can’t date a guy with ugly feet?”
“Not once I find out about them.”
Inside his shoes, he wriggled his toes, thankful to have only ten, but not sure whether they were ugly. He’d never thought about it. “Tough cookie, aren’t you?”
“Yep.”
He nodded. He could appreciate tough. He was rather tough himself.
But not with a woman. He’d never kicked a woman out of his bed for ugly feet, that was for damn sure.
“Why did you need a blind date anyway?” She shot him a curious look. “You’re not exactly hard on the eyes, or an obvious raving lunatic.”
He laughed at the backhanded compliment. “Let’s just say I’ve been out of the dating pool this year, and if I don’t show up with a woman tonight, my sister is going to bring out the cavalry.”
“Cavalry?”
“Her friends. And their friends. And their friends, and so on.” He shuddered. “Trust me, it’s awful.”
“Ah.”
Her understanding smile stopped him in his tracks, and he nearly gaped because she had great eyes, and when she smiled like that, they could slay a man at ten miles. “So…” He struggled for something to say, something that would please her and keep that beautiful grin in place. “You own Wild Cherries?”
“Yep.”
“Must be nice to be cooked for every day.”
Now she laughed, the sound light and genuine. “The cook is moi. I serve, too, and we’ve been exceptionally busy, so I guess I should ask myself for a raise. My best friend, Lorissa, helps out, but still, we’re usually crazed.”
“I’m impressed,” he said, loving the sound of her laugh as much as he’d enjoyed her smile. “I usually dial out for my meals. How do you do it all?”
“The café is small, as you saw, and we’re only open for the midday and afternoon crowd, so it’s not that hard.”
“Which leaves you time to…”
“Oh, that’s enough about me, I’m not that exciting.” She cocked her head at him. “Let’s hear about you.”
It was a fact of life that women wanted to hear about him, but the thrill of the adoration had worn off years ago. He was the last thing he wanted to think about, much less discuss. “Trust me, I’m really not that exciting, either.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” She eyed the interior of his SUV. “You live well, you dress well. I’m guessing you also do something for a living pretty darn well.”
“Not lately.”
She took her eyes off the road and looked at him. “So you’re rich and you do nothing?”
“Yeah.”
She lifted a shoulder, unimpressed.
That was what he liked about her. Laid-back. Accepting. And for the first time in years, years, he found himself relaxing, just letting himself be, because with her there seemed to be no preconceived expectations. She wasn’t a groupie, she wasn’t trying to leech off his stardom, she wasn’t anything but a woman just trying to make the best of a blind date.
He loved that. “I’m retired,” he admitted. He waited for her to laugh, or drill him for more answers; in truth, she probably deserved them.
But she just nodded. “Must have been a good run before you called it quits.”
“Yeah.” A hell of a good run. His team had been infamous for being a tight-knit group and, of course, for their fondness of all things wicked. Sex scandals, gambling scandals, police scandals—name it, and his team had been there, done that. As team captain, Jack had taken the brunt of the fallout. The press had loved the Eels’ antics, and they’d loved that Jack had hated them. In fact, after several libel lawsuits that his attorneys had filed and won, they’d joyfully labeled Jack Scandal Knight a prima donna.
He could bike twenty miles a day, bench-press another player and held numerous NBA records. Yet what did everyone remember him for? A frigging prima donna.
It had gotten so bad that the owners and coaches had clamped down on the team, punishing the players with curfews and brutal practices for even a hint of trouble.
It had been a year since Jack retired, and three years since there’d been any so-called scandal.
And still, even now, after all the hiding out, the press loved to hang him.
For being a prima donna.
That just killed him, truly killed him.
Retired life was definitely simpler than being in the NBA. He could avoid most things media-related—except when his sister needed his name to raise money. And since he’d gotten over the initial shock and letdown of not playing professionally, he’d been happier. Content.
And maybe just a tiny bit bored, he admitted.
He pulled off the Pacific Coast Highway and onto the plush grounds of the country club where tonight’s event was taking place. Palm trees lined the half-mile-long driveway which skated past acres of perfectly groomed rolling grass hills overlooking the ocean. The sun was setting on the horizon like a half ball.
His date took one look at the country club as it came into view—the sprawling southwestern-style building set in an impressively lavish garden—and let out a sound that could have been either annoyance or amusement.
“Problem?” he asked, coasting into a parking space and turning to look at her.
“Are you kidding? It’s gorgeous. Pompous, but gorgeous.” She sounded the same, but her glow was gone, her voice quiet. “I’m sure the food’s great.” She smiled then, a self-deprecating grin. “Let’s just say I’d feel more comfortable in the kitchen than the dining room.”
Not expecting such a comment from the woman he’d thought confident and strong-willed, he felt taken aback, and oddly…protective.
But before he could say a word, Sam got out of the car into the warm evening, shutting the door and leaving him to hurry after her. Not easy to do with his knee aching like a son of a bitch—he’d overdone it this week playing with a bunch of hot-headed tenth graders. He came around the car, reaching for her hand to slow her down. “I was thinking maybe we could arrive together,” he suggested with a smile.
“Yeah. Okay.” She shot him a small smile back. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” God, those eyes of hers. They leveled him. “Look…” He turned her to face him. “You seem uncomfortable. How can I change that?”
She stared at him for a second, then smiled. “I think you just did.”
He touched her cheek, just one light stroke over her soft skin, a little startled to find himself feeling so…happy. “Good.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Knight, could I get an autograph and picture?”
The man with the large camera and press badge had come from nowhere, and Jack steeled himself. “No problem on the autograph,” he replied. “But if we could skip the picture—”
A bright flash went off in their faces. Nice. When Jack could see again, the guy was gone. “Sorry,” he said to Sam who stood there blinking, and took her hand.
“Who was that?”
“A pest. Come on.” A white-carpeted porch led into the club, while the deck above was covered with white awnings, from which hung planters dripping with colorful flowers. At the top of the carpet milled a group of paparazzi, no doubt waiting for the “celebrity” listed on the roster.
Him.
His skin began to itch, an old reaction to bad