Saint: A Football Romance (The Nighthawk Series Book 1) Read online

"Too full of himself, huh? Unlike you?"

  "Yeah, but I've got the goods to back it up," he says with a completely straight face.

  "Ha. Ha." I roll my eyes.

  "Do I amuse you, Miss ..."

  "White."

  "First name?"

  This guy is a pure player.

  "There's no need for first names is there? I mean I am on a date with another man."

  "A very bad date. One that you clearly need rescuing from. Probably why you took it upon yourself to bail yourself out of it. There's nothing wrong with your dinner. You just want to go home."

  "Are you calling me a liar, Mr.–"

  "Stevenson," he replies with an amused look. "And yes, I'm calling you a liar. If short dude believes that you didn't like your food versus his less than entertaining company, then let's add one more thing to my list of reasons of why he's not the man for you. Too stupid."

  I can see through the restaurant's front windowpane when Jason finally pulls up in his sleek, silver, S-class Mercedes Benz. A classically beautiful car for a very sophisticated man. A man that I shouldn't keep waiting. A guy who's always been a gentleman. A man whom perhaps if I bide my time, will end up seeing me for more than just a sweet girl at work who needs mentoring.

  "Well it was nice chatting with you, Mr. Stevenson, but my boyfriend just pulled up," I say proudly.

  "He's not going to even come back inside and escort you to the car? A car he apparently is using to overcompensate for something," he chuckles.

  Boy he's gorgeous when he laughs.

  Walk away, Sabrina.

  "Believe it or not, this isn't the turn of the century. I'm a grown woman, and I don't need a guardian to escort me five feet to a car."

  "You've got me there, Miss White. You are very much a grown woman in all the places that matter." His eyes rake over my body with slow deliberation.

  "Let me give you a piece of advice, sir, and believe me when I say that I'm using that term rather loosely. You walked in here tonight with your oversized bodyguards and your darkly tinted sunglasses at eight o'clock at night as if you're someone important, but trust me when I say, that I know what important men look like, and you aren't it. You're trying way too hard. Not to mention that it whiffs of desperation that you're approaching a woman who is currently involved with another man. So have a nice life, all right?"

  After my fantastically delivered admonishment, I stand up forgetting that I had placed my clutch handbag on my lap, and it drops to the floor with a thud. The entire contents inside splattering across the floor and underneath the table. Totally embarrassing.

  "Would it be too turn of the century of me to help you pick up the mess you've made before my desperate ass goes on to have a nice life?" the stranger asks in a manner that's dripping with sarcasm.

  I don't particularly want to, but I nod reluctantly in acceptance of his offer, because my very tapered pencil skirt fits way too snugly for me to comfortably bend and maneuver myself underneath the table in any sort of graceful way.

  "Thanks," I try saying with as much sincerity as I can muster.

  As he squats down to retrieve my things (super tampon included), I can't help but take a closer look at him in a most obvious way that almost makes me redden in embarrassment.

  This close up there's no denying that he's a giant wall of muscle and masculinity. Larger than any other man I've ever known. But it's his swagger, his personality, his energy–which fills the restaurant in a much larger way than even the circumference of his body. It's no wonder why all eyes are on him.

  I wasn't ever the type to attract the big, beautiful, confident types like him. I tend to attract the intellectual ones who are vertically impaired and riddled with insecurities. Neither type being a reliable pick for a girl like me. I like predictable. A safe bet.

  I think that may be why I've liked Jason for so long. Jason is safe. Not a giant, but definitely taller than me. Intellectual but not nerdy. Confident but not cocky. And most importantly, certifiably single. There's no ex-wife or a baby momma. Which means no mess and very little risk. All statistics that a math geek like me can buy into.

  I don't even have to talk to this Stevenson guy for more than three minutes to already know that he is the complete opposite of safe. He is probably everything my parents were always afraid would come knocking on their door looking to ravage their only daughter.

  First of all, look at him.

  I'm looking for someone to snuggle at night, not smother me. In fact he's so huge that there's no real way he's even going to be able to fit under the table to pick up my things. Although now I see that he doesn't even have to. His arms are so long that he can maneuver them easily under the table and reach for whatever's under there without too much awkward bending. It's actually kind of impressive.

  And speaking of his arms.

  Holy hell.

  His arms are huge. The wingspan of his hands alone makes them look like they could easily smack someone into next week. His biceps are thick and muscular. Chiseled and strong. And my favorite part of a man's upper body, especially this man's body, are his forearms. Both are roped and strong and adorned with what looks like many sessions worth of intricate tribal ink. I've always liked tattoos from afar. They're not something I'd ever have the nerve to do, but I think they are beautiful. Especially when they adorn a man who's built like a tank.

  "Here you go, Miss White."

  He scoops up all of my things with one of his hands, while toying with me carefully using those two titanium saucers of his. Eyes that are confusing the hell out of my poor ovaries.

  I've never been good at keeping a poker face, but there's no way this man needs to know how hot I think he is. I'm sure he already knows. So I bend my head slightly down in an attempt to avoid direct eye contact, as I accept the contents of my handbag and place everything back inside. He holds onto one thing though. One of my business cards.

  "Sabrina White." He reads the card aloud while casually playing with it between two fingers. "That's a beautiful name for an equally beautiful woman."

  I hate that the first thing that I do is start smiling after that lame line. Not a big smile, but a smile nonetheless.

  His words are cliché.

  His glare is obvious.

  And I'm still grinning like a simpleton when I notice Jason sitting in his car, watching the two of us with a blank look across his face.

  "Umm, my date is here. I have to go."

  "Until next time, Sabrina White."

  I watch as he slips my business card in his back pocket.

  "I doubt it," I grin, although I'm somewhat flattered that he's choosing to hold onto my information, even though he and I both know that there will be no next time. I mean he looks like he eats women for breakfast (literally) then sends them on their merry way with a pat on the ass and maybe a couple of bucks for an Uber car.

  But I'm not going to lie. I purposefully walk towards the exit of the restaurant with a little sway in my step, just like the hostess did earlier, because I know that he's watching. Something tells me that he likes to watch. What the hell, right? I never do stuff like this, and I'll never see him again.

  As I smooth my skirt down the sides of my hips and thighs, and carefully place one stiletto heel in front of the other, I can't help but look in the glass doors ahead of me. Just to make sure that stranger danger is still checking me out, and when I do, I catch his reflection.

  His platinum pupils dancing.

  Looking straight at me.

  And his mouth grinning shamelessly at the view of my behind.

  So I sway my hips a little harder. Then turn around and give him a small wave good-bye. One that I make sure Jason can't see. And it's at that moment that I see and feel what I've been waiting for all night, except it's from the stranger's eyes instead of Jason's.

  Pure. Unadulterated. Heat.

  Chapter Two

  SAINT

  Three Years Ago

  Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

>   "You need to kill some time, Mike. She's not ready."

  "She's not here yet?!"

  "Naw, man. I think she's still at the hotel with the bridesmaids or something. No one's picking up their cell phones over there, but knowing her she's probably just running around driving everybody completely nuts."

  "I knew I should've sent my mom over there. I swear to fucking God if she–"

  "Calm down, best man. There's no way that girl is going to mess up her wedding day to Saint."

  "You mean mess up her meal ticket."

  "No shit talking today, Mike. You have to reel it in. This is your brother's future wife we're talking about. Just like you want respect for yours, you need to respect his choice."

  "The hell you mean? There's no question about anyone respecting my wife. She's not some sleazy lounge singer looking for a benefactor, so that she won't have to get a real job."

  "You know what I mean, Mike."

  "All right. I guess the easiest solution is to get everybody drunk. Then no one will know just how fucking late the blushing bride really is. Including my brother."

  "Good idea. I'll get the waiters to grab us some champagne."

  Ten minutes later.

  "Open the Dom! Does everybody have a glass? All right, all right. Listen up everyone. I just want to say a few words in a toast before our boy here walks down the aisle. Saint, you know you're one cocky son of a bitch. You always were. Even as a snot-nosed kid, you thought the sun rose and set specifically for your ass. Never thought I'd see the day that you'd get hitched. Especially this early in your career. But I guess there's no rhyme or reason to when we find our happily ever after. Sometimes we find her when we least expect it. So let's all raise our glasses to my little brother and his forever after – Adrianna."

  "To Saint and Adrianna!!"

  Fifteen more minutes later.

  "Excuse me, Mr. Stevenson?"

  "Yeah, that's me. How can I help you?"

  "I think I need to speak to your brother."

  "He's a little busy getting married right now. What do you want Saint for?"

  "Well, umm ... I guess it's okay if I tell you. I need to show you something."

  "Who are you again?"

  "A guest on the bride's side. Can I just show you something? It's important."

  "You better not be showing me any videos of your kid playing ball or something. This is my brother's wedding not a recruitment–"

  "It's nothing like that. Just take a look at the headline on this website."

  Jilted! Saint Stevenson's Fiancée Seen With Reality

  Star & Singer Benjamin Luck On Wedding Day!

  "You actually believe this? This is just some bullshit gossip blog looking to get more web traffic with lies. Adrianna is at the hotel getting ready as we speak. There's no way she's in, where does it say?"

  "Miami, but look, there's a photo. Scroll down."

  "Fuck me. It is her."

  "Yeah, I'm pretty sure it is."

  "How am I going to tell Saint? This is going to kill him."

  A few moments later.

  "Can we get the room for a minute, fellas?"

  "Why are you clearing the room? What's up?"

  "Have a seat. I need to talk to you."

  "Right now? I'm about to get married."

  "Calm down for just a second and listen. Adrianna is gone."

  "What the fuck do you mean she's gone?"

  "She left, bro. She's in Miami."

  "What. Are. You. Talking. About?! What did you do Mikey?"

  "Nothing, Saint. I swear. I'd never ruin your wedding day no matter how I feel about your girl. She must have gotten cold feet. She ran away with some rocker reality show kid. Some douche named Benjamin Luck. I'm assuming you haven't spoken to her today."

  "We saw each other last night. She wanted to wait to talk until we saw each other at the alter."

  "Well it looks like she jumped on a flight to Florida this morning."

  "I'm calling her ass right now!"

  "Wait. Don't chase her Saint. You're better than this. And isn't it better that you know what she's really like now rather than later when you're three kids deep? I mean if you really think about it–OUCH! You asshole. You just winged my head with that chair!

  "Dammit, Saint, don't go trashing the entire reception hall. Our parents and their closest friends are here. Reverend Paul is in there. Don't embarrass yourself because she wasn't woman enough to end this the right way."

  CRASH!

  "You told me not to call her, so this is what I'm doing instead!"

  *Sigh*

  "Are you actually going to force me to kick your ass on your wedding day to get you to stop?"

  "It's not my wedding day anymore!"

  "Saint if you don't put that table down, I swear to God I'm going to have to put you down."

  "I don't fucking care–"

  WHAP!

  Chapter Three

  SABRINA

  Three years ago

  Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

  "What can I get you?"

  A female bartender who is probably in her twenties, but looks like she's pushing forty because of the bags under her eyes and her leathery skin, asks me for my drink order. Problem is that I don't really drink.

  It's one of the many things I have given up to stay at my goal weight which is actually pretty high for my height, so I have to be careful; but tonight I want to feel like someone other than myself. Even if it's only temporary. Even if it's just smoke and mirrors. And I know that alcohol can help me get there.

  "What do you recommend?" I ask. Her face may look hard, but so is her body. So I'm guessing that she knows a thing or two about staying fit. "I want to order a drink or two tonight, but I don't want to consume a lot of extra calories."

  "Do you like red wine?"

  "I don't usually drink alcohol at all, so I don't particularly like any one thing."

  "Then may I ask what's your reason for wanting to drink tonight?"

  She asks her highly unusual question (for a bartender anyway) while drying the inside of a wine glass with a soft white cloth.

  "A guy. Well basically all men."

  "Understood." She smiles briefly. "Then shots are the way to go."

  "Shots?"

  "Yeah, it's the mixers that are highly caloric like fruit juice or soda. If you drink straight liquor I promise that you will arrive to your destination much quicker with little to show for it around your hips."

  "That sounds like exactly what I'm looking for."

  "Are you on a budget?"

  "Not really." I'm using my company credit card tonight.

  "Then Patron shots are the way to go. It's a premium tequila."

  "Eww, with the worm inside?"

  "Absolutely not," she snickers. "This is an upscale, smooth tasting tequila. Great for margaritas and also for shots and no worms."

  Sounds like what I'm looking for.

  "Okay, give me two."

  "Coming right up."

  I've never done shots before, although I've seen college kids do a million of them, but I was never that girl in school. I was a scholarship kid carrying a 3.9 GPA. I never had the time or inclination to spend my nights getting drunk and possibly date raped at frat parties. I was always in the library, and parties were never my scene anyway.

  The bartender never introduces herself to me by name or much less cracks a smile. She's not warm and fuzzy like the ones I've seen on television shows and in movies; but at least she's helpful. Her goal is to get me drunk or at least feeling better, and I'm thinking she understands because she has some pretty interesting war stories about men of her own.

  She demonstrates how I should drink my shots for the full experience. Shaking the bar salt on my hand, then licking the salt, drinking the shot (with haste), and then chasing it by sucking on a wedge of lemon or lime. I like that there is a ritual behind this shot taking thing, so I catch on fast. The first shot makes my eyes squint, but by the third (or
is it fourth) I am feeling way better.

  I hear a group of voices coming towards the direction of the bar and my stomach drops. This is it. It has to be new guy's voice I hear among the sea of voices. I wonder if I've ingested enough liquid courage to finally talk to him about something other than mundane topics such as how the microwave works on the third floor lounge or the weather forecast.

  I never quite mastered the art of flirting and because of that character flaw, I've ended up only dating a few guys, and they were all guys who I was set up with by friends. Unfortunately that has meant that I've usually ended up with guys that I'm not attracted to at all or who are complete weirdos.

  I'm hoping that this is the one time that the nice, normal nerd (that's me) gets the successful, safe guy (that's new guy) and that we live happily ever after. For once I would like to be in a sweet, normal, reciprocal relationship.

  Of course none of that will ever happen if I don't learn to say anything interesting when I open up my mouth. I tried about thirty minutes ago towards the end of our company dinner and it was a complete disaster. I made a fool of myself.

  This must be what it feels like to be drunk, because my ears are playing tricks on me. I couldn't have heard the new guy, because none of the people that enter the bar are actually my coworkers. They are a group of very rowdy and gigantic men who all kind of look alike. I giggle to myself, because they look like they are going to completely annihilate the place by just moving around and bumping into things. They're that big.

  It's pretty obvious that they're celebrating something, and the decibel level of their spirited banter grows only louder with each passing moment. This is my cue to leave. Even if my new coworker walked in right now, this noise would make it way too distracting for me to say anything to fix my earlier blunder.

  "Are you with the Carson group?" The bartender asks me.

  "Yes, how did you know?" The hotel is a big place.

  "There are three groups that have pretty much locked down all of the rooms in the hotel this weekend, and I don't think that you belong to the other two."