending weeks lying on the beach while your boss does the SI swimsuit edition? I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  Mondays were always the craziest day of the week. Since Yvette refused to work on Sunday (and let me tell you – the fashion world worked every day of the week!) it meant that Mondays were full of answering emails, making phone calls, setting up appointments, and running errands. On Mondays, I worked until about eleven o’clock at night.

  I had two phones – my work and my personal. Yvette had three phones. Her work, her personal work (both of which I handled), and her personal personal (which she kept on her at all times). I explained this only because I had four phones (five if you counted the office phone) that sat on my desk, so when one of them buzzed, I was momentarily confused when I looked down and saw: Hey, Gorgeous. Try again? The ballet is performing Romeo and Juliet.

  For a moment, I thought it was Andrew, and then I realized that the name on the phone read Burke. I felt a sudden breathless excitement wash over me until I realized that it was Yvette’s work phone (which has a similar gold case to my personal cell).

  I took a deep breath. Yvette had ridden the train up to NYC early that morning to meet with the producers of a French reality show looking to hire Yvette as a guest judge.

  I shot her a text on her private cell, telling her about Burke’s message and asking what she wanted me to reply.

  Let him down gently, she responded almost immediately. Was she kidding? What was wrong with her? I rolled my eyes. It seemed totally inane that someone as dynamic, intelligent, and beautiful as Yvette Delacroix would waste her energy on a jerk like Luis Abasolo but wouldn’t give someone as interesting as Burke Tyler a chance.

  I was dying to ask her about her date, to see what had happened that made her so quick to write him off.

  I stared at her phone a moment, feeling a ridiculous amount of regret. I’d hoped that Burke and Yvette would hit it off, if only so that I’d get to see him a few more times. Oh, come on! Haven’t you ever had a celebrity crush? I mean, yes, I spent a good deal of my time around male models, but the age of Tyson Bedford and Larry Scott was long gone. Designers were more interested in Danila Kovelev types (men who were wispy and beautiful enough to be mistaken for women).

  I stared at Yvette’s phone a moment, trying to figure out what to say. Finally, I said: I had a nice time with you on Friday. But I’m a bit too busy right now to get involved with anyone. There. I hit send and went back to my emails.

  It was a moment later when the phone buzzed again.

  Hey, lovely. Care to grab some lunch?

  For a moment, I was confused. Really? Had Burke not gotten the hint? It took me a moment to realize that it was my phone – not Yvette’s – that had buzzed. And it wasn’t Burke; it was Andrew. My stomach seized up again. Did I want to grab lunch with Andrew?

  I stared at the phone, not sure what to respond. Roz was partly right about needing to stay away from Andrew. He was the one who always broke up with me, and I was the one constantly heartbroken over him.

  The phone buzzed again. No strings. I’m going to take two weeks in between gigs and do some travelling. I just want to pick your brain!

  I took a deep breath. That I could do.

  Sure, I texted back. But it has to be a quick lunch and it has to be near me. I’m swamped at work.

  We met at a sandwich shop down the street from Yvette’s loft. I got there first and ordered a salad. Andrew was always late – always – but I wasn’t going to allow his lateness to dictate my time. I was going to keep our meeting as short as possible. If Andrew decided to show up late, that was his own problem. But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t raided Yvette’s store of free gifts and borrowed an elegant, dark green blouse and a few Mac cosmetics. Can you blame me? It’s human to want your ex to want you, isn’t it?

  When Andrew walked into the small shop, mine wasn’t the only gaze directed his way. There were a few tables where people were having working lunches, and there was a table of young women near the door who immediately started whispering.

  Yah, Andrew is that good looking. He works for a fancy consulting company, so he’s usually dressed in suit. But since he was in between projects, he was dressed casually, as casually as Andrew ever dressed. He grew up in boarding schools, so his “casual” attire was still pretty forma
l. He looked like he’d walked off the pages of a J Crew catalogue. He wore slim-fitting, gray khakis, a maroon Lacoste polo, and aviators. His shoes and belt were the same medium brown and made from expensive, butter soft leather.

  He removed his sunglasses, sticking them in his shirt pocket, and his eyes roamed around the small café until they landed on me. I wished my heart didn’t stop at the sight of Andrew. But seriously, you’ve got to see him to understand it. He’s gorgeous and exudes a calm confidence.

  Andrew strolled over to my table and leaned down, brushing a soft kiss to my cheek. He smelled like his aftershave lotion – vanilla and sandalwood. I inhaled and tried not to get giddy.

  “You look beautiful,” said Andrew, sitting down. “How are you?”

  The waitress came and delivered my salad.

  “Doing well,” I said. “It’s Monday, so I’m busy. How are you?”

  “Relieved to be back in Boston,” said Andrew, leaning back in his chair and looking at the menu. His eyes roamed over it a moment before looking back up at me. His smile was boyish. “What should I get?”

  I looked at the menu, trying to envision what Andrew might like. He cared more about his figure than he did about food.

  “The grilled chicken and red peppers,” I said.

  Andrew winked. “Dead on, beautiful. I see you’ve still got it.”

  “Was that a test?” I asked, frowning.

  Andrew wasn’t listening to me. Instead, he was checking out the restaurant, his eyes landing a moment on the table of young women before landing back on me. “So,” he said, steepling his fingers, “where do I go for my holiday?”

  I inhaled through my nose and forced a smile at him. No more small talk then. He really did just want to get some feedback on his travel. “Well, do you want warm or European? Do you want exotic? How long do you want to spend on an airplane?”