Down & Dirty

  I can’t do that.

  And wouldn’t it just figure that the first woman to catch my interest since Heather got sick—and probably even longer if I’m honest—is the one who doesn’t expect me to take care of her?

  I’m still worrying over the problem when I let myself into Heather’s condo half an hour later, a gallon of rocky road ice cream in one hand and a gallon of chocolate chip in the other. Only to find my niece sprawled out on the chest of my left tackle and best friend, fast asleep.

  “Hey,” I say softly as I drop the ice cream on the bar before making my way over to the couch. “How long’s she been out?”

  “About fifteen minutes,” Tanner whispers, his huge hand cupped around the back of her head in support. “One minute she was talking about eating a huge bowl of ice cream and the next she was snoring.”

  I laugh. “Sounds about right. Where’s Brent?”

  “He climbed into bed with Heather about half an hour ago. I’m pretty sure they’re both asleep, too.”

  “That’s how we roll over here at Casa Browning. Lights out by nine-fifteen.”

  “Sounds about how I roll over at my place, as well.”

  “Yeah, right,” I say as I bend over and pick up Lucy, transferring her from Tanner’s chest to mine. “I believe that only if there’s a woman in the dark with you.”

  “Exactly what I’m saying, my man.”

  “Here’s a tip,” I call as I head down the hall to Lucy’s bedroom. “It’s more fun with the lights on.”

  “Yeah, well, we can’t all be beauty queens like you, Browning.”

  I ignore him as I place Lucy into her white canopied bed. Tanner had been savvy enough to turn her bed down, so I get her settled under the covers with almost no fuss at all. I check to make sure Mr. Wiggles, her stuffed golden retriever, is within reach, then flip on the small princess lamp on the other side of the room, just in case she wakes up in the middle of the night. She’s always been afraid of the dark, but it’s gotten worse lately. Probably because she asked her brother what would happen to Heather when she died. And Brent had made the mistake of answering her.

  After checking on my sister and nephew—Tanner was right, they are both asleep and Heather seems to be relatively peaceful for once—I make my way back into the family room. And nearly laugh at the sight of six foot seven, three hundred pound Tanner Green daintily picking up and folding Lucy’s Barbie clothes.

  “Another Barbie night, huh?” I make a beeline for the fridge and, after stowing the ice cream in the freezer, pull out a couple of beers. After popping the tops off, I hand him a bottle and watch as he takes a long, grateful sip.

  He grins when he sees me watching him. “Hey, changing Barbie outfits every five minutes is thirsty work.”

  “Don’t I know it? I’ve probably spent a thousand hours doing that in the last eight months.”

  “You’re a good man, my friend. But I gotta say, it’s a lot more fun taking the clothes off a woman when she’s life-sized and not made of plastic.”

  “And here I would have thought that went without saying. You got to put that blow up doll of yours away, Green. Get yourself a real woman for those long nights in the dark.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Keep it up and you’re going to have to drag Shawn’s ass over here to babysit.”

  “Not sure he’d be okay with the makeover.” I raise my brows at Tanner’s dreads, all of which currently have hot pink ribbons wrapped around the bottom of them.

  He just laughs. “Lucy has very definite ideas about the appropriate way to wear dreads.”

  “I bet. God knows she has opinions about everything else.”

  “She’s a woman, isn’t she?”

  By unspoken agreement, we wander out to Heather’s balcony and sprawl out on the lounges she has there. It’s a mild night, the temperature hovering around seventy as we stare out over the city lights.

  “Seriously, though,” I say after we both take a couple more sips of our beers. “Thanks for coming over tonight.”

  “It’s all good.” He shrugs. “I got your back.”

  “You always do.”

  It’s about as sentimental as either of us can handle, so it’s no surprise when Tanner changes the subject to this coming Sunday’s game against the Panthers and how we can’t let their defense combo of Stone and Macellan shut us down like they have all the other offenses this season.

  It’s not until we’ve hashed out a strategy an hour and a half later—and downed another beer each—that Tanner asks, “So, how’d the house hunting go? You find something?”

  “I did, yeah. Beach house out in La Jolla.”

  He whistles. “Swank.”

  “Says the man with his own personal compound in Del Mar.”

  “Hey. Never said I wasn’t swank, too. What’s the point of getting my ass beat on every weekend if I don’t get to appreciate the fruits of my labor?”

  “That’s a good point.”

  “Like you would know,” he snorts. “It’s my job to get my ass beat so yours stays safe.”

  “Oh, is that why I had so many bruises on my ass last week? Because you were keeping me safe?”

  “Hey now, those were extenuating circumstances.”

  “Yeah, the kind of extenuating circumstances that ended up with me being sacked twice.”

  “You probably shouldn’t have pissed the Raiders defense off so bad, then. You know how they get.”

  “I already told you, I didn’t know she was dating Ellenberg.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they all say. And all I’m saying is you might want to avoid that kind of…conflict in the future.”

  And with those words of wisdom, he finishes off his beer and pushes to his feet. “Time for me to go.”

  I stand up, too, walk him toward the front door. It’s only after he opens it that he snaps his fingers and says, “I almost forgot. How’s the real estate agent with the sharp tongue and killer legs?”

  “She’s still got both,” I answer, thinking about how good it felt to have those legs straddling me less than two hours ago.

  “Any progress getting made?”

  “Yeah, actually. I’m bringing her to the thing tomorrow night.”

  “To the charity thing?” His brows shoot up. “Don’t you know if you bring a girl to a Cinderella ball it gives her fancy ideas?”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I don’t mind her getting some of those fancy ideas.”

  “So, that’s how it is.” He whistles, low and long.

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Yeah, you do. It’s written all over your face. But I always say, when you know, you know.”

  “You never say that.”

  “Sure I do. You just never listen.” He punches my arm. “So what are you doing to make sure Little Miss Real Estate knows she’s special?”

  I stare at him blankly. “Taking her to the ball?”

  “And you think that’s enough?” He rolls his eyes. “Have you been serially single so long you’ve forgotten how it’s done?”

  “I guess so, since I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

  “You like her, true?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you want her to think she means more than all those one-night stands of yours the gossip rags like to harp on, right?”

  I think back to how Emerson kept reiterating her low expectations, and how much it pissed me off that she felt she had to. “Yeah. Absolutely.”

  “So what are you going to do to prove it to her?”

  “I…don’t know?”

  “Seriously, man?” He punches me again. “Do I got to do all the work around here?”

  “It appears you do. So hit me, Ladykiller.” I use the nickname the press gave him years ago. “What do I need to do?”

  He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “You need to woo her, obviously.”

  “Woo her? Is that even a thing anymore?”

  “Yeah, it’s a fucking thing. And you need to do it. W
omen like to be wooed.”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I lean a shoulder against the closest wall and say, “And how do you suggest I do that, oh wise one?”

  “Seriously?” He rolls his eyes. “How the hell do the magazines think you’re the one with all the game in this friendship?”

  “It was one article, three years ago. Are you ever going to stop bitching about it?”

  “They said I was the Christian to your Cyrano. It’s not like I can just forget that.”

  “We’ve been over this a million times. Christian was the good-looking guy. It’s a compliment.”

  “He was an idiot. Cyrano was the one with all the smooth moves. I’m definitely Cyrano.”

  “Yeah, well, you’ve got the nose for it, don’t you?”

  “Fuck off, man. I don’t even know why I’m trying to help you.” He starts to muscle his way past me and out the door.

  “No, wait.” I grab his arm. “Seriously. It’s been a while since I’ve done the whole wooing thing. How do I woo a woman who doesn’t take any of my shit?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me here? You’re loaded, dude. Spend some money on the girl, show her that she matters.”

  I think back to Emerson’s beat-up Corolla. “I’m pretty sure she’d kick me in the balls if I bought her a car.”

  Now he looks at me like I’m absolutely nuts. “You know, we could solve that problem. You could buy me a car. I promise not to kick you in the balls.”

  “Screw you.”

  “I’m just saying, man. You’re an amateur. Buy the girl flowers. A pretty pair of earrings.” He snaps his fingers. “Shoes. You should buy her shoes. Chicks dig shoes.”

  “Shoes?”

  “Yeah. You know, some of those red-soled ones. The ladies love their Loubis.”

  Now it’s my turn to look incredulous. “Who the fuck are you? ‘Ladies love their Loubis’?”

  “I told you, I’m fucking Cyrano. And you should listen to me. Tomorrow morning send your lady a pair of glass slippers for the ball. It’ll make her happy and fucking guarantee you some crazy monkey sex. Win-win for everyone.”

  “Oh, yeah. You’re Cyrano, all right.” I shove him toward the door. “You’ve got romance written all over you.”

  “Geez, when’d you become such a hater?”

  “About the same time my best friend lost his mind. Go home. Get some sleep so you can do your job tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Always worrying about yourself.” But he shoots me a grin and a peace sign before taking off down the outside corridor.

  “Don’t forget!” he shouts, just as I go to close the door. “Shoes!”

  Chapter 17

  Emerson

  “Hey, what are you doing for lunch today?” Alice asks as I restock the Keurig cups at the coffee bar.

  “Probably eating the granola bar I brought from home, why?”

  She rolls her eyes. “You’re in the middle of making a gigantic deal. Way bigger than anything I’ve done in the three years I’ve been an agent. Don’t you think we should celebrate with something a little more exciting than a granola bar?”

  “Maybe, but until I get paid, a granola bar is pretty much all I can afford. Besides, the deal isn’t done yet.”

  “It’s going to be. They came back with a counteroffer and now you’re countering their counteroffer. It’ll be a done deal by tomorrow, I assure you. And then Kerry will have to get off your ass.”

  She says the last in a furtive whisper while glancing over her shoulder, as if she expects Kerry to pop out of the wall like the bogeyman or something.

  “Or fire me,” I tell her as I crouch down and pull a bunch of coffee cups out from under the sink, then arrange them next to the bright red coffeemaker. “Which is a distinct possibility when she no longer has to worry about making Hunter unhappy.” I was protected from her ire this morning, since he insisted on driving me to work. But I’m not naïve enough to think that’s going to continue.

  “I don’t know. She may be vindictive, but she’s not stupid. You just made the agency a shitload of money and you’ve only been working here three days. She’s been trying to close a deal with Hunter for two weeks and couldn’t get it done. She has to keep you.”

  “We’ll see.”

  I check to make sure the sugar and creamer are good—they are—then nod for Alice to follow me back to my desk. I can’t be away from the phone for longer than a couple of minutes at a time.

  Sure enough, I’ve barely settled behind my desk when the phone rings. “Good morning, thank you for calling San Diego City Living. How may I direct your call?”

  “Hi.” A rich male voice comes through the line, loud and clear. “I’m looking for Emerson Day.”

  “This is Emerson. How can I help you?” I’m more than a little confused as I wait for his answer. Except for the people I phone to set up appointments for Kerry, no one knows to ask for me when they call. And since I’ve got everything lined up for the week—all with people who don’t sound like this guy—I have no idea what he could possibly want.

  “This is Shawn Wilson. I’m looking for a beach house on Coronado and Hunter Browning gave me your name. Said you could hook me up.”

  I’m so shocked I nearly drop the phone. Shawn Wilson is on the phone. Asking for me. Shawn freaking Wilson, who happens to be one of the best wide receivers on the planet. And he’s on the phone. My phone. Wanting to talk to me.

  I must look as shocked as I feel because suddenly Alice is in my face, hands up in a “what’s going on” gesture.

  I frantically shake my head at her even as I scramble to pull a notebook out of my top desk drawer. “Yes, of course. I’m happy to help you find a house, Mr. Wilson.”

  He laughs. “Call me Shawn or Wilson. I never answer to the ‘Mr.’ part.”

  “Okay, Shawn.” Alice’s eyes go wide as she puts the names together and figures out that I’m talking to another one of the Lightning’s biggest players. But having her here is breaking my concentration, so I shoo her away. When she doesn’t go, I turn my chair around to face the wall even as I will my racing heart to calm down. “Can you give me some idea of what you’re looking for?”

  We spend the next few minutes talking about his specifications—at least six bedrooms plus a guesthouse, beach access, room for a basketball court and a tennis court if it doesn’t already have it and a number of other things that put the house in the really exclusive category. We’re talking about another fifteen- or twenty-million-dollar house here, maybe more, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  I mean, sure, I’m excited. Who wouldn’t be? But when Hunter sent him my way, did he do it because he thinks I’m a good agent? Or because we’re sleeping together and he’s trying to score points? Or worse, because he saw where I live and he feels sorry for me?

  Maybe it shouldn’t matter—I did just land another big client and another potentially huge deal that will probably keep me from being fired. But it does matter, more than I want it to.

  After arranging to meet Shawn for coffee tomorrow to sign a contract—oh God, I have to figure out how to write a real contract up and not just the mock ones I had to do when I was taking my real estate course—I hang up. And do my best to ignore the happy dance Alice is doing around my desk.

  “Holy shit!” she whisper-screams as she grabs me and spins my chair around. “What is going on between you and Hunter Browning?”

  “Nothing!” I whisper-hiss back.

  “Yeah, right! I’m not saying he wouldn’t recommend you to his teammates after the deal is done, but come on. His counteroffer hasn’t even been accepted yet and already you’re getting calls?”

  “One call. I’ve gotten one call. And, hey. If they accept our counteroffer, I will have saved Hunter eight and a half million dollars on this house. That’s nothing to sneeze at, even when you’re as rich as they are.”

  I know I’m protesting too much—especially considering what Hunter and I got up to yesterday—but
Alice is hitting on every single one of my insecurities. It must show, because suddenly she changes her tune.

  “I’m just kidding, Emerson. It’s cool that he’s reccing you around. I’m just saying, maybe he’s trying to impress you, you know? Trying to get your attention by sending his big money friends your way.”

  It might be a good theory, but it’s pretty obvious that he already has more of my attention than I had any intention of giving him. I’m not saying I’m not grateful for what he’s done for me, because I am. I’m just saying that I don’t want to get used to it. Don’t want to come to expect my rich boyfriend—if that’s what he is, considering we haven’t even had our first date yet—to take care of me. My mom has done that her whole life and look what it’s gotten her. Five husbands later, and she’s still dependent on a man to give her whatever she needs.

  “Come on!” Alice says when I continue to look serious. “We are so going to celebrate. Lunch is on me!”

  “You don’t need to—”

  “I certainly do!” She winks at me. “You’re totally the up-and-coming new agent at SDCL. I need to get on your good side. Besides, you can hit me back after your first paycheck. So get your purse and let’s go!”

  I glance at the clock—I’m already ten minutes into my hour-long lunch break. “Okay, fine. Just let me roll the phone over.”

  “Do it fast,” she says. “We need time to strategize how to break the news to Kerry that she can’t fire you. I totally wanna be here when you tell her about Shawn.”

  Oh, shit. Like I wasn’t stressed out enough by this latest development? My stomach pitches and rolls and suddenly I’m not sure lunch is such a good idea, after all.

  But Alice is waiting, so I grab my purse and we head for the door. But before we can even get there, a courier comes in bearing several large bags.

  Figuring they’re for Kerry, I step back to my desk so I can sign for them. But Alice’s eyes are huge and she’s pointing straight at me behind the courier’s back. I have no idea what she’s getting at until the courier asks for Emerson Day. For…me.