Biting back a grin and pointedly not looking my way, Charlie holds out the box in his hand. White and sleek, it doesn’t hide what’s inside. A freaking MacBook Pro? “And this is from the defensive team.”
She looks stunned.
Chess will never take it. No way.
But then she smiles, all wobbly and misty-eyed. Just like she did last night. “That’s so…sweet.” She clutches the box to her chest like it’s precious.
I’m torn between gratitude to my teammates for putting that look on her face, and feeling the urge to punch them all in theirs because I didn’t get her a computer first.
I close the door with a little more force than necessary. “Chess. Meet Charlie Beauchamp.” Resident turncoat. “When not helping me, and some of the guys out, he’s a junior, studying at Tulane.”
“You play football, Charlie?” Chess asks.
It’s a valid question. At six five and two hundred and eight pounds of bulky muscles, he could easily be a defensive end.
Charlie, used to the question, gives a wry smile. “No, ma’am. Much to my chagrin, I have two left feet and they’re made of lead. Or so says every coach I’ve tried out for.” His Haitian accent thickens a bit. “I’m majoring in Sports Management.”
“I wanted to thank you,” Chess says. “For buying me those clothes and things. I’m so grateful.”
Charlie’s cheeks turn the color of rosewood. If I wasn’t standing here, I wouldn’t have believed he was capable of blushing. He’s an unflappable island of calm around me. “It was the least I could do, ma’am. Though I apologize if anything doesn’t…” He clears his throat. “If certain items aren’t your usual style.”
A low, laugh escapes Chess’s lips, and even though there’s nothing suggestive in her expression, the sound is pure sex to my ears. “You did just fine.”
I find myself picturing her wearing one of those uninspired panties Charlie picked out and nothing else. Pure white cotton, stretched over that toned, pert ass, hugging every curve and dip.
Jesus. Charlie might be onto something. I shift my weight and try to think of something unsavory, such as the way Dawes never washes his socks during playoffs.
Yep, that’ll do it.
“It was a novel experience,” Charlie is saying. “Buying women’s underwear.”
“I’m sure you’ll get to do it again under better circumstance someday,” Chess assures, barking up the wrong tree.
Charlie gives her a small smile. “I don’t think any of the guys I date would be into that, ma’am.”
“Probably wise of them,” Chess says without missing a beat. “Bras aren’t the most comfortable attire.”
I really don’t want to start thinking about Chess wearing a bra. Or going without. “We’re about to eat,” I say to Charlie. “Want to join us?”
Before he can speak, Chess hooks her arm around his. “You must.”
“Let the guy answer for himself, Chess.”
She shoots me a reproving look. “I’m trying to make him feel welcome, Finn.”
“He knows he’s welcome. I just asked him to join us.”
Charlie chuckles, interrupting us. “You two sound like my grandparents.”
“Surely not as old as that,” I exclaim in mock horror.
Chess tisks at me.
Charlie flashes a grin. “I mean the way you two go on like you’ve known each other forever.”
The words invade the room like the drunken uncle no one wants to acknowledge, but can’t ignore. Chess and I eye each other for a long moment, neither of us knowing what to say. But then she purses her lips as if mildly entertained.
“Sure feel like it sometimes,” she mutters before turning heel and striding toward the kitchen, her long dark hair swinging like a pendulum over her pert butt.
I watch that jiggle and sway, and my dick twitches in response.
Next to me, Charlie makes a choked sound of amusement. “Man…”
I glance his way. “Yeah, I know.”
* * *
Chess
* * *
“I cannot believe you didn’t call me,” James scolds over the phone.
I open another one of Finn’s cabinets in search of a platter. The man has ten different sets of beer glasses, yet barely a serving tray or bread bowl to be found. “Did you miss the part where I said I lost my phone?”
“You could have borrowed one!”
“Am I the only one who doesn’t have people’s numbers memorized?” I mutter, moving on to the next cabinet.
“Good point.” Horns blare in the background, and I wonder if he’s outside.
“Where are you?”
“Headed towards the MoMA.” He’s slightly out of breath when he speaks again. “Don’t worry, as soon we’re through, I’m booking tickets home.”
Finally, I find a cheese tray and a few shallow bowls that might be used for crackers or bread. The price stickers are still on them. I have a vision of Finn’s mom buying him these, stocking his kitchen for parties he’ll never have.
“Don’t do that,” I tell James, as I pick off the sticker on the tray. “There’s no need.”
“What do you mean there’s no need?” he exclaims. “Your freaking home just got crisped. Of course I’m coming back.”
“No, really, James, I’m all right. Stay with Jamie. Have fun.”
He lets out an audible huff. “I’m coming back. What kind of shit friend do you think I am?”
Setting the tray down, I get to work on unwrapping my cheeses. “I’m fine. Seriously. I have a temporary place to stay, and the insurance company is actually being very helpful.”
“What about work? Or the calendar?”
“The computer guys were able to get the files off my busted laptop and transfer it into my new one. So I can easily finish up the calendar work. I’ve had to drop a few jobs…” Which is going to sting financially. “But I bought enough basic equipment that I can work the Ducain wedding, which I really can do on my own. And we don’t have anything major for another month.”
James makes a noise of assent. “What about the loft? How long until you can go back?”
“I don’t know. Frankly, I want to pull a Scarlett and not think about that today.”
“I always thought you’d make a great Scarlett. Snapping green eyes, inky dark hair, creamy skin—”