Page 7 of Catching Kyle (Football Heartthrobs #1)

Michael Cunningham

I jump up from Kyle as fast as I can.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, helping him up.

He grunts as he gets to his feet. “It’s fine.” The rain pouring outside, he grabs the paper bag with the book and ushers me inside. He slams the door behind me.

And then I’m standing in front of Kyle Weaver.

Kyle fucking Weaver.

Am I hallucinating? Am I really standing in front of the Sexiest Man Alive?

The man whose wink sends me to my knees?

Whose body I’ve fantasized being wrapped around mine more than I can count?

Whose hard penis may have just rubbed against my cheek?

And the way his torso glistens—I know I got some of his sweat on my face when I fell on him. Hallelujah.

“I’ll get you a towel and some clothes,” he says. “Stay here.”

He barrels up the stairs with the bag I left at the door, and I’m too bewildered to speak.

‘Look around. Point out five things you can see’, my Al-Anon sponsor always says to do when I get anxious.

I take a deep breath and look around, trying to prevent my body from shivering. Unlucky for me to get poured on twice in the same week.

Marble floors. One.

Wooden staircase railings. Two .

I crane my neck to see into his large living room.

Leather couch. Three.

Large fireplace. Four.

And bookshelves. Five. So many bookshelves. They’re filled to the brim, but I’m too far away to see any titles.

Kyle comes back down the stairs—still shirtless, my god—and hands me some clothes and a towel. Sadly, his boner is gone. But I look away quickly, not wanting to creep him out.

“Bathroom’s around this corner,” he says. “If you want to shower.”

I nod and rigidly walk over to the bathroom, feeling like a freezing idiot. But inside the bathroom, he has one of those showers that’s big enough for a threesome. I clean myself off, welcoming the warm water, and try to process what the hell is happening.

I just met Kyle Weaver. And now I’m showering in his house. And I touched his dick.

I grab the towel and dry myself off in the shower. I then reach for my old clothes that I set up on the rack to try, but they’re still soaking.

So now I’m going to have to put Kyle’s clothes on.

I slip on his sweatpants and an old T-shirt, both too big for me, and I catch a whiff of him. An earthly, almost sweet scent with a hint of vanilla. A mixture of his cologne, detergent, and him. I hope he lets me keep these.

I come out of the bathroom, and there Kyle is sitting on his living room couch. To my disappointment, he has a shirt on now, so I can’t take in that beefy hairy body. But I stared long enough for it to be burned into my brain.

“Still raining hard,” he says.

“Sorry to bother you,” I say, as if the rain was my fault. Like I planned this whole wacky encounter. Which I didn’t.

“Not a problem,” he says. “Got you some water.” He gestures to a glass of water on his coffee table, and suddenly I’m reminded not just of his looks but all that he does for others: his donations kids and adults with cancer.

That sweet Southern charm that comes through every one of his commercials.

I truly wonder if I’ve died and gone to heaven, and this is the angel greeting me at the gates, taking on the form of the most desirable person I can think of.

“You’re free to sit,” Kyle says. “You don’t need to stand there.”

“Sorry,” I say, and I shuffle over to the seat on the couch farthest from him. I pick up the glass and take a sip, which feels nice after the hot shower.

“No need to apologize,” he says. “So you’re part of that romance book club.”

“I am,” I say, setting the glass down. “Just had the first meeting. My name’s Michael.”

He looks at me like I’ve just sworn at him.

“What?” I ask, embarrassed.

“Your name’s Michael?”

“Yeah,” I say, looking around shyly. “Michael Cunningham.”

He stares at the ground, his brow deeply furrowed. Then he nods. “And you… you’re part of this book club?”

I nod. “You are too?”

He sighs. “I guess I am now. I have to be.”

I frown. He ‘has to be’? I’d ask, but I barely know him. Even though my face was just in his crotch.

We sit in awkward silence. He pulls out his phone. A very brief but very cacophonous sound comes from his phone, and he shuts it off quickly. He looks like he’s seen a ghost, which is weird. I figure he just had some YouTube video playing. No need to be embarrassed.

“So it’s cool to meet the famous Kyle Weaver, I guess,” I say. I listen to the rain, wondering when it will stop and this will be over. But it’s going as hard as ever. Driving home will be a nightmare.

He sighs through his nose. God, from here, he looks so ruggedly handsome. His beard and hair combo is just perfect.

“You knew who I was?” The fear from earlier is gone, and he flashes me a grin. A seductive one.

I look away. “I mean, yeah. You’re a huge deal here. And in football in general.” And the Sexiest Man Alive, but that would be a strange detail to cling to. Kyle Weaver is definitely straight, and I don’t want to make him uncomfortable .

“Didn’t take you for a football fan,” he says.

I can’t help but scowl at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His swagger dissipates, and grimaces slightly. “Sorry, just—just didn’t know guys like you were into football.”

I scoff. Guys like me . Well, I’m not ashamed that it’s easy to clock me as a gay. I’m over that. I’m just surprised that Kyle Weaver of all people was able to clock me so fast. It’s like he already knew. But I can’t complain. He’s not being a dick about it.

“And I didn’t peg you as a reader,” I say, gesturing to all the bookshelves. I can see some titles now, mostly sci-fi and fantasy.

He winces, and my face reddens at my use of the word ‘peg’. Why can’t I just be normal around straight guys?

“Yeah,” he says with a shrug.

“…but you want to join a romance book club? Why?”

He glares at me. “I can ask you the same question. Aren’t these romance book clubs just for women?”

I scowl. I was already insecure enough staying at that first meeting. I’m not going to let Kyle, regardless of how hot he is, bully me into thinking I don’t belong.

“I’m an author,” I say.

He laughs. “Oh, really?”

I recoil. “What?” I ask, almost offended.

“I work as a content writer by day, and I’m trying to be a romance author on my own time.

” And I also make porn, but there’s no reason for him to know that.

“This group will serve as inspiration. I’m trying to make my writing more compelling. I want to make it big as a writer.”

He perks up. “A romance writer, huh? So that means you know you read a lot of romance?”

I fold my arms. “Mostly, yeah. What does it matter to you?”

He leans forward and starts stroking his beard. God, his forearms are toned. And his upper arms are almost as big as my thighs. I just want him to wrap his arms around me and—

“I’ve got a proposition for you,” he says.

My chest tightens. “A proposition?”

He nods. “I don’t want to be going to these book clubs, but I have to. The reason why is none of your business.”

Sheesh. Alright. I guess if you’re this hot you can talk to people anyway you want. He may be a giving guy, but I feel like I’m being manhandled when he talks to me. And you know what? I don’t hate it.

“You’ve already come here. You know me. I want you to come by and drop off whatever book they’re reading next and tell me how the meeting went. I need to be able to prove that I’m going to these things.”

I fold my arms tighter. “Why?”

“Again,” he says, that drawl coming out. “It’s none of your business.”

I have to shift in my seat to stop myself from being aroused.

“Sound good?” He asks.

“Good?” I let out a sharp laugh. “You expect me, some guy with a job and a life, to drop everything to cater to some rich football player? Why can’t you just go to the book club yourself?”

He grits his teeth. “I just can’t,” he says. He saddens. “I just don’t want to, alright? Is that a good enough answer?”

I see pain there in his brown eyes, and I pull back. I don’t have to agree to help him, no matter who he is, but I don’t want to turn him down right now either. Not with how much he seems to want this.

“Do I get anything in return?” I ask.

He’s leaning forward onto his knees, shaking one of them. “I can give you whatever you want.”

Whatever I want. God, there’s so much I’d like to do with this man.

“You said you’re writing,” he says. “I can help.”

I raise an eyebrow. “How?”

“I can be your sounding board,” he says. “You can show me your work. I can give you feedback. Day or night, you can use me. ‘Cause you’re doing me a huge favor.”

Day or night I can use him . Fuck.

“What do you say? I’ll pay you for gas, feed you, and honestly give you however much cash you want. Just until July. We can meet at this time every week.”

If I agree to this, I’d be seeing Kyle Weaver—the Kyle Weaver—on a weekly basis. I’m not sure why he needs my help with the book club, why he can’t just attend or even pick up the books himself. But he seems dead set on not telling me why, so I won’t argue.

He would also help me with my own writing.

He doesn’t have writing credentials, but it’s honestly hard enough to get Amani to read my stuff with how busy she is, and she’s the one who’s willing.

I don’t know where else I could find a critique partner who will devote endless time to reading and helping me improve my work.

My sponsor and I have talked at length about my tendency to date men who are just unkind to me.

It has to do with the low self-esteem after growing up with alcoholism in my family.

But I’m not dating Kyle, as hot as that would be.

We’d just be helping each other until July.

I’ve worked on myself enough to the point where I don’t fall for straight guys anymore, and I’d be benefitting just as much out of the arrangement.

I don’t want to take Kyle’s money; I’d rather earn that on my own once I get published.

But I would value non-biased feedback, and getting compensated with food and gas money is just a cherry on top.

“Fine,” I say. “I can do that. You got the book?”

He leans back into the couch and sighs, and I wish I could just straddle him. God, he is such a specimen.

“You don’t know how much this means to me,” he says, sitting up. “And yep. I put the paper bag upstairs.” By now, the rain has stopped, finally granting me freedom.

“It’s no problem,” I say, rising to my feet. “Now that you have the book, I should probably get going.”

“Oh, and one more thing if it wasn’t already clear,” he says, rising to his feet as well. “Do not, under any circumstances, tell anyone that you’re doing this for me. Or the deals off. Understand?”

I nod. Goddamn , please keep talking to me like that. “Understood.”

He laughs to himself. “It will be our little book club.”