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CHAPTER ONE
Bree
Pacing the terrazzo floor of Terminal Three at LAX, I scowled with annoyance at my silent phone.
Crickets.
Pax, my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend, was ignoring my barrage of angry texts.
Two days ago I’d seen a suspicious tweet from a twit named Keely: Had the best night w/ @PaxJones! But my breaking point was an Instagram pic of Pax kissing a rando girl smack on the lips.
It could have been a scene from his upcoming movie, but I didn’t think so. He’d told me he was in Montana, filming scenes for his next big film, a Western flick starring him as a gorgeous-but-lonely cowboy. But the background in the photo appeared to be the Pacific Ocean, and even though I’d never been to Montana, I was pretty certain that’s NOT what it looked like.
I immediately did some digging and sure enough, that asshole was in Laguna Beach, staying at the Ritz. And he definitely wasn’t alone, judging by the amount of Veuve and spa treatments charged to his room.
“Final boarding call for Flight 4356 to Atlanta, GA. All remaining passengers should board at this time.”
I hesitated, took a deep breath. If I was going to flee LA and the paparazzi, I had to get on this plane. Any second now, the disastrous headlines could hit:
Relationship expert Bree Hart is no ‘expert’ when it comes to her own love life
Superstar Paxton Jones leaves so-called ‘dating doctor’ for B-list actress
Relationship guru Bree Hart left brokenhearted by actor Paxton Jones
Gah. I so did not want those headlines to hit. My dating podcast was finally trending, and I’d just made it into the Top 25 in the Relationship Category. This could devastate my career. Never mind my heart—Pax had already broken that several times.
I’d been trying (unsuccessfully) to dump Pax for the last 24 hours. Timing was everything and I wanted to break up with him before the media got wind of a cheating scandal. Then I’d disappear for a bit, under the guise of visiting my sister. Pax could step out with someone new, and I’d fade into the background, yesterday’s news.
But, per the usual, Pax was even making breaking up difficult. He wasn’t answering my texts or calls, probably because he was too busy with his new sidepiece.
“Seriously. This is the last and final boarding call.” The ticketing agent shot me a pointed look. I was the only person still standing at the gate.
Taking the not-so-subtle hint, I wheeled my suitcase over to the kiosk and presented my ticket.
“Have a safe flight.”
“Thanks,” I said, juggling my shoulder bag and luggage.
As I made my way down the ramp, my shoulder vibrated. Crap. That could be Pax, finally calling me back. I rooted through my bag and managed to fish out my phone.
“Hello? Hello?”
Silence. I checked the screen. One missed call and it was from Pax.
“Damn it!” I immediately hit his name, calling him back. One ring, two rings, three, four. Pax’s voice came on the line, “ You know what to do. Leave me a message .”
“Hey, Pax, it’s me, Bree. So, I saw your Instagram and it looks like you’re with someone else. Not going to lie, I’m pretty upset and it’s really uncool that you’re not even answering my texts. But whatever. Obviously, you’ve moved on. I’m not going to stall here or anything, I’m just going to come right out and say it. We’re?—”
“ Good-bye.”
Seriously? Even Pax’s voicemail was too busy for me. I dialed him back. I needed to get this off my chest this instant, so I could move on with my life and avert career disaster.
Ring, ring, ring. Beep. “Sorry, but the voicemail box is full. Call back later.” And with that, I was automatically disconnected.
“Ugh!” I cried, shaking my phone. “All I want to do is dump you!”
I slammed my phone back into my purse and looked up. Two flight attendants flanked the doorway to the plane and they were both staring at me.
“Boyfriend problems,” I explained, a hot blush creeping over my face. They both nodded knowingly.
“Girl, who doesn’t?” The attendants whispered something to each other, then glanced back at me. The one on the right ushered me over and checked my ticket.
“You’re in Seat 2B now,” she said, winking as she took my ticket. “We ladies need to stick together. Enjoy your flight.”
“Thanks,” I said, smiling in gratitude. “I will.”
Breaking up with Pax would have to wait until I landed. I intended to take full advantage of first class while I had the chance.
* * *
As soon as the plane touched down in Atlanta, I powered up my phone to a string of missed texts from Pax:
“Babe. It’s not what you think w/ Keely. But if you want to pump the brakes, that’s cool.”
“Life is too short to be unhappy.”
And my personal fave:
“Could you still pick my laundry up at the cleaners? Thx.”
Asshole , I thought, collecting my rollaboard and deplaning. What did I ever see in that jerk? He couldn’t even bother to call, just left me a bunch of texts, like a freaking middle schooler.
I sighed and shook my head, exasperated at my terrible choice in men. Like most of my clients, I blamed it on my parents. If my dad hadn’t skipped out on us when I was only eight, maybe I’d be better at this relationship thing. Probably not, but maybe.
Making my way over to the rental car area, I signed my life away for the opportunity to motor around the greater Atlanta area in a mid-sized Chevy Malibu. I collected the keys, dashed off a quick text to my sister, Brooklyn, and hit I-85, happy to be away from the prying eyes of the paparazzi.
* * *
Three minutes after I arrived at my sister’s, she tasked me with afternoon chauffeur duty for my niece. Destination: Pee Wee football practice. Fine by me—it kept me busy and, frankly, I didn’t have much else to do.
“Alexa, do you have your mouthguard? Water bottle?” I asked, popping the car door open for her.
“Yes, Aunt Bee, see?” She held up her pink mouthguard and water bottle as proof.
“Great. Then let’s go.” I shoved her mouthguard into my handbag and clicked the lock button on my key fob, although I highly doubted anyone would steal my car.
After all, we were in Peachtree Grove, Georgia. AKA, Smalltown, USA, home of the Peach Cobbler Festival and approximately 10,000 people, most of whom were born and would die in Peachtree Grove. My sister and her husband were two of the few “newcomers,” meaning they’d only lived here for the last five or so years. (They wouldn’t be considered “locals” until Alexa had children, probably.) Brooks moved when Alexa was a baby so her husband, Dr. Craig Williams, could be closer to the hospital at Emory, where he was both a prominent doctor and a professor. When she’d first described Peachtree Grove to me, I thought she was exaggerating, but then I came to visit. It was definitely a shock to my jaded LA system. No flashy cars or movie stars here. Just high school football. Which, by the way, is an actual, legitimate season. Seriously. It’s printed on calendars , like the 4 th of July and Easter. In Peachtree Grove, Friday is for football, Saturday is for football, and Sunday is for church and football. Weekdays are for work and football practice. Rinse and repeat.
Which I guess is why my niece loves football. And why I now found myself standing on a plushy field with tons of other pee wee players and their parents, looking for the head coach of the—what did Brooks say the name of Alex’s team was?—oh yes, the Lions.
Holding my hand to my forehead, I shielded my eyes from the sun. Even with sunglasses on, it was still too bright to see across the field. Ah, September in the South.
“Is that them, over there?” I pointed to a group of about ten kids on a big square marked with a #4 sign, two fields over on the right. “That might be the coach, wearing the blue shirt.” His back was to us, but his jersey said “Coach.” An excellent tipoff. I so had this aunt thing down.
“Yeah, that’s my friend Cole.” Alexa nodded, then took off in a sprint towards the group, deftly dodging clumps of boys, all Alexa-sized.
“Wait up!” I called, doing my best fast walk across the fields. It was futile; she was already way ahead of me. I should have worn sneakers. Oh well, at least I’m not wearing heels and I go to the gym.
When I finally caught up to Alexa, I was a little out of breath and perspiration beaded on my brow. Flipping my hair over my shoulder, I fanned myself with one hand. I slid in with the group of moms hanging out on the sidelines, just behind the man in the blue Coach shirt. Alexa and all the other kids were in a big cluster, facing the coach.
“Okay, guys, it looks like everyone’s here,” the coach announced in a loud voice, doing a quick once-over of the Pee Wees.
“What’s your name?” He pointed at Alexa.
“Alexa Williams,” she said in a soft voice. The other kids chittered away, while Alexa stared down at her sneakers and kicked at a clump of grass.
“Hmmm, I don’t see that name on my roster.” The coach went down the names on his clipboard. “Oh, here. Alex Williams?”
She nodded up at him with wide blue eyes.
“I’m her aunt.” I gave a little wave and stepped forward to clear up any misunderstanding.
The coach turned towards me and my breath caught in my throat.
Coach was drop-dead gorgeous.
He reached his hand out to me and I shook it, noting he had very large, strong hands. He was super tall, probably 6’3”, and had deep marine eyes with long, dark lashes. Dark hair, cropped short, and he looked like he’d be ripped.
“Does she go by Alex or Alexa?”
“What?”
“Your niece. Does she prefer Alex or Alexa?” he asked, nodding in her direction.
“Oh. Um, Alex. Or Alexa. I think she likes Alexa.” My voice trailed off as my cheeks burned. Really, Bree? You don’t even know which name your niece prefers?
“I like Alex,” Alexa piped up. “Call me Alex.”
Coach grinned over at Alexa, showing off perfectly straight, white teeth. A dentist’s dream.
“I’m Ryder, by the way. Ryder McCauliffe.” He smiled at me and I noticed he had very cute dimples and a nice square jaw. This man was fine.
“I’m Bree. Bree Hart. Alexa’s, er, Alex’s aunt,” I corrected myself, shoving my hands into my back pockets. Super awkward . “I’m gonna just stand over here,” I motioned to the group of mingling parents, chatting with each other and ignoring me. “And watch.”
“Sounds good, Bree.” He grinned at me again as I backed away toward the sideline, torn between wanting to crawl into a hole and die or watch this beautiful man coach Pee Wee football.
Coach Ryder turned towards the Pee Wees. “Does everyone have their mouthguards?” Eleven kids nodded yes, while Alexa shot me a pointed look.
“Oh yes, I have that!” I fumbled in my bag, produced the mouthguard.
Running back out to the field, I handed it to my niece, willing myself not to trip or otherwise further embarrass myself. I felt Ryder’s eyes on me. Swiveling back around, I wished fervently for the safety of the sidelines. I was clearly out of my league here.
“Okay, so guys, how many of you have played football before?” Coach Ryder asked the kids. All twelve hands shot up in excitement.
“Great! We’re gonna be a great team then. And on my team—your team—we all have to follow a couple rules. My number one rule is be safe. How do you think we can do that?”
I filed that away; I’d have to tell my sister as soon as we got home. Safety first here at Pee Wee football!
Oh shoot, I never called her to tell her we got to the field. Grabbing my phone, I tapped out a quick text:
Made it. We’re all good. And Coach is HOT
I hit send and listened to Ryder talk about rule number two, be kind and show good sportsmanship.
Brooklyn: What’s coach’s name?
Bree: Ryder McCauliffe
Brooklyn: THE Ryder McCauliffe?
Bree: ????
Brooklyn: You know. Former NFL Wide Receiver for the Dallas Cowboys. High school hotshot. Played at UGA, then drafted by Dallas. First round
Bree: Um, obvi I did NOT know or maybe would have taken more than like 10 secs to get ready
Brooklyn: You’re definitely calling things off with Pax, right?
Bree: Yes. I mean, I tried. I *think* we’re broken up
Brooklyn: He’s single, you know. Wink-wink
Bree: I didn’t ask
Brooklyn: You didn’t have to. I’m your sister
Bree: Am I that transparent? Geez, I hope I have a better game face than that
Brooklyn: His kid is probably on the team
Bree: Wha-what?!?!
Brooklyn: Yeah, cute kid. Think his name is Charlie. Or something like that
Bree: So you’re telling me this hot pro baller is a Single. Dad.?!?!
Brooklyn: Yep. Look around. How many very attractive women are attending football practice right now?
I glanced around and did a quick mental survey. There were several blondes in tight spandex leggings gathered together, another pretty brunette on her phone (snapping a photo or two?), and one intense dad with a clipboard, taking notes.
Bree: Yes, loads
Brooklyn: He’s a local celeb. I’m sure women throw themselves at him. All. Day. Long.
Bree: I can see why
Inwardly, I groaned. Of course they would. And I’d embarrassed myself already, within the first two minutes of meeting the guy. Mental head smack.
“And our last team rule is to have fun. Because if we do all of those things, we’ll be winners! Now I want you guys to put your hands in here, like this,” Ryder demonstrated, dropping his hand into the middle of all the kids, “and on the count of three say ‘Go Lions! Roar!’ Ready? One, two, three!” All the kids yelled out “Go Lions” and did their best roar, which was adorable. Cue heart melt. I glanced around and noticed several of the moms videoing the speech. Oh brother. This guy was a freaking saint.
Ryder had the kids run some drills, so I took the opportunity to find my way to the bleachers and do a quick Google search. A few taps and I had the dude’s (Wikipedia) life history:
Age: 32
Height: 6’4” (I shorted him an inch. Shame on me.)
Weight: 220 lbs
Position: Wide receiver
Stats: Football superstar at Peachtree Grove High School, helping lead the team to state victory with 18 touchdowns his senior year. Recruited by University of Georgia (2004-2008), where he played first string Wide Receiver all four years. Team went on to win Nationals. First round draft pick in 2008. Signed with Dallas, #18, where he continued to play wide receiver position. Five successful seasons as starter for Dallas, including one trip to Super Bowl. Shoulder injury in sixth season left him benched. Retired in 2014.
No mention of personal life, relationship, kid. A few more taps, though, and I had additional dirt.
Ryder McCauliffe and Dallas cheerleader Shayna Bowman tie the knot in lavish multimillion-dollar wedding
Ryder McCauliffe and Dallas cheerleader wife welcome son
Dallas Wide Receiver Ryder McCauliffe and cheerleader wife on the rocks
Dallas cheerleader Shayna McCauliffe files charges of domestic abuse against former pro player-husband Ryder McCauliffe
Former Dallas Wide Receiver McCauliffe calls it quits with cheerleader wife
Sounded like a train wreck. I clicked through the articles, taking in as much info as possible.
There were a few photos of Ryder when he was playing for the team, looking about the same as he did now.
An article about his shoulder injury, sustained during game eight of his sixth season with Dallas. Separated shoulder, requiring multiple surgeries. He sat the bench the rest of the season, then was cut from the team.
Then it looked like his life pretty much fell apart. Domestic abuse charges filed, but he was later cleared of all charges. Divorce looming, nasty custody battle.
From what I read, it seemed like Ryder had full custody and the articles alleged possible substance abuse by Shayna. I zoomed in on every photo of her. She was pretty. Very cheerleader. Chesty. Dark, straight hair, wide smile, curvy in all the right places. Perfect abs. Just like me , I thought wryly. Dumb to even compare myself, we were nothing alike. She was taller than me, curvier than me, definitely bustier than me. I had long, blondish hair with a slight wave, her hair was stick straight, and in most photos she had bangs.
It seemed like she was in it for the money. As soon as Ryder got cut from the team, she started the separation proceedings, which led to the divorce. Bad situation for his kid , I thought.
Just for fun, I did a quick Google search on Shayna McCauliffe. The same articles popped up, plus her LinkedIn page, describing her as a Dallas Cheerleader/Lifestyle Expert. Interesting plot twist, considering the drug allegations. There was an article about her dating one of the League owners, as well as the Defensive Coordinator. The girl got around, and she definitely had a type. Rich, with athletic being a bonus.
There was only the one mention of their son, Charlie, in the article about his birth. None of the Shayna articles mentioned the child at all and there were zero photos of him. Seemed like Ryder did his best keeping his private life private. I respected that. It was one of my (many) issues with Pax.
“Aunt Bee! Aunt Bee!” Across the field, Alexa jumped up and down, waving me over.
“Coming!” I waved back to her and bounced off the bleachers, taking the steps as quickly as I could. Most of the other moms were already gathered around Ryder, hanging on his every word. I hoped whatever he was saying wasn’t critical; I wanted to make sure I got all the information for Brooks. She’d get an email about it, though, right?
Just as I was closing in on our team’s huddle, a sharp pain hit me in my left knee. Next thing I knew, I was flat on my back in the soft grass, staring up at the blue sky. Hmmm, very few clouds today…
“Are you alright?”
I blinked several times; I wasn’t sure if the blurriness was from the sun beaming directly into my eyes or from the blow to the back of my head. Eventually, Ryder’s eyes came into focus, tiny wrinkles of concern forming around them. Cute…
“Uh, yeah, I think so.” I tried to sit up, but Ryder put his hand on my shoulder, gently keeping me still.
“Wait a few seconds. Trust me on this, lots of experience getting tackled.” He winked and my cheeks flushed crimson.
“K,” I murmured. “Um, what happened? Did I really get tackled?”
“Yeah. A nine-year-old laid you out. Not sure you’re gonna make the first-round draft picks this year. You may need a little more work on your game,” he chuckled, guiding me up by my elbow.
“How’s that feel? Are you dizzy at all?” He gazed deep into my eyes, trying to gauge my concussion risk, I supposed.
“Aunt Bee, are you okay?” Alexa stood by my side, furrows creasing her brow.
“No, not dizzy. I’m fine. I’ll be okay, Alexa.” I waved my hands to brush off their concern and demonstrate my fineness. I bent my knees to try to stand and involuntarily let out a tiny whimper. “Ouch,” I whispered under my breath.
“Let me take a look, I’m a physical therapist by day.” He poked and prodded my knee, bending it this way and that. “You’re going to need to ice that when you get home. That will minimize the swelling.”
“Swelling?” I asked in a panicky voice.
“Yeah. That kid ran straight into your knee.” He pointed to the side of my left kneecap. “You’ll probably be okay, but it’s going to bruise and you could have a microtear. Why don’t you come into the clinic tomorrow and I’ll take a closer look, reassess the situation?” Ryder tilted his head, waiting for my response.
“I’ll be fine.” I waved my hand again, brushing off his concern.
“I insist. Plus, I have a knee brace, or at the very least, a wrap to decrease swelling.” He touched the side of my knee to demonstrate the wrapping motion and a tingle ran up my leg. That was a good sign, no numbness or loss of feeling. And clearly my libido hadn’t sustained any injury.
“Okay, I’ll come in,” I said.
“Great. I’ll give you my card and you can drop in around lunchtime. We’re usually pretty slow then.”
“Cool. I mean, great, thanks.” I blushed, stumbling over my words. Maybe I did have a slight concussion.
Some of the other moms were shooting me dirty looks, like I’d ruined practice, and the kids were getting rowdy since the coach wasn’t looking.
“You better get back.” I nodded my head towards the group.
“Let me help you up.” Deftly, Ryder leaned in and scooped me up, wrapping one of his arms around my waist and putting almost all my bodyweight onto his strong shoulders. The kids cheered; several of the blonde moms rolled their eyes. So much for good sportsmanship , I thought.
He gave them a wave with his right hand and together we limped to my rental car, Alexa trotting behind. My close proximity to Ryder helped block out the shooting pain in my knee. He smelled fantastic, crisp and clean, despite having run practice in eighty-five-degree weather. I’d been right about his hands—they were large and strong, supporting me at my waist. His pec muscles were straining underneath his shirt, yet he moved effortlessly through the parking lot, as if I weighed nothing. I tried not to swoon.
“This is it.” I nodded at the white Malibu, fumbling in my purse for the keys. I had to lean into him to get to my purse and I fully appreciated his strong, muscled chest against my side. He gripped my waist tighter while I searched, so I wouldn’t topple over.
“Here they are.” I dangled the keys, unlocked the car.
“Are you alright to drive?” Ryder asked, concern clouding his eyes.
“Yep, perfectly fine,” I nodded, stifling a wince. He opened Alex’s door first, then mine, easing me down gently into the seat. His face was so close to mine, I saw his five-o-clock shadow. My breath hitched and we locked eyes for a moment. A frisson of heat shimmered down my body as I gazed at the darker navy flecks in his eyes.
“Sure you’re okay?”
“Right as rain,” I sing-songed in my most cheerful voice, nodding.
In reality, I could barely hear him over the thumping of my racing heartbeat. No, I was definitely not okay.
I was crushing hard on Peachtree Grove’s most eligible bachelor, Ryder McCauliffe, former pro football player and hot-as-hell single dad.