Chapter One #2
She’s freezing. Her fingers feel like ice against my warm skin, and something about knowing she’s been standing out here in the cold while that guy haggled over her makes my jaw clench hard enough to hurt.
“I’m Ryleigh. Thanks for, um . . . saving me.”
I haven’t done anything yet. I wanted to punch that guy in the jaw when I heard him propositioning her. Instead, I let him walk away unscathed. Lucky prick.
“Do you work here?” I lift my gaze to the neon sign blazing above our heads in the darkness. I scrub a hand over my face as I picture the petite woman standing before me, scantily clad and serving drinks to a group of horny men with grabby hands and fat wallets.
She nods.
“You a stripper, then?” I ask.
Ryleigh makes an annoyed sound in her throat. “It’s a topless bar. I’m not a stripper.”
I knew as much, but part of me didn’t want to admit I’ve been a customer at the place. It’s not exactly a classy establishment. “But you serve drinks in your underwear.”
“As I said, men are gross. Sadly, they also pay my bills.”
I chuckle, again surprised by her. Most people—men and women—get flustered around me. Something about my size combined with my face tends to make people trip over themselves. This woman couldn’t care less. She’s looking at me the way she’d look at any random guy on the street.
It’s refreshing as hell.
“I’m not denying it. And not that you asked for it, but in my point of view, men are visual creatures. And women are beautiful. We enjoy seeing them any chance we can get.”
She merely rolls her eyes, clearly not buying my bullshit. “Listen, as nice as it is to freeze my lady balls off and stand out here talking to you, I need to find a way to get home.”
Lady balls. I bite back a grin.
“Where’s your ride? I can wait with you.” The words stumble out of my mouth before I can think about it.
“My car’s in the shop, and apparently my friend bailed on giving me a ride.”
I nod, processing everything. Something tells me she needs that three hundred bucks the guy was offering her.
I take a deep breath, weighing my options.
It’s either go home alone to my penthouse and lie awake wondering if she’s okay…
or drive her home myself and convince her to just take the money I have in my wallet. It’s not like I need it.
As tired as I was walking out of my dinner meeting with Slate, now I’m way too keyed up for sleep. The restlessness I felt earlier, that itch under my skin—it’s shifted into something more focused.
“Is that what you needed the money for? Your car?”
Her inquisitive blue gaze meets mine, and for a second, I think she’s going to deny that she needs the money. She’ll probably try to save face by telling me I read the situation wrong, and she was never actually entertaining that scumbag’s offer.
Instead, she surprises me for the third time in five minutes.
“No. Well, yes. But not tonight. My immediate concern is getting home and taking care of my roommate’s baby.”
“Baby?” I ask, lifting one eyebrow.
She nods, tucking a long strand of silky brown hair behind her ear.
“My ex-roommate, actually. She, um, dropped off her baby a few days ago and left. I have no idea when she’s coming back.
I need to pick up diapers, more clothes, and baby formula.
All of that stuff costs money.” Ryleigh straightens, her posture stiffening, as if she’s revealed too much.
“You know what, don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out. I always do.”
And there it is—the walls going back up. She’s embarrassed, and my gut twists because I can tell this isn’t a woman who asks for help. Ever. She’s the type who white-knuckles her way through every crisis alone, who’d rather eat ramen for a week than admit she’s struggling.
I recognize it because I’m the same way.
“Where’s the baby now?” It’s late, after all. But no matter how late it is, I’m not letting her walk away just yet.
“My neighbor is babysitting her so I could work.”
Something inside me believes Ryleigh’s telling the truth.
Even though the last thing I want to do tonight is deal with a sad woman who has what sounds like more drama than an episode of Law & Order, with an even more unusual twist of playing nanny for someone’s baby, I find myself gesturing toward my car.
My black Mercedes is parked right across the street.
“I’ll take you.”
She narrows her eyes. “I don’t even know who you are. Why would I trust you?”
I don’t point out that she was just considering getting into the car of a complete stranger.
Or that she was considering doing unsavory activities with said stranger.
I could tell her it’s because I grew up with three sisters and I have a big heart.
I could tell her that I have nieces and nephews and that I’m good with babies.
I could even hand her my business card and tell her she could ruin me with one call to the media about how I tried to pick her up outside a nightclub.
But I don’t say any of those things. Instead, I find myself wanting her to trust me on instinct alone.
I finally settle on, “Because I’m offering to help you. No strings.”
“No strings, as in I don’t have to show you my boobs?”
I almost choke on the laugh that crawls up my chest. “Only if you want to, but remember… men are visual creatures.” I offer her my best playboy smirk, the one that usually makes women swoon, only to find it has no effect on Ryleigh.
Strange.
She treats me like I’m a regular guy and not a famous millionaire sports star who easily melts women with just a smile.
Ryleigh has no idea that I’m Alex Ivan, pro football player for the Chicago Hawks.
She doesn’t swoon and bat her eyelashes or try to impress me.
In fact, she doesn’t follow any of the normal protocols.
Clearly, she’s not a gold digger, because if she were, she could talk me out of way more than three hundred bucks.
An even bigger part of me knows I could add several zeroes behind that figure, and she’d need every damn dime.
“Fine. I’ll take the ride. But it’s going to be a hard pass on the boobs.”
“Whatever you want.”
The truth is, she’s gorgeous, and if she wanted to share her body with me, I’d jump at the chance.
But something about her no-nonsense demeanor tells me that’s not going to happen, which is probably for the best. I don’t have time to get tangled up in something right now, anyway.
I have to focus on myself and my career now more than ever.
After another moment’s hesitation, Ryleigh looks back at the club one last time, then to my car. I can see the moment she makes up her mind, letting out a soft sigh.
“Don’t make me regret this,” she mutters under her breath before she follows me to my car.
I hit the button on the key fob to start the engine, then unlock the doors. When we slide inside, I turn up the heat and direct the vents toward her.
“Thank you,” she says, buckling her seat belt. “Nice car.” Her gaze lingers on the sleek wood paneling, supple leather, and chrome fixtures.
“Thanks,” I murmur, suddenly feeling sheepish about the opulence of my luxury sedan while she has to consider back-alley propositions just to feed a baby that isn’t even hers. I shift into drive and pull out onto the road.
In the enclosed space, I’m suddenly aware of everything: the faint smell of smoke clinging to her jacket from the club, layered underneath with something softer—vanilla, maybe, or something warm like that.
Her hands are tucked under her thighs, trying to get warm, and she’s sitting very still, like she’s not sure she belongs in a car this nice.
Like she’s trying to take up as little space as possible.
“So, where to?”
“Oh, right.” Ryleigh rattles off her address, and I wince.
I’ve only been to that area of the city once, and it was by accident because I was lost. It’s not a safe or very nice area, and I hate to think about her walking around after dark alone, petite beauty that she is.
“So, your name, Alexei, is that . . .”
“Russian. My parents moved here when I was six.”
“Do you remember much of it? Living in Russia? I’ve never been out of the United States. I’ve barely been out of the Midwest.”
“A little. My parents tried to keep up the traditions for us. They were proud of their heritage. We spoke Russian at home, and every Friday, my mother would make a big traditional meal.”
“What kinds of foods are in traditional Russian meals? Like borscht?”
I chuckle. “Borscht is disgusting.” It’s a beet soup that looks like a bowl of blood. “My favorites were the cabbage rolls and herb-and-meat-filled pies she would make.”
“That sounds amazing.” She’s quiet for a beat, and I catch the way she swallows before she adds, “I haven’t eaten a real home-cooked meal in a long time.”
She says it without any play for sympathy—just a fact, same as the Midwest thing—and it lands harder than she probably intended.
All this talk about food makes me wonder if she’s hungry, if I should offer to stop and get something for her to eat.
Then I decide against it because I don’t want her to feel that I think she’s a charity case.
Plus, dinner together seems too personal, and I can’t do personal right now. She’s a big girl. She can feed herself.
The conversation with Slate rings through my head. Keep my head down. Stay focused on winning. Prove that I’m worth the contract. Period.
“What about you?” I ask. “Family in the area?”
She shakes her head, folding her hands in her lap. “I was an only child. Both of my parents have passed on.”
“I’m sorry.” Now I wish I’d never asked. No family, no roommate, barely any money, a baby that isn’t hers, and a job that requires creeps to look at her half-naked for tips.
She shakes her head, still looking out the windshield. “It’s okay.”
It’s not okay. None of this is okay. But I don’t say that.