Beg Me (Play Me #5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER

ONE

Markie

“Do you think anyone would notice if I shoved a bunch of napkins between my boobs?”

My best friend Nettie laughs at my question, brushing a strand of dark hair away from her eyes. “Without a doubt. But it might make your job a little easier. They’ll come for the boobs and leave with a jar of jam.”

I laugh, too, shaking my head and wiping a sheen of perspiration from my forehead.

A sea of umbrellas forms a colorful line to my left in a futile attempt at shielding the farmers’ market stalls from the unrelenting sun.

The doors of the old Dairy Barn housing the year-round vendors are wide open in hopes that a little air circulation might prevent anything, or anyone, from melting.

“What are you doing tonight?” Nettie asks, swirling a straw around her lemonade.

“I’m not sure. My evening interview canceled on me.

” The memory of the text I received this morning from a potential pickleball partner spikes my blood pressure.

“Get this,” I say, placing a hand on my hip.

“He said it was too hot and asked if we could reschedule to next week when the temperature wasn’t so … what word did he use? Obscene.”

Nettie’s hand lifts as if I’m a feral animal that she’s trying to calm. “It is ninety-three degrees today.”

“What if it’s ninety-three degrees during the pickleball tournament?

What if it’s one hundred? Do you think they’re going to call off the games because it’s too hot?

” I lift a brow, challenging her to debate me.

“Five years ago, we played through a thunderstorm while lightning danced in the periphery. The tourney stops for no one.”

My hand slips off my hip, probably because of the sweat coating my body, and I groan.

In the decade I’ve been competing—and winning—the Sugar Days Pickleball Tournament, I’ve never had this much trouble finding a partner.

My usual prospects are either out of town, dealing with a broken leg, or in a new job that prevents them from playing.

Normally, I’d find a man with mediocre talent and enough ego not to want to suck and call it a day.

I’m used to carrying the team on my back, after all.

It happens every year. But this year, the stakes are far too important to entrust the odds to an inferior partner.

Losing is not an option.

“The tourney stops for no one,” Nettie repeats. “But neither does heatstroke.”

“Which is why I have to find someone already in decent shape, but with enough humility to listen to my instructions. I don’t have time to turn a dud into a stud.”

Nettie snorts. “Stop.”

I shrug because there’s nothing that I can say to temper that statement. I know how it sounds. But the facts speak for themselves, and I’m not in the business of shrinking my abilities to make others, namely men, feel comfortable.

“Why do they have you out here hawking jam?” Mr. Crowder asks, shuffling to the stand. He grips the edge of the table with shaky hands. Out of all the Saturday regulars, he’s my favorite. “I looked for you inside by the concessions where you usually spend your time instead of working.”

Nettie snickers as I pretend to be offended.

He grins. “I thought this was your weekend off.”

“It was,” I say. “But Brenda called this morning and said she wasn’t feeling well. So I volunteered to stand in for her today. I mean, we can’t have people going without her famous peach jam, can we? The whole town may come to a stop.”

Nettie touches me lightly on the shoulder. “I’m going to head home. Mom’s coming over this evening so I can help her plan her new husband’s birthday party.” Her eyes roll. “Yay, me.”

“Have fun.”

“I’ll call you later.” She waves at my customer. “See you soon, Mr. Crowder.”

“Perhaps at church in the morning?” he asks.

She purses her lips. “Perhaps.” Her nose wrinkles as she turns away, heading toward the parking area.

I take a moment to appreciate the crowd of people despite the heat.

The farmers’ market is open every weekday and every other Saturday, and the Saturdays prove to be the busiest. Instead of just drawing in the Sugar Creek townies, the weekend brings people from across the whole county.

I’ve loved coming here since I was a little girl.

So when the town board discussed closing the market because no one wanted to take responsibility for it, I threw my name in the hat.

I had no experience, and the pay barely covers my martini habit, but there’s something great about contributing to a wholesome endeavor like a small-town farmers’ market.

It balances my karma. I think.

I grab two jars of jam off the shelf behind me.

“So, we have peach, but Brenda also made some cherry jam this week. Have you ever tried it?” I set both in front of Mr. Crowder.

“It’s been selling like hotcakes, and I overheard a little birdie saying this is the secret ingredient in the Cherry Pie Pizza at Piper’s. ”

The corner of his wrinkled mouth lifts. “It won’t be a secret anymore if you keep telling people.”

“Are you going to go snitch on me?”

“Are you going to give me a discount?”

My mouth falls agape. “You’re blackmailing me? Over jam?”

“Wouldn’t think of it.” He chuckles, taking fifteen dollars out of his wallet. “I’ll take ’em both. But if I don’t like the cherry, I’ll be back to let you hear about it.”

I take the cash, place the jars in a paper bag, and hand it to him. “I have no doubt.”

“Stay cool,” he says, the bag trembling in his hand. “I’m heading home. It’s too humid out here for me. Makes me regret smoking for thirty years.”

“Need me to get someone to help you to your car?”

He snorts. “What do I look like? An old man?” He chuckles. “I’m fine. Thank you. Have a good day.”

“You, too, Mr. Crowder.”

I give him a wave as he turns away and then grab my bottle of water for a quick drink before my next customer. The stream of people exiting the barn has slowed, and the crowds buying artisan breads and local vegetables have thinned. Maybe we’ll get to close early.

“What are you selling over here?” A boy with a smile way too ornery for his own good leans against the table. “A jar of jam is $7.50? Who still uses change? Or cash, for that matter?”

“We do. It’s part of our charm.”

He hums, scanning the area like he’s searching for something.

“Can I help you?” I ask, tugging my brows together. “Are you looking for something specific?”

“Yeah.” He pulls his face to mine. “A way outta here.”

Blondish hair, big green eyes, and a cheeky smile—this kid is trouble … but probably the same version of trouble that I was as a kid.

And an adult.

I lean against the table. “A way outta here, huh?”

“No offense, but this is for old people.”

“Well, I mean, I’m here, and I’m certainly not old.”

He starts to speak but stops himself, smoothing his features like he wasn’t about to say something he shouldn’t. “I just mean there isn’t anyone here my age.”

Well played. “The kids hang out at the park in the summer. There’s always a pickup baseball or basketball game. Do you play?”

“I play it all. I’m just new here and don’t know anyone.”

“Head over to the park. I’m sure you can find something to entertain you there.”

“I will. Thanks.” He turns to leave but faces me again, eyes twinkling with mischief. “One more thing—are you single?”

My brows lift in surprise, but I can’t help but smile. “That’s wildly inappropriate of you to ask.”

“I’m not asking for me, lady. You’re way too old for me.”

I pause to take another drink. “Can we stop with the old people crap? You’re giving me a complex.”

“My apologies.” He sighs as if I’m exhausting him. “I don’t see a ring …”

“I’m not married.”

“Boyfriend, then?”

“No, no boyfriend.” The words come out of my mouth before my brain can think fast enough to stop them. Why am I having this conversation with a little kid? “This is really none of your business.”

“What about a girlfriend?”

“What? No.”

He shrugs. “Had to ask. You never know.”

“Again,” I say, taking another drink, “it’s none of your business.”

“Then stop answering my questions.”

I sigh, closing my water bottle and placing it back on the bench under the table.

“Listen,” he says. “I have a dad, and he’s quite the catch.

And he needs a woman to spend time with him so he stops wanting to spend it all with me.

” He rolls his eyes. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, because I do.

I’ve known him for a couple of years, and it’s great having a dad.

But I’m eleven, and this is our second summer together, and he needs a hobby.

” He leans closer, his eyes locking onto mine. “That doesn’t involve me.”

A laugh passes my lips before I can stop it, and I can’t decide if the kid is amused or offended by my reaction.

Either way, I can relate. When my parents died when I was fourteen, my grandparents stuck to my sister, Mira, and me like glue for months.

Then again, I’d known my parents for my whole life.

Why hasn’t this boy known his dad?

Before the thought can take root, I shove it out of my mind. Family relationships can be complicated, and this is not my circus. I have enough of my own crap to worry about.

“So …” he asks, grinning. “You are single?”

I’m not exactly sure how to answer him. If I tell him that I’m not in a relationship—that I’m technically single—he might take that the wrong way.

But I’m not in the business of explaining to little boys, who are too nosy for their own good, that I’m not looking to change that.

It’s not like I can tell him that my last boyfriend cheated on me and is now trying to dethrone me as the Pickleball Princess with his mistress in tow.

That’s too much for me, let alone this kid.

“What’s your name?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

“Augustus. My friends call me Gus.”

I grin. “Okay, Gus. It’s complicated.”

He stares at me. I wait for him to respond but get nothing.

“Hello?” I ask.

“I was waiting on you to tell me your name, considering you used Gus and all.”

“I’m Marcia. My friends call me Markie.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Markie.” Gus leans against the table as if he’s settling in for the long haul. “Now, why is your relationship status complicated?”

“I have things I’m working on and don’t have time to date.”

“Like what?”

“Like a pickleball tournament, for one.” I straighten the stickers that Brenda gives away as marketing material. “I’m not in the dating pool, so you’re going to have to hook your dad up with someone else.”

“But you’re his type.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

Gus groans. “You’re telling me. I thought you were the answer to my prayers.”

I laugh, waving over his head at the mayor’s wife. Plenty of men have thought that. Join the club. “There are plenty of single women in Sugar Creek. I’m sure the answer to your prayers is out there.”

“I’m sure. Except I never get two minutes to myself to find her. You’re basically my only hope.”

“Oh, so you weren’t picking me based on compatibility, just availability.”

He narrows his eyes. “It was a mixture. I’m working with what I have.”

“Well, I’m sorry for ruining your dreams, Gus.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” His shoulders slump. “I better get going. I’ve spent four minutes away from Dad, and I’m sure he’s looking for me. God forbid I have some space.” He shakes his head. “It was nice to meet you. I hope your decision keeps you up at night.”

“Hey!” I laugh. “That’s not nice.”

Before he can respond, a set of large hands grip his shoulders.

My gaze trails up the muscled forearms, over the developed biceps and sharp jaw, and into another set of sparkling green eyes.

They’re the kind of eyes that I love—playful. Slightly wicked. Eyes that promise a good, slightly debaucherous time.

“Where have you been?” the man asks, his gaze never leaving mine.

“Shopping,” Gus answers, a cocky edge to his tone.

The man surveys the jam behind me. “Find anything worth bringing home?”

Gus’s grin deepens. “We’ll see.”

Oh, this little shit.