“I’m not into one-night stands.” She looked at him, gaze narrowed, a little on the defensive. Okay fine, a lot on the defensive. But there was something almost too friendly about him in person. She swore the media portrayed him as constantly up to no good.
“You don’t hold back, do you?” He didn’t appear fazed whatsoever. Which kicked her suspicious radar straight into high gear.
So she decided to ask the question that kept rattling through her. “I swear I read somewhere you’ve been involved in…unsavory business. Of the female kind.” God, it must be the booze talking, even though she’d only had one, with a heaping teaspoon of stress on top. Normally she wasn’t so blunt or bold. And “unsavory business?” She sounded all sorts of crazy.
He shrugged those impossibly wide shoulders, but she saw the mask that settled over his face. Neutral, on guard, and impenetrable. “Don’t believe everything you read.”
“Hmm.” She frowned. Jared Quinn was definitely famous enough to be constant tabloid fodder. If she went out on a date with him, even for a measly few hours at a local bar, would she become tabloid fodder?
It was a most sobering thought. “So you really want to buy me a drink?”
“I really do. There’s a bar next door to the convention center. We could meet there after.” He sounded sincere. And hey, it could be a story to tell her grandchildren when she was an old lady sitting in her creaky rocking chair. Once upon a time, my children, I went on a brief date with a very famous, Super Bowl–winning football player. It was magical. And boy, the man could kiss, though that’s another story for another time…
Ha. If she personally discovered that particular skill of his, then she’d consider herself lucky. Not that she was looking to kiss famous football players.
But she certainly wouldn’t protest if it happened.
…
She was smokin’ hot, the quirky little artist with the clean paintbrush tucked behind her ear and a streak of white paint smeared across her cheek. She wore a black skirt that showcased a great set of legs and her hair was thick and wavy as it tumbled past her shoulders, a light brown color woven with varying shades of gold. Bubbly, like a glass of champagne, her smile easy and bright. She damn near sparkled.
And she’d caught Jared’s attention the first moment he spotted her.
Nick was busy chatting up other women at the event, which was fine by him. Not that he’d come that night to seek out women. But he’d been drawn to the artist from the start.
He wanted to take her for a drink. And if she was agreeable, maybe take her back to his place.
Yet again, he cast an appreciative glance over the very shapely and very pretty Sheridan Harper. Yeah, she’d sort of called him on his shit, which he appreciated. People rarely did, with the exception of those in his very small inner circle. Plus his image hadn’t been the best in the media lately, so he’d been avoiding public appearances at all costs. Not that anything they printed was completely accurate.
Jared frowned. Well, some of it was. But the majority of the time, it was all a bunch of made-up bullshit.
“She’s perfect, you know.”
Jared stiffened. Bringing the Hawks’ publicist with him to the Taste of Monterey that night had been a mistake, not that he’d had a choice. Harvey Price was a man on a mission—one that Jared didn’t necessarily agree with. But he’d insisted on accompanying Jared and Nick and they hadn’t the heart to protest.
Plus, if they did, they’d feel the wrath of their new owner, who treated them like a bunch of juvenile delinquents.
“Who’s perfect?” Jared feigned ignorance.
Harvey chuckled. “You know exactly who I’m talking about. The pretty little artist you were talking with. Sheridan Harper.”
How did Harvey know her name? He’d probably been lurking in the shadows, listening to every word they’d said. “Perfect for what?” Jared sounded ridiculously innocent, even to his own ears.
“Please.” Harvey snorted. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Whatever you’re about to suggest, don’t bother. I’m not interested.”
“Tough shit. You need to be interested. I heard you ask her out for a drink. Let me go with you two.” Harvey crossed his arms in front of him. “I can question her. Figure out if she’s right for you or not.”
“Hell, no.”
Harvey’s expression went from easy to stern in two seconds flat.
Jared hated the new team publicist. Hated even more that he’d started shadowing Jared’s every move. Nick could hardly escape him, either. “I forbid you from trying to get in this girl’s pants. Seriously. You need to change your image, not make it worse. I’m not going to put in all this time trying to straighten you out just for you to ruin everything for a quick fuck with a down-on-her-luck woman.”
“Jesus, who the hell are you, telling me what to do? You really think the first woman I chat with tonight I’m going to automatically take somewhere and bang her brains out?” Never mind the fact he’d already considered taking Sheridan somewhere and banging her brains out.
Jared strode away, anger simmering low in his gut. He did not need that shit. Not then, not ever. So Craig Wallace’s wife sat in his lap at a club—so what? That someone had snapped candid shots with their cell camera and sold them to the highest bidder irritated him to no end. That the media tried to portray him as some womanizing pig, hell-bent on destroying a marriage set his blood to boiling.