“Do you like it in the way of, ‘Hey, I know it’s on Sunday and Monday and Thursday,’ or do you like it like you can’t live without it and you know everything there is to know about the game?”
She laughed. “I know a hell of a lot about football. Why, are you going to quiz me?”
“Greatest quarterback of all time?”
“I think that’s a subjective question.”
“Give me your subjective answer, then.”
“Joe Montana.”
“You just say that because you live here.”
“No, I say that because he’s the greatest quarterback to ever play the game. Four Super Bowl titles, three Super Bowl MVP Awards, and I dare you to match any quarterback, past or present, to his pass rating, not to mention his cool factor in clutch situations.”
“He wasn’t even a first-round draft pick. And what about Johnny Unitas or Terry Bradshaw, Tom Brady or Peyton Manning?”
She narrowed her gaze at him. Was he serious? “You’re saying that you think those quarterbacks are better than Joe Montana?”
He paused. “I didn’t say that.”
“Aha! You agree with me, don’t you?”
His lips lifted. “Actually, I do. And not just because he and I played in the same city. Nobody played the game better than Joe.”
She nodded. “Exactly. He was a master at come-from-behind victories. And nothing could match his ninety-two-yard drive in the final minutes of Super Bowl Twenty-three for the win against the Bengals. Best. Game. Ever.”
His lips lifted. “So you might know something about football.”
“Told you.”
He grinned. “I’m glad. Most of the women draped over my arm couldn’t tell the difference between a run and a pass, let alone a draw play from a sweep. They can tell you which actor was the biggest box office draw last weekend or who the top hot designer is. But football? Forget it.”
“Then why do you date them?” She waved her hand. “Never mind, I already know. Your agent.”
“Elizabeth knows what she’s doing.”
“Your pimp, you mean.”
“She’s very good at her job and only has my best interests in mind.”
Tara leaned back, wineglass in hand, and regarded him. “If you say so. But I would think your agent, who has your best interests in mind, would let you choose your own women.”
The waiter delivered their food. Tara dug in and started eating. It took her a while to realize Mick hadn’t said anything, so she cast glances at him above her lashes, but he seemed content enough. Had she said something to offend him? Not that she cared—much.
When he was finished, he pushed his plate aside, took a long gulp of water, and said, “I’m trying to choose my own woman. But she’s being damned difficult about letting me.”
Tara blinked, then emptied her wineglass in two giant gulps.
No man had ever pursued her like this. No famous, gorgeous, could-have-any-woman-he-wants-so-why-does-he-want-me man had ever given her the time of day. She had no idea what to do about Mick Riley. He was utterly and completely out of her league, and couldn’t have come into her life at a worse time.
Then again, was there ever a good time?
Probably not. But this time was definitely not a good time. No matter how much her toes curled at the thought of being sought after by a man like Mick, she had Nathan to think about. This was not a good time.
And she knew just how to shut him down and get him to run like hell from the restaurant faster than he could run a hundred-yard dash. She hated bringing it up, but there was no choice now.
“I have a fourteen-year-old son, Mick.”
***
MICK STARED ACROSS THE TABLE AT TARA. A KID, HUH? He hadn’t expected that. She didn’t look old enough to have a fourteen-year-old son. “You must have had him when you were pretty young.”
“I was sixteen.”
“That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“You don’t look old enough to have a teenager.”
“Trust me, I’m old enough.” She laid her napkin on the table. “You’d probably like to leave now.”
Oh, now he understood. “You think I want to cut and run because you told me you have a kid.”
“I’m not exactly the kind of woman who’s in your dating pool.”
“No, you’re not.”
She stood. So did he, coming around to her side of the table.
“Thanks for dinner.”
“Sit down.” He took her shoulders and gently pressed her back in the chair, then kneeled in front of her. “If that was your version of a Hail Mary pass to finish things with me, sorry—I happen to like kids.”
She stared down at him, a confused look on her face. “The women you date are young and single, and I’m sure they don’t have teenagers.”
He shrugged. “I don’t have any idea what they have at home. Most of them have those annoying little yippy dogs.”
Tara laughed. “I don’t have any dogs, though Nathan would love one. A big one, like a Lab or a retriever or a German shepherd.”
“Smart kid. Nathan, huh?”
“Yes.”