Paris
NINE
“Are you sure you’re okay with this? I can turn around and come home if you’re not feeling it.”
I groan, my fingers tightening around the steering wheel.
Anxiety gathers in my stomach, making me shift in my seat.
“I just feel so uncomfortable. Sydney told me to wear pajamas and prepare for a night of pampering and relaxation, but this is not what I wear to bed.” Looking down at the pink and white striped satin set I’m wearing, I cringe.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this, Oaks.
If I bend over too far, my ass and my boobs are going to be making a surprise appearance. ”
“Excellent,” she quips. “Hopefully there’ll be some single guys at this thing, and you can really have a good time.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s girls’ night. The only men who’ll be there are already taken, and apparently, there are very strict rules about any of them entering our space. Sorry to burst your bubble, but it’s not that kind of party.”
“Boooooo,” she jeers, and I don’t even need to see her to know she’s giving an enthusiastic thumbs down.
She may be my older brother’s best friend, but I’ve known Oakley Kensington since the day I was born, and that girl is one of a kind.
“Just have fun, Pare. The door will be unlocked for you at midnight, not a second sooner. Love you!”
“You better n—” Before I can scold her, the line goes dead.
I growl under my breath, not able to stay mad for long when my GPS alerts me that the exit is coming up.
I haven’t met Bailey—who’s married to the Renegades’ tight end, Jett Kingsley—yet but received a formal invite to her house via text yesterday.
Sydney asked if she could pass along my number, and I agreed, hopeful that maybe I’ll make a few new friends now that I’m officially out in the workforce.
It’s a little intimidating that the women I’m about to spend the evening with are all either dating or married to very high-profile athletes, but I’m going to do my best not to let my insecurities take over.
It’s not like I don’t have experience with the lifestyle they live, considering my brother is a professional baseball player, but I’ve always been more comfortable staying in his shadow.
Even when we were kids, Memphis was always the outgoing one, never shying away from an opportunity to perform in front of anyone who was willing to watch.
Not only is he an extremely talented pitcher, but he’s also hilarious and a blast to be around.
I’m just his younger sister, the divorced mother of three who apparently wouldn’t know a good time if it sat on her face.
I don’t want to be that girl anymore, but I have no idea how to shake her.
Hopefully tonight will be the start of a brand-new Paris Bellamy, one who goes to girls’ nights in sexy pajamas and doesn’t spend the entire time worrying about whether her kids miss her or not.
They’re in great hands with Oakley. There’s no reason I can’t let loose and enjoy an evening away.
It’s much easier said than done, but I’m bound and determined to make the most of it, no matter how unnatural it feels.
“Oh my God, Sydney was right. Your skin is amazing.” Bailey carefully massages my facial muscles, causing a quiet sigh to slip from my lips.
It’s happened no less than fifty times in the hour I’ve been here, but in my defense, I’ve never been pampered like this before.
The extent of my beauty treatments is homemade oatmeal masks and those pore strips that basically pull your entire nose off when you yank them away.
And personally, I think those things do more harm than good.
“Thank you,” I reply, my heavy, tired eyelids fluttering open.
It’s taken effort not to fall asleep right here on her treatment table, which she says happens all the time.
But I just met these women, and I really don’t want to look like an exhausted mess while I snore and drool all over myself.
Between work, taking care of the kids, and keeping my house in order, the last two weeks have my body and mind on the verge of a major crash.
I can’t let it happen, which is why I gave myself just one evening away to reset.
“Okay,” she says, booping me on the nose with her fingertip. “Let’s get you into the massage chair. As a fellow mom, I can promise it’ll change your life.”
“Agreed,” Finley chimes in from across the room as she breastfeeds her newborn.
Dash entered the world just over a month ago, one week after Bailey and Jett’s daughter, Willow.
I can’t help but be the tiniest bit jealous of their friendship.
I’d have given anything to have just one person who knew what I was going through post-partum, but when you’re a barely-eighteen-year-old first-time mom, that’s pretty hard to find.
Add the fact that I was also a newlywed, and I didn’t have a single friend who could relate to my situation.
Hopefully, this is the start of something new, having women around me who understand what it’s like to not just care for themselves.
I look over at the luxurious, leather piece of furniture, excited to take it for a spin. But after three pregnancies, I know better than to get comfortable in something that’s going to jiggle me around without emptying my bladder first. “Can I use your bathroom quick?”
“Of course,” Bailey answers. “The toilet is broken down here, and we’ve been too busy to get it fixed, so why don’t you use the one upstairs? I can show you where it is.”
“I’ll do it. I need another drink, anyway,” Sydney offers, standing from where she’s curled up in the corner of the couch and righting her lace nightie.
She looks stunning, the dark material a perfect contrast to her golden-blonde hair.
Steele has been kicked out of this room approximately ten times already because he keeps sneaking down to look at her.
To be fair, all he’s doing is popping his head in, groaning like he’s in pain, biting his fist, then leaving, but still.
He knows about the No Boys Allowed rule—that doesn’t apply to baby Dash—and he’s willfully breaking it despite her threats to punish him.
I have a sneaking suspicion that’s the exact outcome he’s looking for, though, which totally explains his behavior.
Good for him.
We climb the stairs that lead to the main floor, and I follow Sydney closely as she saunters down the hallway, stopping in the kitchen.
The area is dimly lit, with no signs of life other than the two of us.
I know the guys are currently upstairs with the other babies, going over last season’s highlight reels.
From what Livvy told me, they normally watch game tape to prepare for their next opponent, but since we’re still months away from the regular season, they’re simply enjoying the fruits of last year’s hard work.
I don’t blame them one bit for that, considering they won the Super Bowl just three seasons after the team was created.
“I’m going to grab another glass of wine and some snacks,” she tells me, heading for the refrigerator. “Go through the archway and take a left. You’ll see another set of stairs. The bathroom is the third door on the right. I can wait here until you’re done.”
I wave a dismissive hand. “No, I’ll be fine. Go back down and let Bailey start on your facial. This place is big, but it’s not a maze. I’ll find my way.”
“Okay,” she replies with a shrug, pulling two bags of chips from the cupboard before heading to fill her glass. “See you in a few.”
I smile, taking off through the archway and finding the bathroom with ease.
Just like the rest of the house, it’s stunning, with white marble countertops and modern accents.
There’s even a chandelier above the gigantic clawfoot tub that I can’t help but think of how relaxing it would be to soak in.
My bathtub is full of toys and has a suction mat at the bottom, so the kids don’t slip, which is why I opt for the standing shower every time.
It’s easier anyway, since I generally only have about ten minutes before little fists come knocking.
Rowan is very good about keeping an eye on the other two when I need it, but I don’t like to burden him with their care for too long, so I rush through things wherever I can.
Fighting the urge to climb in and envelop myself in the hottest water ever, I do my business, step toward the luxurious vanity sink, and wash my hands.
I pause when I catch my own reflection in the mirror, quite literally shocked at what I see.
My skin is pink and glowing, a huge contrast from the pale complexion I’m used to.
Even without a stitch of makeup, I look like I’m fully rested and energized, despite the fact that Lennon had me up for hours last night.
“You are a miracle worker, Mrs. Kingsley,” I mutter under my breath as I fluff my dark hair at the roots.
Between my plump, moisturized skin and the sexy pajamas I’m now glad I wore, I’m feeling like a whole new person—one who fits in with some of the most beautiful women in the city like she belongs right in their midst. It’s a bit delusional, but I guess the right serums will do that to you.
With a little extra sway in my hips, I pull the door open, turning toward the staircase. But I barely get two steps before I slam into a very large, very hard body. I begin to lose my balance, my feet getting tangled up with one another before two large hands shoot out to my waist, steadying me.
“Oh my God, I’m sorry,” I hurry out, smoothing my palms over my hair in an attempt to right myself.
This is exactly what I get for walking around a strange house all alone.
Now I’ve embarrassed the hell out of myself by not being aware of my surroundings, thus running into one of my new friends’ significant others.
If the floor could open up right this second and swallow me whole, that’d be perfect.
“Paris?” the familiar voice says, and I lift my gaze to find Austin Baker towering over me with a devastating smile stretched across his face.
He’s so goddamn handsome in a pair of dark jeans that hug his thick thighs like they were made just for him.
His crisp white T-shirt clings to the biceps I’ve practically memorized at this point, its soft fabric smelling like a mixture of laundry detergent and something else that I can’t put my finger on.
I wish I’d have taken a better whiff while my face was smashed into it, though, because the scent is positively sinful.
“Austin,” I reply, snapping back to reality.
“Hi.” Sweat beads at the back of my neck, anxiety gripping at my throat as his hands loosen around me but don’t let go.
If my face wasn’t flushed before, it definitely is now, his gaze slowly raking up my body from my barely covered thighs to the low neckline of my satin top.
I swallow thickly, internally begging my body not to quiver under his scrutiny.
It’s a feat with the way this man makes me so damn nervous all the time.
“I see the WAGs talked you into dressing up for girls’ night.”
At first, I don’t answer, the words seemingly lodged in my throat.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, drier than the fucking Sahara Desert as I stare at him like a deer in headlights.
I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.
I’ve been around plenty of men before, one of whom I was married to for seven years.
But in that time, I don’t think I ever felt lightheaded from him touching me. At least, not like I am right now.
Relax, Paris. He’s your kids’ football coach. Your brother’s friend. You talk to him every day at work. This isn’t a big deal.
Digging deep for an inkling of self-preservation, I clear my throat, saying the first thing that comes to mind.
“I don’t usually dress like this to go to bed.
” I want to take the words back as soon as I croak them out, realizing how dumb they sound.
Surely, Austin Baker doesn’t give a flying fuck what I sleep in.
He’s just making small talk because I ran into him in a dark, empty hallway, and now I’m acting like an awkward teenager with a crush.
His attention slides down to where he’s still gently holding my waist, his fingertips pinching the soft, thin fabric and rubbing back and forth. “Really?” He asks, his hypnotizing blue gaze finding mine. “That’s a shame. It’s cute.”
All the air is sucked from my body, my heart pounding in my chest as he drops his hand and wordlessly continues in the direction he was previously headed, leaving me more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life.
Shit. I’m in big, big trouble.