Page 29 of Biggest Player (Not Yours #2)

Margot

Holy crap—his house is huge.

I have no idea why I’m surprised.

He is, after all, a superstar athlete.

I keep forgetting that fact because while Dex is larger than life physically—he is literally a giant—he doesn’t act like the pompous ass I originally thought him to be.

But his house?

Has gates.

Wyatt would be crapping her pants right now if she saw this house.

I pull through after entering the gate code. They open slowly—automatically—and I ease my car over the pavers, which are brick.

The fact that someone younger than I am can afford a place like this is blowing my freaking mind.

For real.

I put the car in park, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror. Add lip gloss. Smooth a hand over my hair.

I catch sight of a man in a car parked across the street just before the gates slide closed again—it looks like he’s taking pictures.

My head shakes.

No, that can’t be.

I primp a few more seconds, stomach in knots before I push my car door open, and as I’m about to step out and put one foot onto the driveway, my cell phone begins chiming.

It’s Colton.

Dude has the worst timing ...

He has Wyatt, so the alarm inside my brain goes off, mothering kicking into high gear.

“What’s wrong?” I ask as soon as I answer, resting back against the front seat, mindful that Dex could look out his front window at any moment and see me lingering in my car.

“Nothing’s wrong. Is this a bad time?”

A bad time? “Kind of, but go ahead.”

“What are you up to?”

“I ...” I swallow. “I have a date, if you really need to know.”

He does not need to know.

In fact, Colton rarely inquires about how I’m doing or what I’m up to. He literally does not give a shit.

Sure he cares somewhat because I am the mother of his daughter, but ...

It’s not normal for him to ask, just sayin’.

“A date? Since when do you have a date?” My ex laughs in a way I can tell means he doesn’t believe me and in a tone that’s mildly insulting.

There are times I’m reminded of the reasons he and I did not work out, and this cocky attitude is one of them.

Deep down in my soul, I truly think Colton believes I’m still single because I harbor feelings for him, which could not be further from the truth.

I want to prove him wrong so badly. “It’s someone I’ve been seeing for a while.” I sigh so he knows this conversation is wearing on my nerves. “What was it you said you needed?”

“Wy—she wanted me to ask if it was okay for her to color her hair blue.”

Say what now?

“Blue hair?” I exclaim. “Since when?”

This is news to me. My daughter has never, not once, mentioned wanting brightly colored hair, and if she had, I would certainly be open to it. I am nothing if not open minded ... yet a part of me wonders if she was afraid to ask me? So she asked her dad instead.

One of the downsides of coparenting.

Sigh . . .

“Just the ends of it. The tips,” Colton goes on hastily before I can say no. “And I won’t be the one doing it. Gretchen said she’s done hair before, so it will be easy.”

Ah. Gretchen said.

My butt cheeks clench. “Wyatt has never said she’s wanted to dye her hair.” It’s a perfectly perfect shade of light brown, and never once has she wanted it any other color, let alone blue.

I give myself a glance in the rearview mirror, knowing that the longer I sit here, the more my makeup begins to cake on my face.

Ugh.

“I mean, if this is what she wants and you’re only doing the ends ...” I bite my bottom lip. “Just the ends—there’s a school policy about the whole head.”

“Got it.”

“This is so random,” I say out loud because This is so random . On one hand, I seriously want to speak to my daughter; on the other, I don’t want to micromanage. Coparenting sucks so hard, and this is one of those days.

“I know. That’s why I called.” Colton laughs again.

“Noted.” I feel my nostrils flaring. “Anything else?”

“You’re in that big of a rush to get rid of me, hey?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m sitting in my car, in my date’s driveway. Yes, I’m in a rush to get rid of you.”

“Ouch,” my ex drawls out, sounding hurt.

“Why would that hurt you? Stop being dramatic.” I tap my toe on the rubber mat beneath my feet. “Welp. Let me know how it goes. And send pictures if you go through with it.”

“Will do.” He hesitates. It sounds like he wants to say more, but eventually we end the call.

I stare at my phone a few moments, regrouping. My brain could go down so many paths, but instead I will myself to get it together.

“Focus.”

I angle the rearview so I can get one last look at my face before grabbing my purse from the passenger seat, quickly debate whether or not to leave the keys in the ignition, then jam them inside my bag.

Stiffen my spine and give myself a pep talk.

“You are not here to have sex with the man. He is feeding you dinner, do you understand?” He is feeding me dinner because he was bragging about what a good cook he is and wants to prove it to me, nothing more.

Right.

Dinner.

Is that what we’re calling it these days?

Taking a deep breath, I step out fully and shut the door behind me.

The driveway is long and flanked by manicured hedges, leading up to a house that looks straight out of a lifestyle magazine.

As I walk toward the entrance, I have to remind myself to put one foot in front of the other so I don’t fall on my face.

I am not used to these shoes.

Hobbling slightly, I reach the front door, raising my hand to knock—it swings open before my fist makes contact.

And there he stands . . .

... looking effortlessly handsome in a casual shirt and jeans. Bare feet. Freshly shaved. His smile is warm, but there’s a glint of mischief in his eyes that makes my heart skip a beat.

Dammit, I was not prepared for this kind of hotness.

“Hey, you made it—and you look so fucking cute,” he says, stepping aside to let me in, but then he pulls me in for a quick kiss on the lips I wasn’t expecting. “Come on in. Dinner’s almost ready.”

I step inside, and the interior of the house is just as impressive as the exterior.

Modern yet cozy, with tasteful artwork on the walls and soft lighting that creates a welcoming ambiance.

We’re in Arizona, so the sun is always out and it’s always bright, but some houses are dark and gloomy despite that.

Dex’s is not.

High ceilings, rounded doorways.

It’s beautiful.

I follow him to the kitchen, where mouthwatering smells waft toward my nose and greet me. An exquisite dining table is laid with charger plates and dishes and more silverware than I can count. Everything looks like it came from the pages of a magazine.

“Wow,” I say, genuinely impressed as I glance around taking it all in. “I thought you were lying when you said you were a good cook.” I hardly know where to focus my attention, eyes bouncing to every surface within their range.

He’s a good decorator too.

Beside me Dex laughs, a deep, rich sound that makes me shiver to my core. “I told you. But you haven’t tasted it yet, maybe it tastes like shit. Who knows, maybe it’s total shit.” He jokes. “Come sit.”

I settle myself on a stool at the counter and watch as he pours us each a glass of red wine.

“So,” I begin, pointing over my shoulder toward his front door. “I’m not sure if it was my imagination, but I think I saw someone suspicious out front.”

Dex nods. “Paparazzi maybe?”

Oh.

I guess it makes sense that paps watch his house, but it still feels weird. “Do they sit outside like that a lot?”

He shrugs, taking a sip from his wineglass. “Sometimes.” He hesitates. “I think they caught wind that I’m dating someone.”

Is he talking about ... “Me?”

He grins. “Yeah you.”

We clink glasses, and I take my first sip, giving him a furtive glance over the brim.

He is so damn good looking.

God, how did I get myself into this mess?

What mess?

The mess where I’m dating a man who doesn’t want kids, who is in the public eye—not to mention, he’s younger than I am.

That Mess !

I shift my gaze and give my muddled brain a shake, glancing to the counter where some cooking supplies are still out. Fresh tomatoes. Containers of sugar. A rolling pin. Flour scattered across the cold stone.

“Wait.” My jaw drops open as I connect the dots. “Did you make the pasta from scratch?”

He shrugs humbly. “Cannot confirm or deny.”

“You have got to be kidding me.” He has to be lying—even I don’t make my own pasta— never, not once have I attempted it. Never wanted to! And here is this grown man—a man-child, really—who has prepared it for our date. “How long did that take you?”

Another demure shrug. “I don’t know, like twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes!” I shriek, voice shooting up a million octaves. “Stop it, there is no way.”

Dex blushes. “Maybe it was more like an hour. I wasn’t keeping track.”

I relax back into my seat. “Even so, making your own pasta is ... impressive.” Like, wow. My stomach grumbles. “I can’t wait. I’m starving.”

Dex chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through the kitchen air. He moves closer, scooting around the counter to my side, the scent of fresh basil clinging to his clothes.

Oh my God—yum.

My eyes trace the lines of his face, his jawline dusted with stubble, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks good.

Good enough to eat.

Down, girl. You haven’t had dinner yet; stop thinking about making him dessert!

I try to focus on anything else, but my mind drifts. I can’t help but imagine him kneading the dough to make the noodles, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each motion. I find myself wondering if those same strong hands could be just as skilled in other areas ... if you catch my drift .

“So.” I swear my voice cracks as I try to steer my thoughts back to a normal conversation. “What’s the secret to your pasta? Besides an absurd amount of patience?” I know how tedious sauces can be.

Dex grins, a playful glint in his eye. “If I told you my secret, I’d have to kill you.”

I laugh, the sound a bit too loud in his cavernous kitchen. “Guess I’ll have to live in suspense.”

He leans in, his arm brushing mine as he reaches for the wine bottle. The contact sends a shiver up my spine.

Spellbound, I watch as he pours himself another, the liquid swirling and catching the light.

“Cheers. To homemade pasta,” he says, raising his glass.

“To homemade pasta,” I echo, clinking my glass against his.

“And us,” he adds, winking.

Us.

“Seriously,” I say. “Thanks for offering to cook—the best food is the food I don’t have to make myself.”

He chuckles. “It’s not that hard. Just takes a bit of practice.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” I set down my glass. “But you might have to show me sometime.”

“A private cooking class?” he asks, one brow raised.

He steps closer, the space between us shrinking. My breath catches in my throat as his hand brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch is gentle, almost hesitant, but it sends a thrill through me.

But.

Now we’re interrupted, this time by the timer on the oven.