Get Over You (Dare Me Book 1) Read online

  We talk and compare notes until we’re joined by Jackson Rollins, the smarmy reporter who just threw me under the bus with his kiss-ass comment to Reyes. He’s my co-host on a local sports show called Team Ticker. I can’t stand him, and the feeling would probably be mutual if he weren’t so obsessed with getting in my pants.

  “Way to go, slugger,” he drawls mockingly as the photographer departs. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were trying to run our new quarterback out of town.”

  “Not at all,” I grumble, glancing toward the exit. “Just doing my job.”

  “Riiight.” Jack grins like a shark, revealing a mouthful of blindingly white veneers. “I would think a savvy reporter like yourself could appreciate the tremendous value Malone brings to our beleaguered Renegades. The man’s practically a legend.”

  “I’m fully aware of that.” For the past eight years I’d eaten, slept and breathed Reyes’s football career. I’d cheered him on when he won the Heisman Trophy during his senior year at Stanford. I’d crossed my fingers tight when he got drafted by the Baltimore Ravens in the first round. And when he won his first Super Bowl, I’d soared on cloud nine for weeks.

  As a sportswriter, I always tell myself it’s my professional duty to follow the career of the NFL’s golden boy. But it’s so much deeper than that. I keep track of Reyes because I don’t know how not to.

  Watching the play of emotions across my face, Jack grins slyly. “I think I know what your problem is.”

  I give him a sharp look, my heart thudding with fear. Does he know about Reyes and me? Did he dig up old yearbook pictures? Will my secret finally be exposed?

  “I knew it,” he crows, laughing at my stricken expression. “You’ve got a thing for him, don’t you? Your rudeness was just an act.”

  I roll my eyes. “Whatever, Jack.”

  He roars with laughter, deepening my annoyance.

  “I’d love to continue this conversation, but I’m running late for a game.” Before he can say another word, I turn on my heel and walk off.

  As I approach the exit, my phone pings in my hand. I lift it up to see a text message from my editor: What the hell was that???

  I wince. Shit. I’m in trou—

  Without warning, I slam into the solid wall of a massive chest.

  Two strong arms reach out and grab me when I stumble backward, nearly dropping my phone.

  I don’t have to see his face to know who I’ve run into. Even before my eyes meet his, my body reacts by shivering with awareness.

  His face is leaner, harder and hotter than ever. Seriously. He’s so freaking hot. But his eyes are colder than they’ve ever been. Cold and cynical with a hint of cruelty.

  “Emerson,” he murmurs in a detached tone.

  My stupid heart leaps into my throat as I stare up at him. “Reyes . . .”

  Chapter Two

  REYES

  “It’s been a long time.”

  Too damn long, I add silently as my gaze roams over Emerson’s face, soaking in every detail from her beautiful green eyes to her turned-up nose to her plush pink lips, now glistening as she wets them nervously with her tongue.

  The creamy skin she inherited from her Irish mother is as flawless as I remember. But her face is much slimmer now, her cheekbones more defined. And her waifish body has filled out with insanely hot curves that her pantsuit can’t quite hide.

  She’s more gorgeous than ever. And it’s a total fucking gut punch, twisting my insides with a barrage of emotions: need, resentment, longing, fury, hunger, hate.

  So much fucking need.

  Not nearly enough hate.

  “Yes,” she agrees, her voice breathy and nervous. “It . . . it has been a while.”

  I dimly register the fact that I’m still gripping her arms. I can feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her jacket.

  I was swarmed by reporters as soon as the presser ended. When I looked through the crowd and saw Emerson eyeing the exit, I interrupted someone in midbabble and strode across the room to head Emerson off.

  You’ve been running long enough, angel. Those days are over.

  As if she read my mind, her muscles stiffen beneath my hands.

  I release her, letting my hands slide down her arms. I swear I feel her shiver before she steps back and tugs her hair free of her purse strap on her shoulder. I’d be lying my ass off if I said my fingers aren’t itching to slide through those silky reddish strands.

  “So,” I say, striving for a casual tone, “how’ve you been, Emerson?”

  “Um, fine . . .” She swallows tightly. Guiltily. “And you?”

  “Can’t complain.” Other than lugging around a broken heart for the past eight fucking years.

  She stares up into my eyes like she wants to say something. Something revealing. “I—”

  “Emerson Sartori.” My agent walks up, all smiles and charm, his hand extended for a handshake. “Great to meet you. Big fan of your show.”

  “Thank you so much.” Emerson smiles at him, looking relieved at the interruption.

  Jimmy has been one hell of an agent, negotiating the most lucrative contracts and endorsement deals for me. But I’ve never wanted to kick his ass more than I do at this very moment. Talk about the worst damn timing.

  He claps a meaty hand on my shoulder. “We’d better get going. Everyone’s waiting.”

  I nod unhurriedly, gazing down at Emerson. “Team luncheon,” I offer by way of explanation.

  She nods. “I’m running late myself, actually.”

  “Yeah, I could tell. Hot date?”

  She laughs, the smoky sound filling me with bittersweet pleasure. “If that’s what you call yelling at an umpire during a girls’ softball game, then yes, I do have a hot date.”

  I almost smile—almost.

  “Well, I won’t keep you, then.” I slide on a pair of aviator shades and ease my hand forward, the overhead light glinting off my diamond-studded Super Bowl rings. “Good seeing you again, Emerson.”

  She hesitates, glancing uncertainly at my blinged-out hand before accepting the handshake. “Same here.”

  I wonder if she felt a shock of awareness when our hands touched. Had the same current of electricity that sizzled through my body sizzled through hers?

  I can’t tell from her expression, which is frustrating as all hell.

  “Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other from now on,” I drawl.

  Something like panic flares in her eyes before she gives a jerky nod and forces a smile. “I, um, better get going.”

  I nod to her. “Enjoy the softball game.”

  “Thanks.” She flashes a smile at Jimmy, then turns and strides away. Back straight, rounded hips swaying, long flaming hair swinging from side to side.

  I stand there watching as she sails out the door, merging into the crowd streaming out of the building.

  “That was . . . interesting,” Jimmy remarks as we move toward a side exit to board the black SUV waiting for us. “So you already know Emerson?”

  “I used to.” I clench my jaw as a slow ache rolls through me. “A long damn time ago.”

  Chapter Three

  EMERSON

  I’m no good to anyone for the rest of the day.

  I go through the motions of driving to the softball field and sitting in the stands with my laptop, but my concentration is shot to hell.

  All I can think about is Reyes. The callused warmth of his rough palm sliding against mine . . . his golden eyes as hard and cold as the diamonds gleaming on his hand . . . his perfectly shaped lips curled into a mocking smirk, making a fool of me in front of everyone.

  I know he hates me for what I did to him years ago. I’m convinced more than ever that he came to Piedmont Bay for revenge, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do but get ready to play defense.

  Keeping one eye on the softball game, I manage to crank out my press conference writeup and send it off to my editor.

  He calls me after readi
ng the story. “Your tone is off.”

  I bristle a little. “Maybe because I was the only one there who wasn’t kissing his ass.”

  “Touché,” Lon says dryly.

  “Aren’t you always telling us not to shy away from asking tough questions in press conferences?” I huff challengingly. “You’ve always said that it’s not our job to coddle the coaches and players. We shouldn’t be satisfied with canned responses. We should hold their feet to the fire, press them on their answers and follow up until we get to the bottom of things.”

  My impassioned speech is met with complete silence.

  Nervously gnawing on my lip, I shift my attention to the softball game, watching as the batter hits the ball into center field and runs to first base, her red ponytail flying out behind her. When she makes it safely to third base, she grins and waves excitedly at me. I grin back and give her two thumbs up, so freaking proud.

  Lon’s voice pulls me back to our conversation. “I respect your energy, Emerson. But just remember that we’re a small fish in a big pond. We can’t afford to lose access to the Renegades just because you pissed off their new star quarterback. You don’t have to treat Malone like a god, but for Christ’s sake, don’t get on his bad side.”

  He clicks off, his words reverberating in my ears.

  Don’t get on his bad side.

  A sad, heavy sigh escapes me. Too late.

  My phone starts ringing as I approach my apartment door a few hours later. I went grocery shopping after the softball game, so I’m carrying an armful of Whole Foods bags as I fumble my key out of my jacket pocket.

  “Just a sec, just a sec,” I mutter under my breath, sliding the key in the lock and shoving the door open with my hip just as the phone goes silent.

  I carry my groceries to the kitchen and set them on the countertop, then dig my phone out of my back pocket to see a missed call from my mother. I reluctantly check the voicemail message.

  “Emerson? It’s Mom.” Elizabeth O’Malley’s clipped Irish accent is threaded with excitement. “I just heard the wonderful news about Reyes signing with the Renegades. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me!”

  I gnash my teeth. My mother and Reyes have kept in touch over the years. It’s absolutely galling.

  Her message continues, “I’m not sure if you’re working at home today, but I’d love to talk to you. Give me a call.”

  I lean back against the counter and stare at the phone screen, chewing my bottom lip in indecision. I know I can’t avoid her forever. So after a few moments, I heave a sigh and call her back.

  “Hi, Mom. I’m home.”

  “You are?” She sounds surprised, then suspicious. “What were you doing, screening your calls again?”

  “No, Mom, I just walked through the door with an armful of groceries.” I hate the way she always jumps to conclusions. “Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to call you back last week—”

  “Don’t apologize, darling. I know how busy you are. It’s just nice to hear from you sometimes, that’s all.” Before I can open my mouth to respond, she continues in the same plaintive tone, “You know how much I worry about you—a single, beautiful woman living in a big city.”

  “I’m fine, Mom. You don’t have to keep worrying about me.”

  “Well, no, not anymore now that Reyes will be there.”

  Here we go. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  My mother sighs. “Don’t get so defensive, Emerson. All I’m saying is that Reyes is an old friend of yours, and I just feel better knowing that he’ll be there to—”

  “What? Protect me?”

  “Well, yes,” comes her indignant response. “And what’s wrong with that?”

  “I don’t need Reyes to protect me, Mom. We’re not kids anymore, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Of course I’ve noticed. I’m not suggesting that he should be your bodyguard. But he is a man, and he cares very deeply for you—”

  I inhale a sharp breath. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

  “You never do,” Mom says in exasperation. “I don’t understand you, Emerson. You pretend as if Reyes never existed when we both know very well how much you love him.”

  “Loved, Mom. As in past tense.”

  “You secretly ran off to elope with him when you were eighteen.”

  “That was eight years ago. A lot has changed since then.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course.” I pace up and down the tiled floor, agitation gnawing at my insides.

  “It was only a matter of time before you two were reunited one way or the other,” Mom says pragmatically. “The Renegades haven’t played the Ravens in four years, but that trend wouldn’t have lasted forever.”

  “I know that.” When the NFL schedule is announced every April, I don’t breathe easy until I see that we won’t have to face the Ravens. That reprieve has been nuked now that Reyes is a Renegade.

  “There’s no reason you and Reyes can’t still be friends,” Mom continues. “Since he’s new in town, why don’t you invite him over for dinner?”

  “He’s not new in town,” I remind her. “He spent every summer here until he turned seventeen.”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “I don’t understand why this is so damn important to you,” I lash out. “Why are you always bringing him up?”

  “I just want to see you happy, a stór. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “I am happy, Mom. I love the work I do, and I love living in Piedmont Bay.” I stop pacing the floor, softening my tone. “I’m doing well. Really. So please don’t worry about me.”

  Hearing a sigh of resignation on the other end, I smile because I know I’ve won this round. It doesn’t happen often.

  “How’s Zoe?” Mom asks, referring to my best friend and roommate.

  “She’s good,” I answer, toeing off my flats. “She’s out of town on business.”

  “Again? It seems she’s always gone whenever I talk to you.”

  “She’s a trade show coordinator. Traveling is a big part of her job.”

  “When will she be back?”

  “Her flight gets in late tonight.” Cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear, I begin unpacking the groceries. “So how are you doing? How are classes coming along?”

  “Good.” Mom’s a sociology professor at a private Catholic college in Santa Fe. “I’m looking forward to spring break next week.”

  “I bet,” I say, rummaging through the cupboard for a pot to boil linguine noodles. “Are you teaching this summer?”

  “Yes, but I think this will be the last year.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I don’t know.” She sighs. “I think I’d like to start traveling during the summer instead of being stuck in some classroom teaching sociology to students who’d rather be somewhere else themselves.”

  I grin wryly. “This wouldn’t be your women’s group talking, would it?”

  A few years ago, my mother joined a local support group for professional women. Most of them are divorced with adult children who’d ghosted them, as they often commiserate over wine spritzers and frou-frou salads.

  “We have discussed the importance of moving beyond familiar territory and venturing out,” Mom admits. “Do you realize that I haven’t been out of the country since we visited your grandparents in Ireland when you were ten years old?”

  “Wow. That is a long time.” I fill the pot with water and set it on a burner, then wash my hands and begin dicing pancetta. “So where would you travel?”

  “I haven’t decided. Maybe I’ll return home for a month to visit Nana and Granda. We haven’t seen them since they came to your college graduation.”

  I gasp with exaggerated shock. “You mean you’d actually leave New Mexico and go allll the way back to Ireland?”

  “Why, yes, of course.” She pauses. “Or maybe I’ll come spend a month with you.”

  I almost slice my finger off
. “I think Nana and Granda would love to see you. Like you said, it’s been so long.”

  She chuckles. “How did I know you’d say that?”

  I grin impishly.

  Then she says in a quiet tone, “I have Reyes’s number . . . if you want to call and invite him out for drinks.”

  My stomach knots up. “I don’t.”

  There’s a long beat of silence.

  “I’ll send it to you, anyway.”

  Later that evening, i find myself lying in bed flipping through my old high school yearbook.

  It’s been a while since I dragged it out of its hiding place, and there’s a reason for that. No good ever comes of retracing my steps through the hallowed halls of St. Joseph High School. My last foray down memory lane brought on a crying jag of epic proportions.

  I know I shouldn’t torture myself like this. But I’m feeling particularly masochistic tonight, so here I am thumbing through the pages of the aspirationally named changing the world yearbook.

  There are so many photos of Reyes, reflecting his status as one of the most popular students at school. There are pictures of him playing football on Friday nights and accepting awards at the winter sports banquet.

  There’s a photo of him giving an oral presentation at the Junior Academy of Science, because in addition to his athletic prowess, he’d also been blessed with a big brain.

  Another picture shows him and his teammates washing cars to raise money for charity. Reyes is shirtless and grinning as he flexes his biceps, sending the fawning yearbook photographer into heart palpitations.

  I turn the page and stop, staring at a photo of Reyes and me at the Hollywood-themed Spring Fling during our junior year. We’re walking down the red carpet together, holding hands and smiling into each other’s eyes like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

  I brush my finger over the image as other recollections flood my memory bank before settling on one particular encounter.

  After school one September afternoon, I was standing on the sideline snapping action shots of the varsity football team practicing in the rain, their cleats churning up mud with every sprint and tackle. They were wearing metallic gold helmets, maroon football pants and white practice jerseys.