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  I pivot at the last second, turning a full circle as I move around her, and toss the ball to Miguel who’s been running parallel to me. He snags it, runs up for a perfect layup. And we’re finally on the board with two points.

  Elara goes in for the rebound, and just like that, it is on. The four of us spend the next fifteen minutes running ourselves ragged as we battle for supremacy. And can I just say, the way E not only keeps up but makes me work my ass off for every point we get? It’s not just impressive. It’s also sexy as hell.

  Then again, I’m figuring out that everything about her—from the top of her tight blond topknot to the tips of her pale-pink polished toes—is sexy as hell. Especially everything that’s in between.

  The woman is seriously stacked, which anyone looking at her can tell. But looking at her is one thing. Feeling all those lush, larger-than-life curves press against me as we battle for the ball? That’s something else entirely. More than once I have to focus on Miguel and Marlow to keep myself from getting hard from just brushing against Elara. Not going to lie. The fact that she doesn’t seem similarly moved by me is a blow to my ego.

  Ten minutes later, we’re still duking it out on the court and I’m still doing my best not to react like a perv every time I come into contact with Elara. The fact that she’s thrown two elbows in the last five minutes—one to my gut and one perilously close to my throat—should do the job for me. But the truth is, it only makes me like her more.

  The woman is tough, way tougher than I first gave her credit for. And she doesn’t back down. There’s something insanely hot about that.

  We’re almost tied now, the score 19 to 18, with Miguel and me down one lousy point as we battle it out for every possession. Whoever makes the next basket wins and now I’m more determined than ever that it’s going to be Miguel and me.

  Except Elara breaks away with the ball, hauling ass down the court like her topknot’s on fire.

  This is it. If she makes that basket, we’re toast.

  I’m not quite as fast as she is, but I’m only half a step behind as four long bounds take her to within easy shooting range. She pauses for a second, glances behind her at Marlow and that’s all the hesitation I need to close the gap.

  She shoots and I lunge forward, using my ridiculously large wingspan to my advantage. I get fingertips on the ball and bat it away. I try to send it back toward Miguel, who’s been an incredible partner throughout this crazy fast and surprisingly vicious pickup game.

  But before he can get it, Elara’s back on the ground and snatching it right out of the air in front of him and whirling away before either of us can even think to react. I expect her to shoot, so I move into the basket on the left, preparing to try to block even though I can’t jump for shit.

  In a totally unexpected move, she swoops the ball under her arm and sends it rocketing toward Marlow. Who snatches it out of the air and shoots from the right before I can even get my feet moving in that direction.

  The ball swishes into the net just like downtown and they win, 21 to 19. The crowd goes wild.

  And I’m left standing there, half annoyed because I hate losing and half impressed because Miguel and I just got our asses handed to us. By two girls. And while I don’t like to think I’m sexist, I have to admit this is not the outcome I was expecting.

  Not losing, necessarily, because I was totally up for taking a loss for chivalry’s sake. But there was nothing chivalrous about what just happened on that court. Elara threw a couple of elbows and it got me all worked up, got me set to win.

  And I didn’t.

  That doesn’t happen very often. Not on the Lightning—we’re Super Bowl champs for a reason—and definitely not when I’m on my own. I don’t lose. Not when I’ve set my mind on something.

  But I lost today. Elara snatched that victory away like it wasn’t even hard. And I should be pissed at myself—I usually am, when I fuck up. Instead, I’m impressed…and turned on. Because this woman gives as good as she fucking gets. She doesn’t back up and she sure as shit doesn’t back down. I never really thought of that as sexy before, but shit, is it ever.

  And so is the look on her face as she hands me the ball, smacking it into my stomach just a little harder than necessary. “Thanks for taking it easy on us,” she says so sweetly that it’s a miracle we don’t both go into sugar shock.

  As she walks away, I can’t help feeling my ribs, just to see if the dagger it feels like she stuck there is real.

  I should back off. I know I should—she’s still pissed about the Reilly money, pissed about me being here without permission, pissed about all kinds of shit I don’t even have a handle on yet. Letting her cool down is definitely the smart move in this situation.

  Instead, I bump fists with Miguel, then weave my way through the crowd so I can follow her across the blacktop to the building. As I do, I can’t help admiring the way her very sexy ass looks in that very tight skirt, can’t help thinking about running my hands up the back of her legs and cupping that ass in my palms as I lift her up and onto my dick.

  I bet she’s a bossy one, bet she knows exactly what she likes. My dick goes from semi-hard to all the way hard just thinking about that mouth of hers telling me what she wants me to do to her. I’m more than capable of figuring it out on my own, but there’s something about a woman talking dirty that gets me all kinds of revved up. Thank God my jeans are tight enough to keep that shit in check. I slip my shirt on and keep it untucked, though, just to be on the safe side.

  The heels she’s only just slipped back on add to the whole package, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t turn me on that when she’s wearing them she sees eye to eye with me. That’s never happened to me before.

  Kids keep stopping me for selfies and introductions and though I really want to get to her, really want to pull her pigtails a little more and maybe even try for a date so I can apologize for the money thing and get to know her a little more, I can’t disappoint them. So I stop every time they ask, take the photo, give the fist bump.

  I give every one of them my attention—they deserve it—but when Elara stops in front of a tall white dude in golf clothes, I can’t help watching them instead of the kid in front of me. They shake hands and talk for a couple of minutes, and I start to relax…until the guy puts his arm around her waist and starts propelling her toward the front gate, and the Porsche illegally parked on the street in front of it.

  What. The. Fuck?

  He’s obviously not her boyfriend—you don’t give your man the kind of impersonal handshake she just gave this guy. And you sure as shit don’t stiffen up the way she did when his hand touched her lower back. Who is this guy and why the fuck does he seem to think he can put his hands all over Elara like that?

  I shouldn’t give a shit. I mean, we’ve only met twice and both times she’s barely been civil to me. Plus, I’m probably totally wrong about what’s going down here.

  I don’t know, though. There’s just something about the way this guy is touching her I don’t like—and it’s not just because I want to be the one touching her. Excusing myself from the kid I’ve barely glanced at, I take a couple of steps their way, just in time to see E step out of his reach.

  She puts a few feet of space between them as they continue to walk toward his car, and I relax. Especially when he doesn’t reach for her again. The woman can obviously take care of herself in whatever this situation is—

  And damn it. He’s got his hands on her again, only this time he’s wrapping a hand around her waist and pulling her into his body. And from the way her back just went ramrod straight, she’s definitely not feeling it.

  This time when I move through the crowd, the kids get out of my way. Either because they see what I’m looking at or because the look on my face warns that I’m not fucking around anymore. Either way, I’m grateful. Because if that asshole doesn’t take his
fucking hand off her soon, I’m going to take it off for him.

  Chapter 7

  Elara

  Okay, so my mother failed to mention that Dr. Mark is an octopus. Seriously, a fucking octopus, complete with eight arms and a bucket of slime. Then again, maybe that’s why he’s such a good surgeon—because he’s got so many arms, six of which he feels the need to have on me at any given moment despite the fact that we met less than five minutes ago.

  I mean, he’s already tried the hand on lower back/fingers resting on the top of my ass trick. I don’t even want to think about what’s next. Because seriously, who does that five seconds after they meet a woman?

  A surgeon with a God complex, obviously.

  Color me soooooo not impressed.

  The first time he tried it I moved away but let it go because the center could really use a big fat donation. Plus, the last thing I want is to have a fight with my mother about this. But it just happened a second time, and now I’m done. Donation or not, family friend or not, epic battle with my mother or not, I am So. Fucking. Done.

  Grabbing the hand that is currently splayed across my hip, I forcibly remove it from my body—along with the arm he’s got wrapped tightly around my waist. Then I turn to Mark with a look that tells him this isn’t a joke and that I mean everything I’m about to say.

  “You know what? This isn’t working for me and I’m going to have to cancel on our lunch date.”

  He seems puzzled, like the words I said just aren’t computing. And maybe they’re not. I mean, he’s no baller, but that God complex of his is as overdeveloped as any player’s massive ego. Maybe more so, considering his absolute lack of comprehension.

  “I’m not sure what you mean?” he finally says. “Are you ill?”

  His tone is solicitous, but the look in his eyes isn’t. Neither is the hand he wraps around my upper arm in a deliberately possessive gesture, one that has me gritting my teeth and imagining punching him right in his perfectly capped smile.

  I could apologize and make it better, could make some excuse about not feeling well or something being wrong at the center to smooth things over. But I don’t want to do either…and why should I have to? He’s the one behaving like a cretin. Why should I be the one to take ownership of his mess?

  “No,” I tell him as I wrest my arm from his grip and take several steps back. “I’m not ill. I just don’t want to go out with a man who seems physically incapable of keeping his hands to himself. So I’m not going to.”

  Mark’s face turns red. “I’m sorry?”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “I mean, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I was just trying to be solicitous—”

  “Yeah, well, you came across as creepy, so maybe you should tone it down with the next blind date.”

  He laughs, and it’s a half-shocked, half-pissed-off sound. “You’re not really canceling, are you? I rearranged my schedule to be here and I’m a really busy guy.”

  Oh, yeah. Definitely a God complex. “Sorry, Mark. I just don’t think it’s going to work.”

  “Come on,” he coaxes. “Let’s give it a try. You’re a good-looking woman, despite how big you are. If you’d just relax a little…”

  He reaches for my arm again and I’m really close to laying him out right here in the middle of Euclid Avenue because, seriously? Everything about what he just said was total bullshit. I need to relax? What he really means is that I shouldn’t be so bitchy considering I’m so “big.” Oh, and I should probably be grateful that he’s willing to go out with me since I’m such a damn charity case.

  My mom obviously misjudged Dr. Mark—turns out, he doesn’t seem evolved enough to walk and breathe at the same time, after all.

  I step back, but Mark keeps reaching for me. Before I can put him in his place, though, a huge hand reaches around me and grabs onto his before he can so much as touch me. The long, dark fingers make a fist around Mark’s smaller hand, squeezing hard enough to have him letting out a pathetic little yelp.

  “I believe the lady said she wasn’t interested.”

  I recognize the deep, rich voice instantly, and a quick glance behind me tells me I’m right. Tanner Green has taken it upon himself to come to my rescue, even though that’s the last thing I want or need.

  “The lady can speak for herself,” I tell him with a glare.

  “I have no doubt that you can,” he agrees, though he still hasn’t let go of Mark’s hand. “But he looks stupid enough that I thought your message might need a little reinforcement.”

  Mark bristles, like being called stupid is one insult too many for his Ivy League brain. “We have a date,” he says, voice a little higher than it was before Tanner came on the scene. And though I hate that I’m doing it, I can’t help comparing the two of them. Mark, pale and skinny and weak, with a character to match, looks ridiculous next to Tanner, with his dark skin, heavy muscles and obvious hero complex.

  Mark might be the surgeon with all the fancy degrees and the fancy hands, but it’s glaringly obvious that Tanner is the better man. Even if he is a little overbearing in his need to “protect the little woman.”

  “We had a date,” I correct him even as I disengage Tanner’s fist from around his very important surgeon fingers. I keep my voice low in an effort to circumvent all the curious glances we’re getting from the kids at the center. “Now, we’ll just call it a missed opportunity.”

  “Seriously? You’re going to ditch me for this guy?” He shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. And maybe he can’t. From what I hear, not many women pass up an opportunity to land a surgeon, even if he does have the manners of an octopus in heat.

  “I’m ditching you because I don’t think we’re compatible. It has nothing to do with Tanner.”

  “Yeah, right,” he says with a snort. He looks Tanner up and down and for a second I think Mark’s going to say something less than complimentary.

  Tanner must think the same thing, because he’s standing close enough that I feel him tense, feel him shift. Something tells me to lean into him a little, until my back is just touching his chest. Not because I need his protection, but because I’m pretty sure the contact will reassure him—and help him get his shit under control. I don’t know why, and I’m not about to stand here analyzing it right now.

  Sure enough, he relaxes at the first brush of our bodies, even before I respond to Mark. “Sorry you came all the way down here for nothing, Mark, and I wish you well.”

  He opens his mouth to say more, but I really am done. I turn around and nearly bump into Tanner in my haste to get away from this whole situation. Tanner all but scrambles to get out of my way, but he’s grinning while he does it.

  I don’t glance back as I make my way through the gate and into the center. There’s a part of me that’s already dreading the phone call I’m going to get from my mother when she hears about this, but not enough to launch a preemptive strike and call her myself. I love her, but one phone call a day with the woman is about all I can handle.

  Instead, I focus on all the things I’ve got to do today—including figuring out how to squeeze enough money out of my budget to implement the most important of the new programs I’ve been thinking about. Programs that will help my kids earn money for college. For most of them, going to a four-year university is a pipe dream, something that they have no chance of achieving. I want to prove them wrong. And when I do, I want to be able to help each and every one of them pay for their degree. It’s the promise I made them when I opened Rebound, and it’s the promise I’ve made myself every week since. That I will learn how to help these kids level the playing field. And I will do it in a way most beneficial to them, not just whatever school might be interested in exploiting what they have to offer.

  The fact that juggling my budget is even necessary
pisses me off all over again. What pisses me off even more is the voice in the back of my head telling me that maybe if I’d sucked it up and gone out with Mark, I wouldn’t have to worry about it.

  But I shouldn’t have to do that, shouldn’t have to let some guy I’m not interested in put his hands all over me just because Rebound needs the money he can give us. And if Tanner hadn’t swooped in and taken all of Reilly’s money, I wouldn’t even be considering it.

  I walk fast, more aware of Tanner following me than I want to admit. It doesn’t take long for him to get bogged down by kids again, and since we’re inside the center now—with both Rishi and Shannon around to watch out for everyone—I feel no shame in making a beeline for my office.

  The first order of business is to change out of these clothes and heels. And the second is to make sure I’m too busy to talk to Tanner Green when he comes knocking. And he will come knocking. Of that I have no doubt.

  For a second I flash back to how it felt to have him right there behind me when I was facing down Octopus Mark. Not that I needed him there—I didn’t. And it annoyed me that he felt the need to interfere when I totally had things under control.

  At the same time, though, it felt kind of good to have him backing me up. Especially when he chilled out and let me handle things the way I wanted them handled. No, I didn’t need his support to take care of things, but it felt oddly nice to have it anyway.

  I close and lock my office door as soon as I reach it, and seconds later I’m kicking off my heels and stripping off my outfit. I can dress up with the best of them, but the truth is, I’d live in athletic gear if I could. Not only is it comfortable, but it feels like home. God knows, I’ve spent more of my life in basketball shorts than I’ve spent out of them.

  Five minutes later, after unlocking the door, I’m settled behind my desk in my favorite pair of red athletic pants and a white tank top. I should call my mom, get the lecture over with. But honestly, I was squeezing in the date with Mark. I’ve got a ton of things to get done before I have to get ready for the Save San Diego gala tomorrow night. It’s really not my scene, but when Chloe Frost personally offered me a ticket, I couldn’t say no. Especially not when the whole purpose of the Frost Industries–funded gala is to match up community projects and big donors. When I was hoping Jack Reilly would come through, it wasn’t such a big deal. Now, however, it’s become super important. At least if I want the funding to expand.