“No, thanks. I was just . . . looking for something.”
Looking for something? Like what—a tryst with a stranger in the press box? Her face heated, and she clutched the water bottle, the plastic making a snapping sound under her fingers. “So . . . how did you get past my agents?”
He smiled again. “They know who I am.”
“And you are?”
“Brett Knox.”
His name sounded familiar. “Okay. I’m Georgia Fulton. It’s nice to meet you,” she said, putting down her water.
He shook her hand briefly. “You, too. But I just came up here to let you know that I’m declining the interview. Too busy.”
Georgia felt herself nodding in agreement, even as she realized exactly who Brett Knox was. He was the star catcher—and right in front of her, shooting her down before she’d even had a chance to ask. Such a typical jock.
“I’m busy, too, which is why I’d like to set up a time that’s convenient for both of us,” she said, even though she hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. But she couldn’t very well walk into the news station without accomplishing what she’d been tasked with—pinning him down. Georgia was a team player. So was Brett, literally.
“I don’t want to disappoint my boss, and I’m betting you feel the same way about yours,” she continued.
“Sure. I sign autographs, pose for photos, visit Little League teams. Like I said, I’m busy.”
“That’s nice.” She nodded. “I’m flattered that you found the time to come all the way up to the press box and tell me, in person, that you don’t have time for an interview. Thanks.”
He smiled a little. “You’re welcome.” Then he stretched, his broad chest expanding with the movement. He flexed his long fingers, braced a hand high on the post, and grinned at her again. Her heart flipped down into her stomach. Oh, no.
“I get it, you know. I’ve posed for photos and signed autographs, too. I’ve visited hospitals and ribbon cutting ceremonies, and I know it makes people happy. But public appearances can be draining, and it takes time away from work. Right?”
“Right.” He gave her a curious look. “We have that in common, though it’s not exactly the same. I may be semi-famous in Memphis, but I don’t have paparazzi following me around, and I like it that way. You interviewing me would turn into a big hassle.”
“I won’t take much of your time. Just think of me as another reporter.” She ventured a warm, inviting smile, and Brett’s dark eyes widened. “The paparazzi don’t follow me like they do my sisters. I’m the boring one.”
“Really?” He folded his arms across his lean middle, and his gaze traveled slowly over her face.
She felt her heart speed up. “Yes, really.”
“I beg to differ.”
Before she could respond, he gave her another devastating smile and jogged up the steps. It was the best view she’d had all day. When Brett disappeared, she collapsed back against the post. He was right, of course. She wasn’t just another reporter; she was the president’s brainy daughter—who secretly lusted after athletes. And she’d just met a hell of an athlete.
Talk about a hot mess.
An Excerpt from
MAKE IT LAST
A Bowler University Novel
by Megan Erickson
The last installment in Megan Erickson’s daringly sexy Bowler University series finds Cam Ruiz back in his hometown of Paradise, where he comes face-to-face with the only girl he ever loved.
Cam sighed, feeling the weight of responsibility pressing down on his shoulders. But if he didn’t help his mom, who would?
He jingled his keys in his pocket and turned to walk toward his truck. It was nice of Max and Lea to visit him on their road trip. College had been some of the best years of his life. Great friends, fun parties, hot girls.
But now it felt like a small blip, like a week vacation instead of three and a half years. And now he was right back where he started.
As he walked by the alley beside the restaurant, something flickered out of the corner of his eye.
He turned and spotted her legs first. One foot bent at the knee and braced on the brick wall, the other flat on the ground. Her head was bent, a curtain of hair blocking her face. But he knew those legs. He knew those hands. And he knew that hair, a light brown that held just a glint of strawberry in the sun. He knew by the end of August it’d be lighter and redder and she’d laugh about that time she put lemon juice in it. It’d backfired and turned her hair orange.
The light flickered again but it was something weird and artificial, not like the menthols she had smoked. Back when he knew her.