Teasing: Chapter 4

With a cup of coffee in hand, I look through the kitchen window at the massive backyard my daughter has quickly turned into her fairy kingdom, then over to the shady corner of the property where Briar Rose has somehow convinced my father to have a tea party with her and Butters. The damn dog is lying in the old man’s lap with her belly up as he pets her. She might as well be purring like a cat while she’s at it.

Guess both girls have him right where they want him.

Yup . . . just lumped my kid in with the dog.

Father of the year.

“He misses her,” Mom muses as she tucks her arm in mine and leans her head on my shoulder. “We both do.”

“I’m twenty-six years old, Mom. It was time.” Past time, if you’re asking me. But nobody’s asking. I’d only been out of college a few months when Rosie was born. Her mother was never going to be a permanent part of my life or the parent my baby deserved. So at twenty-one, with the world by the balls and a brand new, multi-million-dollar contract to play for my family’s football team in my hand, I gave up the fancy new condo I’d just purchased to go with that shiny new contract and moved home. Because while I might not have been smart enough to avoid knocking up Rosie’s mom, if I was going to be responsible for a living, breathing human being, I was sure as shit smart enough to know I needed help.

“Trust me, Maverick. I know exactly how old you are. I was there when you were conceived, and I was there when you were born.”

“Mom—” I groan, unwilling and definitely not wanting to think about my parents having sex. They snuck off to their bedroom to put away laundry often enough when Ryker and I were young. We figured out what they were actually doing in there pretty quickly, and it may have scarred me.

I don’t care how old you are.

Nobody wants to think about that shit.

“I’m just saying . . . I know how old you are, and you’re never going to be too old to come home if you need to. You’ll understand one day.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I watch Rosie dance in a circle around Dad. “Pretty sure I understand that now.” I offer Mom my coffee, which she happily accepts. She never says no to coffee. “I should probably go save Dad before she convinces him to buy her a pony.”

Mom bites her lip, attempting and failing to hide her smile. “She may have mentioned that when we got here. She thought Butterfly would like a friend.”

“No,” I stop her before she gets any ideas, because Eleanor Kingston hates to tell my daughter no even more than she hates to be told no herself. Wonder where Rosie gets that from . . . “Butters is all the pet we need. Some days, I almost forget to feed her. I mean it, Mom. No ponies.”

I push through the back door and try to crash the tea party before Dad can give in.

“It’s not like it would live here,” Mom bargains as she follows me outside. “We’d board it at the stables by our house.”

What the hell?

She’s already given this thought?

“No—”

“Maverick—” she tries giving me her scary mom voice, but that shit stopped working on me when I was ten and figured out I could blame just about anything on Ryker and get away with it.

“Nope. No ponies,” I warn her again as we cross the yard, fairly certain she’s going to ignore me anyway.

Butters jumps out of Dad’s lap when I stop next to the giant purple blanket covered in butterflies that’s spread out in the grass and shake my head at the two co-conspirators in front of me.

Rosie and Dad both stop talking immediately, and my daughter giggles and covers her mouth.

She thinks she’s being sly.

She’s not.

She’s already gotten to him.

Damn it.

I lift my brow and stare at both of them.

Two peas in a pod.

Sebastian Beneventi was one of the best football players to ever set foot on a field. Strong, physical, and fierce, he scared the shit out of every offensive lineman who was ever dumb enough to square up against him. And I’m pretty sure he’s being manipulated by a five-year-old. A cute one who adores him—but still being manipulated. The best part is I’m also absolutely positive he’s loving every minute of it.

“What are you two up to?” I exaggerate my words, drawing them out like a detective from one of Rosie’s cartoons.

“We’re having a tea party, Daddy.” She holds a pink plastic cup up to Mom. “Want some, Mimi?”

I shake my head as Mom sits down, beaming. “Of course I do.”

This kid . . . My whole heart is sitting right there on that purple blanket.

She’s the purest thing I’ve ever done and the only thing I’ll ever love like this.

And I still wonder every single day how I got lucky enough to be her father.

Dad stretches his legs out and pushes himself up with a wicked grin as he nods toward Emmie’s yard. It only takes a moment for me to follow his gaze and see what he’s looking at.

Or better yet, who.

Emmie Monroe likes to be outside.

In the weeks since we’ve moved in, I’ve noticed she does everything she can outside. Reading, gardening, yoga, painting . . . she does it all outside in these damn flowy sundresses that look pure and innocent and have no business looking as sexy as they do. But on her, holy shit, do they make my mouth water. I’m pretty sure she could wear a sheet, and she’d look like a goddess. Especially if it was my sheet.

And there goes that train of thought . . . right off the fucking tracks.

Every time she’s outside, my mind goes places it shouldn’t.

And it’s not just when the sun is shining either. Just the other night, I caught her sitting on her porch reading a book in a storm. She was bundled under a blanket, reading a paperback by candlelight.

Who does that?

My fucking smoke show of a neighbor, that’s who.

“Is that the neighbor Ryker was telling us about?” Mom asks with a curious smile from her spot on the blanket as Rosie hands her an apple slice.

What the hell has Ryker been saying and why does him talking about her to our parents make me angry?

“That’s Emmie,” Rosie announces. “She’s nice, and she teaches ballet.”

“Oh . . . she does, does she?” Mom’s smile grows. “At Belle’s studio?”

Fuck me and my interfering family.

I’ve got a pretty good idea where her mind is going, and it’s not going to happen. And I already know Mom is going to be calling my godmother later to get the dirt on Emmie. Fucking fantastic.

“Apparently,” I grumble and try to ignore the beautiful woman pulling weeds from a vegetable garden. Today, her hair is held back by a red and white bandanna tied in a bow on the top of her head. It matches the red tank top pushing her tits up so high, I feel like if I was close enough, I might even be able to see nipple. Cut-off jean shorts sit frayed high up on her toned, tanned thighs, and she’s barefoot. Emmie’s always barefoot. And I’m willing to bet her toes are painted the same color red as her shirt. Every time I’ve seen this woman, her nails are a different color.

Not that I noticed.

Dad nods toward the house, and I follow him before Rosie can start asking about a pony again. One problem at a time.

He stops under one of the outdoor fans cooling off the covered paver patio and leans against a brick column. His still-muscled arms cross over his chest as he stares at me, waiting.

Dad’s always been the more patient parent. He’ll wait you out if he has to. But he rarely has to. Mom usually got us to crack pretty fast. She’s his opposite in almost every way. But for them, it worked. Still does.

“Spit it out, old man,” I tell him, in the mood to get it over with.

He looks over my shoulder at his girls before finally looking at me. “You ready for training camp?”

I shrug, feeling a little defensive. I’ve never needed anyone to question whether I’m ready or not. You don’t get drafted to the team your family owns and not work your ass off to prove to yourself and everyone else that you earned that position.

No one can ever doubt I’ve earned my spot. I may have been a hot topic my rookie year, but I proved my worth that season and every one since. The commentators can all fuck right off, and if they have a problem with that, they’re welcome to line up against me on the field any day of the week so I can show them how good I am. “I’m in good shape. I worked with that trainer the entire offseason, and I definitely see a difference. I’m faster, stronger, and more explosive than I was at the end of last season. I’ve got this, if you’re worried.”

Dad’s eyes narrow, and he adjusts his stance. The days of looking down at me are long gone. I’m the only family member who looks my father in the eyes, and I come from a big family. He and I both say we’re six foot six, but I think I’ve got an inch on him these days. Pretty sure you shrink with old age.

No doubt, he’d kick my ass if I said that to him though.

“How do you feel about playing on the same team as your brother?”

Oh . . . that’s where he’s going with this.

A fire burns in my stomach, thinking about the possibility. Ryker lost his hearing right before his freshman year, so he didn’t play at all that season, which meant the only time we’ve been on the same team since was my senior year, and it was a rough one. He was determined to play, even if it meant he had to relearn everything . . . and it really did mean he had to relearn everything.

Kids are cruel, and I got into a lot of fights that season. But that’s the thing. We were kids. Professionals can be assholes, but for the most part, they’re not. They’re here to do a job, and I’ve been on this team long enough to know no one is going to try to screw over my brother. Not and live to see the next practice. “No one is going to fuck with him, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ll make sure of it.”

“That’s what I’m worried about, Mav,” Dad groans.

My phone rings, and I pull it from my pocket to see my cousin Aurora’s name flash on the screen. “Hey, kid. What’s up?”

“You trust me to watch your kid. Might want to stop insinuating I’m still one myself,” she sasses back.

Aurora refuses to let anyone have the last word. Kinda like her dad. Lucky for me, she’s changed her major about ten times over the course of the two years she’s been in college and doesn’t have an internship or some kind of job lined up for the summer. She’s also fantastic with Rosie, and she’s saved my ass since my former nanny decided to move.

But she is still a kid. Life hasn’t kicked her ass yet. She still thinks she’s invincible.

“Yeah . . . Not gonna happen. What’s going on?”

The silence on the other end of the line speaks volumes.

Loud ones. Ones I don’t want to hear.

Pretty sure I’m not going to like this.

“Spit it out, Rory.” The words are clipped, but I’ve got a sinking feeling I’m about to get screwed.

“My friend invited me to go with her to Italy for a month . . .” she says quickly, like she’s ripping off a Band-Aid.

And there it is. “When?”

The squeak of her voice and the look on Dad’s face both warn me that word came out as harsh as I thought it might have, but—fuck—she’s got no clue how badly this screws me.

“I’m flying out tomorrow,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry. But it’s a month in Italy, Mav. Her family has a villa in Malta. Malta,” she emphasizes like I didn’t hear her the first time, and I can’t even be mad. She’s barely twenty, and it’s her summer break. But fuck me, camp starts in just a few days. “Please don’t hate me.”

I crack my neck and look up at the darkening sky.

What the hell am I going to do now?

I can’t take Rosie with me to practice.

Or can I . . . ?

“I don’t hate you, kid. Have fun and be smart while you’re there, okay? Don’t get in a car with any guys. Don’t go anywhere by yourself. Don’t take a drink from anyone you don’t know,” I warn her.

“You sound just like my dad,” she grumbles.

“There are worse ways to sound,” I tease.

“Love you, Mav.”

“Yeah. You too. Have fun.” I disconnect the call as the first crack of thunder booms overhead, and Rosie comes running, followed by Butters and Mom.

“Son of a bitch,” I groan.

“Language, Daddy.” Rosie side-eyes me as we all gather under the roof for shelter from the incoming storm as the first drops fall.

I lift her up on my hip and kiss her forehead. “Sorry, sweets.”

She leans her forehead to mine. “It’s okay, Daddy. You’ll do better.”

“I’ll try,” I promise her, not for the first or the last time.