The Right Player: A Sports Romance, page 3
With the right eye, the right furniture, the right art and curtains and rugs and plants and tables and vases and candles, I could take a room from just a room to an entire experience.
That was the magic of interior design.
I was still smiling at the photograph when my office phone rang, Gemma’s extension lighting up the little green bulb next to her name.
“I’ve got your eleven when you’re ready,” she said when I answered.
“You can send them in. Still on for lunch at Suko’s?”
“Yes,” she answered desperately. “I’m famished.”
“I’ll make this quick,” I promised.
Tucking the Albers’s photograph away, I stood, smoothing down my pencil skirt and checking my lipstick in the large mirror across from my desk. It played off the windows across from it, making my little corner suite feel even bigger than it was, and filling the room with soft, natural light.
I stood in front of my desk, hands folded in front of me and a smile plastered on and waiting. My eleven was a new client, and I didn’t know much about them other than they were new to the city and had bought one of the penthouse condos in the newest skyrise in Grant Park. My mouth was already foaming thinking about the views of Lake Michigan and the pier and the downtown skyline.
I hoped they’d give me full reign to do whatever I wanted.
I heard Gemma’s soft laughter on the other side of my office door before she pushed it open, holding it for our new client.
And when he stepped through the arch, he sucked up all the air in the room with one giant, dazzling smile punctuated by two deep dimples.
Aside from that smile, the man was an absolute beast.
He was the kind of tall that towered, his broad shoulders held high and straight, his chest barrel-shaped and straining against the fabric of his suit. That suit was the only thing light about him, covering him in a soft, harbor gray. Everything else was dark — his pitch-black hair cut into a short fade, his warm brown skin almost golden in the natural light filling the office. At first glance, while he smiled down at Gemma, even his eyes appeared dark.
But when they lifted, when they met my own, I saw the sparkling golden honey they truly were.
“Well, Ms. Monroe will take over now,” Gemma said. “You’re in good hands, Mr. Kumaka.”
“Thank you, Gemma. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
God, even his voice was somehow dark and delicious, the kind that made your fingers slip under your panties on a late-night phone call. His face was boyishly handsome and strikingly severe at once, like a walking art piece that would make you stop and tap your finger to your chin, pondering what the artist’s intent was.
Gemma quirked a brow, still staring at Mr. Tall, Dark, and Sinfully Handsome. “I swear, you look so familiar…” She chewed her lip. “I can’t quite place where I know you from.”
Mr. Kumaka shifted a bit. “Maybe we knew each other in a past life. I’ve always felt like I was a hawk.” He smiled, and I didn’t know why I realized in that very moment how different that smile was from Jordan’s. It was endearing, a little crooked and wide and flashy, but it suited him in a way I couldn’t put into words. “Maybe we flew together.”
Gemma returned the smile. “Maybe we did.”
She gave me a wink on her way out of the office, one that to anyone else would have looked like a fun exchange between boss and assistant. Have fun, good luck, see you for lunch! But since we’d been best friends for decades, we had a whole conversation with that wink.
Um, do you see how hot this guy is?
Look at his freaking muscles!
That smile, I’ve never seen anything like it.
He’s so tall and big. I bet he could throw me around like a rag doll.
And I bet you’re going to do whatever it takes to find out if that’s true.
I smirked, and then the door shut, and I slipped into business mode.
“Mr. Kumaka,” I said, extending a hand for his. “I’m Belle. Welcome to Monroe Designs.”
“Lovely to meet you, Belle,” he said, taking my hand in a handshake that was equal parts firm and gentle. It made me tingle, thinking what else that hand could do. “And please, call me Mak.”
“Mak, huh? Not exactly the first name I expected to be paired with your last.”
I gestured to the handcrafted leather and teak chair in front of my desk, and let my eyes linger on his fingertips as they unfastened the button of his jacket before he sat.
“It’s short for Makoa.”
“Ah, that makes more sense.” I took a seat behind my desk, folding my hands on the sleek marble top and squeezing my arms together just enough to put my subtle cleavage in prime viewing. “So,” I said, picking up his file. “You’re new to Chicago. What brought you to the Windy City?”
“Work,” he answered casually, and the way he watched me was as if he expected me to already know the answer to the question I’d asked.
“And if I remember right from what Gemma told me about your email, you moved here from Hawai’i, right?”
His smile sparked to life again, and I found I liked it more and more each time I saw it. “San Francisco, actually. But yes, I was born and raised on Maui.” He frowned a little. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”
“Should I?”
He wet his lips, pink tongue swiping out just long enough to catch my eye. “I just never know. I’m…” He paused, like he was hesitant to tell me the truth. “I’m in real estate, and with you being in the field…”
I chuckled. “I assure you, I don’t keep up with the high-profile real estate agents in Chicago, much less the ones across the country. Now, if you were a Broadway star?” I grabbed a pen to make notes in his file, pointing it at him briefly. “Then you might have a stalker alert.”
“Theatre girl,” he said with an appreciative smile. “What’s your favorite show you’ve ever seen?”
I scoffed. “You can’t pick a favorite show. That’s like being asked to pick a favorite child.”
“Hamilton is mine. Hands down.”
I jotted down a note in his file, sitting back with the pen still in hand and what I’m sure was a shocked expression. “Is that right? You see it with the original cast?”
“The only way to see it.”
“Agreed,” I echoed, and a new appreciation for him grew in my belly along with a desire to see what was under his suit. “Gun to my head, I’d say The Color Purple.”
Makoa nodded, lips pressing together as respect twinkled in his eyes. “LaChanze is incredible.”
Surprise found me again. “Indeed, she is.”
I chewed my lip, basking in the golden wheat field rays of Makoa’s stare as I tried to figure him out. “So,” I said, tapping my pen on each fingertip. “A theatre-loving, possibly famous real estate agent from the west coast.”
That earned me a chuckle, one that I longed to hear again.
“And now you’re looking to build a home in the Midwest.”
“And somehow make it feel like home, too.”
I nodded. “I think we can make that happen.” My eyes had a mind of their own, and they trailed Makoa greedily, my knees squeezing together where I had them crossed.
When I met his gaze again, it was just as hungry as mine.
“You’re in the new condominium in Grant Park, right?”
“I am.”
“I haven’t seen it yet,” I confessed. “Not the inside, anyway. I know it’s not what we originally discussed, but… perhaps we could move this meeting there, just so I can get an idea of what we’re working with past the photos you sent in.”
“Are you sure?” Makoa frowned, and damn it if he didn’t look even hotter with those brows bent together, with that little wrinkle between them. “I don’t want to put you behind schedule.”
“It’s no problem at all,” I decided, and I stood to finalize the choice. Gemma would understand, especially if I brought her back some ramen.
Double especially if I came back with a full description of what Mr. Kumaka here looked like under the suit.
“I’d love to see the space in person, and get a little more feel for who you are,” I said.
Makoa’s lips crooked up at that, and he stood with me, fastening his jacket once more. “Lead the way.”
I smiled.
Oh, I will, Mr. Kumaka.
Hopefully all the way to your bed.
Except, there was no bed.
In fact, there was nothing in the massive condo, aside from twenty or so unpacked boxes, a single folding chair, and an air mattress right in the middle of the living room.
“Sorry, I should have warned you,” Makoa said, grabbing the back of his neck sheepishly as he looked around the empty space. “It’s kind of a mess.”
“I think you have to have more than just a folding chair in order to make a mess,” I commented, cocking a brow. “Are you waiting on the movers?”
“Nope. Afraid this is it.”
“No furniture, no art…” I dragged a finger over a few of the boxes on my way to the windows, which had a view that put mine and Gemma’s condos to shame. “But hey, I guess this isn’t so bad.”
“Not the worst view in the world,” he echoed, sliding up beside me, and I smiled when I realized he was watching me, more so than the lake. His jacket brushed my bare arm, and I chewed my lip, wondering if he’d take me up against this window, or bent over his kitchen island, or hell, I’d even let him lay me down on the stupid air mattress — which, judging by this place alone, he was entirely too rich to have slept on for even one night.
But before I could turn and make a move, Makoa put space between us, sliding his hands into his pockets. “So, want the full tour?”
Does the tour include the master shower where we both get naked?
“Lead the way,” I said instead, using his own words.
To my dismay, Makoa was a complete gentleman as he showed me around his new home. It was a three bedroom, two-and-a-half bath, with a living room, dining area, sitting room, and one of the most beautiful modern kitchens I’d seen. It had an extra room that was more open and a bit smaller than the rest, one that could be used as an office or in-home gym, if he wanted.
As we walked, I made notes in my phone and in his file, took measurements, listened as he told me what he liked, what he didn’t like. I was thrilled to hear him mention his love of wood and warm lighting, since most of the modern condos I designed were all about bright light and minimalistic design. Makoa, on the other hand, wanted to fill his new home with art and color and warmth.
“I want it to feel like home, not just for me, but for anyone who comes through the door.” He wrinkled his nose as we rounded our way back to the kitchen. “The last thing I want is for it to feel like a model home, or like something not lived in. Does that make sense?”
I smiled. “It does. You don’t want people afraid to sit down on your plush white couch or feel like they can’t use the hand towels in the bathroom.”
Understanding bloomed in his eyes. “Exactly.”
“I’m surprised you don’t have even one piece of furniture, or art, or décor,” I mentioned, eyeing the boxes. “You were in San Francisco for a while, weren’t you?”
He cleared his throat. “I was young,” he said. “And a little more focused on… other things.”
I smirked, because he and I both knew other things was code for girls, and with a face and body like that, I didn’t blame him one bit.
I just hoped to be first in line to welcome him to Chicago.
I had to chuckle to myself at his comment at being young, like it was past tense. His file revealed his age — twenty-seven — and at thirty-two myself, I felt a little like a cougar imagining what his massive hands would feel like wrapped around my waist.
Then again, a body like his and money like the one it took to buy a condo like this told me Makoa’s age didn’t have anything to do with how grown he was.
“Have no fear, Mr. Kumaka.” I looked around the space, design ideas dancing in my head like a ballet troupe. “When I’m done with this place, it’ll be everything you wanted and more.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
His voice was a low rumble, one that had my neck heating when I turned to meet his gaze again. Now that the tour was done, the measurements taken, and the design imagined, there was nothing more to discuss — not until I could draw up some samples, at least.
I had a feeling we’d have a lot more fun without words, anyway.
It wasn’t my usual style, to sleep with a client. Then again, most of my clients were couples or families or corporate assholes who didn’t stand a chance.
Mr. Kumaka was in a completely different category.
And I filed him right under fair game.
Perks of being your own boss.
Makoa’s eyes slipped to my lips, and I sucked in a hot breath with an unwhispered yes reverberating through me. I couldn’t wait for him to touch me. I couldn’t wait for us to bust through the niceties on the pretense of being professional. I wanted his mouth on me, and I wanted to devour all of him.
“At the risk of being too forward,” he started, stepping just an inch closer to me.
I held my hands at my sides with every ounce of willpower I had left, waiting for his move.
“Could I take you out to dinner sometime?”
My next breath was a cold one, and I blinked, wondering if I heard him correctly. “Dinner?”
He nodded, and then immediately looked like he regretted the question. “I mean, of course, if that’s not appropriate… I’m sure you don’t normally date your clients.” His eyes widened. “Not that it would be a date. Well, I mean, it would be a date. At least, I’d like it to be a date. If you’d be interested.” He swallowed, and I could almost see the little voice in his head telling him to shut up. “In that.”
I couldn’t help the smile that curled on my lips, or the giggly schoolgirl feeling that flowered in my stomach watching this grown, tall, incredibly cut man stumble over his words as he asked me out. In one instant, he’d gone from this enigmatic suit-clad mystery, to a blushing high school boy.
Part of me was pissed that I’d have to wait, noting that there was no time quite like the present.
The bigger part of me was flattered, and curious, and intrigued.
“You don’t have to play this role forever.”
Gemma’s words drifted through my mind like smoke, but I blew them away with the next breath, reminding myself that as much as everything around me was changing, my view on dating never would.
But if Mr. Kumaka wanted to wine and dine me before I took his pants off?
Well… why not?
“Dinner sounds nice.”
He blew out a breath. “Yeah?”
I giggled. “Yeah. Unless you just talked yourself out of it in the time it took me to answer.”
“Contrary to my performance just now, I assure you, once I commit,” he said, inching a little closer, just enough that his cologne washed over me in a subtle rush of spice and oak. “I commit.”
That word made me want to sprint out of his condo and slam the door in his face, but I hoped that commitment he was referencing would be to my orgasms, and convinced myself that was the true underlying meaning.
“So, dinner.”
“Dinner,” he echoed.
“Tomorrow night?”
He couldn’t hide his surprise, or the goofy grin that was quickly becoming my favorite thing about him. “Tomorrow.”
I smiled, letting my eyes trace him one last time before I grabbed his file off the counter.
“One more thing,” he said before I made it to the door. When I turned to face him, his eyes were wary. “Do you like football?”
“God, no,” I answered quickly, practically spitting out the words like a bad bite of food. I watched him carefully, hoping like hell I wasn’t about to miss out on what was sure to be a fun romp just because I didn’t like to watch guys throw balls into hoops and score goals and shit. “That’s not a problem, is it?”
His smile slipped back, easy and confident, and something sparked in his eyes. “Not at all. In fact, it’s perfect.”
I narrowed my eyes on a confused smile. “Okay, then.”
“Until tomorrow, Ms. Monroe.”
My name on his lips left me with a shiver when I walked out of his door.
And I was already counting down the minutes until I’d see him again.
Makoa
“Bro, you’re the only guy I know who wants to hide the fact that he’s in the NFL,” Colby said to me the next night, and even on the phone I could imagine him shaking his head, his thick curls bouncing with the notion. “It’s like an instant free ticket to Kinky Sexville, and you just tore yours up.”
I chuckled, putting him on speakerphone so I could finish mixing the ingredients for the coconut-crusted crab cakes I planned on making as an appetizer for dinner. “You forget that a ticket to Kinky Sexville isn’t exactly what I’m looking for.”
He scoffed. “Oh, that’s right, you want the ticket to Love Me Forever Island.”
“Don’t laugh. You don’t have a right to laugh at that anymore, not now that you’re on that island.”
“Yeah, well, sometimes I miss the trips to the other place.”
“Bullshit,” I said, calling him out. He’d married Cheyenne last year, and I knew as well as anyone that he was head over heels for the girl. I was waiting for the day he’d tell me he had a kid on the way, because as much as those two banged, it couldn’t be long now.
“Okay, fine, you’re right. But still, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t be wearing your damn jersey around the city right now. And carrying a football, too. Maybe a couple-hundred-thousand dollars in one hand. Oh! Let’s make you a billboard that says New to Town, Seeking Pussy, Have Enough Money to Fly You to Bahamas.”
