Chapter 12
FIELD GOAL – KICKING BALL THROUGH UPRIGHTS.
If I was a different kind of man, I might resort to stealing a tire from Maya’s rental so she couldn’t leave. Then again, Maya’s a pro traveler. She likely has the Automobile Club d'Italia stored in her favorites.
From the patio doors of my office, I have a clear view of my family’s heritage and catch sight of Maya only she’s not tossing her suitcases in her car with wild abandon.
No, instead, she’s standing in the sun. She tilts her face upward and absorbs the sun’s warmth just like the rows of vines behind her.
For a moment, she looks around and, I’d swear, her eyes meet mine.
It makes my heart pound harder than any forty-yard field goal ever did.
Maya lifts her camera up to take what will undoubtedly be an award-winning photo of what could be anything from an ant to a mailbox. She’s just that talented, I think, resting my chin on my fist.
There’s a lot I admire about Maya Cox. Feelings I suppressed because I wasn’t supposed to have them since she was with Bryce.
She’s caring. She’s enormously talented.
Then there’s the way she laughs when she thinks no one’s listening, head tipped back like she’s letting the world in.
Now that she doesn’t appear to be mourning her relationship with the jackass she was engaged to, maybe it could be the something I’ve waited for my whole damn life.
At least something I’ve waited for since I almost face-planted the night we met.
She takes picture after picture, making me want to ask her everything and anything about her photography.
Not to mention, I want the rights to demand that if she makes the absolute asinine decision to jump out of another plane ahead of the world record setting photo of the vertical divers—who were at some points traveling as fast as two-hundred and forty miles per hour—I’ll turn her over my knee and spank her ass into oblivion.
And not for any pleasure it would bring to either of us.
Unfortunately, my body knows I’m a lying bastard. I squirm in my chair at the thought, my dick rising at the idea of Maya’s curvaceous body lying across my legs.
Time for a distraction. Shoving back from my desk, unable to sit still any longer, I open the patio doors and step into Italy’s majestic fall. The air outside is crisp, carrying the scent of warm earth and ripened grapes. My boots crunch on gravel as I cross the courtyard directly to her.
Maya whirls around, camera still lifted, and I duck my head bashfully as she aims the lens in my direction.
She lowers her camera, cocking her head to the side. “You don’t enjoy having your photo taken?”
“It’s been in the news enough lately,” I mutter.
Surprisingly, Maya’s face softens with understanding. “So I’ve heard.”
I approach warily. “You heard? You mean you haven’t seen…”
“The most coverage of my ex’s downfall I’ve watched has been in the last twelve hours between what you showed me and a few articles my girls sent.”
Scowling, I demand, “Why would they ruin your vacation like that?”
“Probably because I asked them about your part in what went down,” she admits.
I try to stop short, but damn if my leg doesn’t lock up just like it did the night I met her.
My arms windmill. I know I’m going to face plant on the gravel.
I hear a thud and then she’s there. Tucked under my armpit again.
Her face is a combination of concern and amused as she studies mine.
“We seem to find ourselves in this position again.”
“Stupid knee.”
Her arm tightens around my waist. “From your injury?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure you’ve told the story a million times, but…”
I test the weight. “It’s still causing you difficulty? Even after all this time?”
“It’s okay.” At the look of disbelief on her face, I amend, “It’s not as bad as it could be, Maya. I was fortunate in having excellent therapy. So many people with the same injury aren’t afforded the luxury.”
“What causes your leg to lock now?”
“The doctors told me I may have to go back in for some arthroscopic surgery to clean out some lingering tissue. The easiest way to explain it is a flap of tissue getting trapped between joints.”
“How often does that happen?”
I scratch my chin. “Not as often as it used to.”
“Yet, both times I’ve helped prevent you from taking a knee.” I’m about to defend myself before she teases, “I get it. But think of it this way. If it weren’t for the hit, you’d be tied up in the mess back in the States.”
Her voice carries a teasing lilt, but there’s something that shocks me—an underlying admiration.
After last night, after revealing Maya’s not so distant past, I expected distance.
I thought—if I was lucky—she’d be civil.
I never expected her warmth to brush up against the soft edges I normally keep buried, only letting them out for family and close friends.
And Maya, because she’s special—though she has no idea I’ve ever thought of her like that.
“Hardly,” I manage, though my throat’s dry. “I’m just a guy who has something your ex lacks.”
“What’s that?”
“Morals.”
She smiles, but it hits harder than I expect. Her smile is the kind that makes you forget about pain, surgeries, and everything that came before. The air between us hums, subtle but alive, like the static right before lightning strikes.
“Morals,” she murmurs, stepping closer, “or bad life choices?”
I meet her gaze, and for a moment everything around us disappears—the vineyard, the villa, the quiet hum of the workers outside. It’s just her and me, and that spark that’s been building ever since she walked back into my life.
If I’m not careful, she’ll undo me with nothing more than that look. Then what will happen to me when she goes away again? Carefully, I move back, testing the strength of my knee.
Maya stands by cautiously as I walk around in a circle. Finally, certain of my strength—both emotional and physical—I ask her, “So, did you decide?”
She fiddles with the dials of her camera for a few moments. Lifting it up, she peers through the lens at something over my shoulder when she murmurs, “I’m staying—if that’s okay with you?”
Surprise and relief flood through me. “Then I’ll let you enjoy the rest of your afternoon. During dinner, if there’s anything specific you’re looking to do while you’re here, let me know. I’ll be happy to help you in any way I can.”
She lowers her camera and her lips curve in a manner that would make the Mona Lisa envious. She backs away from me and calls out, “I know you will.”
Standing there, unable to look away, I wonder if she notices I’m completely out of breath, the way I used to be when I was working for what I thought was my life’s goal—the NFL.
Now, if the way my heart’s thumping in my chest is anything to go by, the NFL was just a pastime until I was within striking distance of my dream—her.