From Enemies to Expecting(2)

By: Kat Cantrell



She had everyone’s attention exactly where she wanted it—on her. A woman dressed in a slim-fit, shocking pink suit cut low enough to allow her very nice breasts to peek out clearly expected people to notice her.

“Sorry I’m late,” she offered the host. Her throaty voice thrummed through Logan in a way he hadn’t been thrummed in a very long time. Not since his pitching days, when baseball groupies had been thick on the ground, which he’d taken advantage of far less than he could have.

This lady in pink had the full package, and then some. For some other guy.

Logan avoided packaged women like the plague, as they often came with nasty surprises once you unwrapped them. He liked his women simple, unaffected and open, a younger version of the best woman he knew—his mom.

Didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate a gorgeous woman with a sexy voice.

Pink Lady drew even with Logan, electing to stand despite open seats at the table and ice-pick heels on her feet that couldn’t be comfortable.

“I tried to explain that we’d already started filming,” the staffer told Rob Moore in a hushed voice that carried across the whole set. “She barged in anyway.”

“It’s okay,” the host said with a crafty smile. He waltzed over to them, his gaze cutting back and forth between Logan and the lady in pink at his side. “Oh, I like this. Very nice. Bad girl meets all-American boy. The viewers will love it.”

“Love what?” Logan glanced down at his blue Mustangs T-shirt and jeans and then at the dark-haired woman. Moore’s comment sank in. “You want us to be teammates? I don’t think so.”

That was not happening. But Moore had already moved on to the next couple, both of whom looked relieved with their matches.

The sinking feeling in Logan’s stomach bottomed out. Pink Lady had crossed her arms under her spectacular breasts, shoving them upward so that they strained against the fabric of her suit. He averted his eyes as she started tapping out a staccato rhythm with one stiletto.

“What’s wrong with being my teammate?” Her agitation pushed her voice up a notch. “You don’t think I have any business savvy because of the tongue piercing. That’s crap and you know it.”

A...tongue piercing? Instantly, he envisioned exactly what skills a woman with a steel bar through her tongue might have. And they all centered on being naked. With her mouth on his flesh as she pleasured him.

Dragging his thoughts out of the gutter took entirely too much will. That’s why he liked unassuming, unsexy, uneverything women.

“I didn’t even notice that,” he informed her truthfully and tried to stop himself from catching a glimpse of the piercing. “My objections have nothing to do with you.”

That part was patently false. It had everything to do with the fact that she had distraction written all over her. He’d have to get a new teammate, no question.

For God knew what reason, she laughed, and that did a hell of lot more than thrum in Logan’s gut.

“I have a BS meter with new batteries,” she said. “Look around, honey. Everyone else has been paired. Can we get with the program?”

Logan peered down at his new teammate’s fingernail, which had landed in the dead center of his chest. Then he glanced back up at her incredibly disturbing eyes. They were a shade of ice blue that seemed so much more stark and unique than they should, probably because of her eye makeup.

“I’m with the program.” He reeled back the curl of awareness that her finger had aroused. “The question is, are you? I wasn’t late.”

“Five a.m. is an ungodly hour, and I was only fifteen minutes late. You can’t hold that against me.”

Yeah, actually he could. He’d been on time and so had everyone else. But since it did appear as if all the other teams had been set, he sighed. “Fine. You’re forgiven. What did you say your industry is again?”

“I didn’t. What did you say your name is again?”

The point wasn’t lost on him. He’d completely abandoned civility with this pink curveball, and his mama had taught him better than that. He stuck out a hand. “Logan McLaughlin. Owner and general manager of the Dallas Mustangs.”

“Sports is your thing, I see. The lack of dress-up clothes threw me.” She glanced at his Mustangs shirt, and then slipped her hand in his for what should have been a perfunctory shake.

The moment her palm slid against his, a shock zinged up his arm, arrowing straight for his groin. He let it ride because it was that powerful and, God, he hadn’t felt anything like it in ages. Her eyelids drifted downward a touch, and she peeked up at him from under her lashes, clearly affected by it as well.

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