Page 9 of End Game

LAYLA

“I like that one.”

My computer almost flies off my lap as I jump at the sound of the voice behind me. “Damn it, Branch!”

Falling back against the lounge chair, I press one hand against my chest. My heart is pounding against my rib cage at an alarming rate.

At first, it’s because I didn’t hear Branch come onto the patio.

Then I see him. And smell him. And hear his sexy chuckle as he takes a seat on the chair beside me and then I know the tempo has nothing to do with being scared and everything to do with being Branched .

The more time I spend with him, the more I see that he’s not just the player I see in the media. I went to bed thinking about how he talked to Callum last night and what Callum must be thinking and the way Branch looked at me the rest of the night.

We had fun afterwards, staying up entirely too late talking and playing gin rummy. Through the laughter and jokes, Branch and I had a weird vibe between us, almost like we were both afraid to get quite too close to the other.

“I like the first one,” he says, touching my computer screen. His forearm extends above me, this close to hitting my breast but not quite. “I mean, if you’re wanting an opinion. You’ve wavered back and forth between the two images for ten minutes now.”

“How long exactly have you been standing there?”

“Long enough,” he grins, stretching back again. “If you don’t mind me asking, how do you make money doing that?”

I select the image he prefers, the one I was leaning towards anyway, hit save and then close my computer. Before I answer him, I take him in.

He’s stretched out beside me in a pair of purple shorts.

His hair is wet like he just got out of the shower, the dark blond strands sticking together and up every which way.

There’s a dose of stubble dotting his cheeks and chin that gives him a touch of scoundrel that appeals to every sexual organ in my body and most of the others.

Clenching my thighs together, I watch him watch me . He seems unhurried, like he has nowhere to go and the genuine curiosity laced in his question makes me give in.

“I get paid in different ways,” I admit.

“There’s ad space on my blog and I have a newsletter that works the same way.

I also write pieces for magazines and a few affiliates.

” He still seems interested, so I continue.

“I’ve also just started to sell online training courses about decorating, makeup, and blogging.

You’d be surprised how many options are out there if you aren’t scared to work. ”

“Maybe that’s what I can do when I retire. Do online training courses about actual training.”

“You could. Teach younger athletes how to work out like a champion.”

“That would be one course. I hear the big money is in porn.”

“I think that’s true, but only if you have the goods,” I sigh. “Big goods, big money. Little goods, little money.”

“By goods, do you mean cock?”

Laughing, I nod my head. “Yes. Sorry that wasn’t clear.”

“So I could just quit football now and work in porn? I don’t know what the concussion risk is like, but I’m guessing a lot lower.”

“I would think so. Does everything go back to sex with you?” I ask, lifting a brow.

“Babe,” he grins, “if a guy ever tells you they don’t think about sex at least twenty times a day, they’re lying.”

“I just assume every time a guy opens their mouth they’re lying.”

His laugh makes me laugh, and before I know it, I’m completely lost in his grin. And eyes. And the start of a dimple in his right cheek that lends a slight adorableness to his overall charm.

“You were right,” he says finally, rubbing a hand down his thigh.

I try not to follow the movement and stay focused on language. “About what?”

“Every time I look at you or think about you I’m wondering why you had a sex therapy card in your purse.”

“Branch . . .” It’s more of a whine than I care to acknowledge, but a whine nonetheless.

For a split second, I wish Poppy and Finn hadn’t gone into Linton for lunch so I could excuse myself to see what they were doing. There’s no way out of this conversation.

I place my computer on the table next to my drink. “Can’t you just forget you saw that?”

“What on earth would a woman like you be doing at a sex therapy class? What even is that? Is it kinky? Should I sign up? Is it like a giant orgy? If you’re into that?—”

“No, I’m not into orgies,” I chuckle, rolling my eyes.

“Such a shame.”

“A lot of thought went into that,” I note. “Does this mean you’ve thinking about me, Branch Best?”

“A hell of a lot more than I should be, Layla James Miller.”

A large lump takes residence in my throat as I try to play off his comeback as the trait of a player and not for face value. That would get me in trouble I know better than to get into.

“While we’re on the topic,” he continues, “is James your middle name or some kind of holdover from a previous marriage?”

“Holdover. I was married when I was eighteen to this world-renowned rock star that visited Chicago. When we divorced, right after he left me with our triplets, I decided to keep his last name as a middle name.”

His jaw drops.

“Of course it’s a middle name,” I laugh. “It was my mom’s maiden name.”

“I was wracking my brain for rock stars with the last name James,” he teases. “Okay. We can move on now.”

“No, no way. Now I want to know why your name is Branch. There must be story behind that.”

He shrugs. “Not really. My great-grandfather was a Baptist minister. When his wife had my grandfather, they named him Branch because he was a ‘branch,’” he says, using air quotes, “that would spread the word of God to the rest of the world.”

“That’s . . . fun,” I offer.

“Sure it is. I’m sure they’re super proud of their great-grandson who has only spread the word ‘God’ mid-orgasm.”

Bursting into laughter, I lean my head back to the perfectly clear sky. “You could always trade in your pads for one of those black outfits with the white collar,” I say, wiping tears away from my eyes. “I can only imagine those sermons.”

“I bet every seat would be taken.”

“Oh, I bet you’re right,” I agree. “I’d fight someone for a seat.”

“As long as I have a face, you have a seat.”

Oh.

My.

God.

His smile straddles the line between mischief and debauchery the way my legs want to be straddled over his face. It’s a wicked, taunting kind of gesture that puddles me.

“What has gotten into you today?” I ask.

“Sometimes I wake up a little spirited.”

“Spirited. Got it,” I say, settling into my chair.

“Sex therapy. Go,” he commands.

“I haven’t gone,” I say, unable to look away from him. “Poppy has a friend that goes because her husband had an affair and she wanted to feel sexy again.”

“So why did she give you the card?”

My cheeks burn, the sweat breaking out along the top of my breasts more from Branch’s scrutiny than the summer sun. “A joke?”

“Why did she give you the card?” he asks again, not buying my excuse.

When I don’t answer, his legs swing towards me and he sits upright. Elbows on knees, strong shoulders angled slightly my way, his brows tug together as he awaits my response.

I know he asked me a question, but I can’t remember what it is.

There are too many stimuli to process to think of such trivial things.

The way his body wash floats on the warm summer breeze, the way little beads of sweat form against his smooth, tanned skin.

The way his teeth are so straight and white and his nose angled and that damn dimple that dips into his cheek as he watches my irises widen when he lays his palm on my bare thigh.

My body clenches at the contact, something I know he notices because his fingers lightly press into my skin a little harder. My lips fall apart as I drag oxygen into my lungs to help clear the fog.

“There’s no way you need a sex therapist. No way in hell.”

“Maybe I do. You don’t know me.”

“I know you’re sexy as fuck ,” he says, the last syllable so enunciated that it feels like it bounces off me. “I also know you’re well-spoken and intelligent and you make me laugh every time I’m with you.”

“Which has been like four times in our lives, so it’s not like I’m setting records here.”

He smiles, but I think the fact that he does annoys him.

“You are seriously bothered by this, aren’t you?” I kid. “You aren’t going to let this go.”

Like a petulant child, he fires back immediately. “No, I’m not.”

“Tell me why it bothers you first and then I’ll tell you why I have it.”

“It bothers me,” he says, not missing a beat, “because I can’t imagine a woman like you not having complete confidence in herself. And if it was a man that you were talking to, it also makes me think I went into the wrong profession.”

“Oh, like you don’t have enough women to talk about sex with.”

“I don’t want to talk about sex,” he clarifies. “I want you to tell me all your sexual secrets.”

Despite the heat, a chill rips across my body. I actually shiver. His eyes train on my lips as my tongue brushes against them in an attempt to bring some moisture back to my mouth.

“Tell me something, Sunshine.”

“You think you can call me some cute nickname and have me open up with all my dirty secrets? Does this work with other women?” I ask, cocking my head to the side.

“I haven’t tried it with other women.”

“Why?”

“Quite frankly, I don’t have to. Now, back to the dirty secrets you were getting ready to tell me.”

Emboldened by the ease of our banter, I lift my legs off the side of the chair and face him. Leaning forward, I whisper, “I wasn’t about to tell you anything.”

His nostrils flair at the proximity of our bodies, his legs capturing mine between them and holding them in place like a clamp. “Would you rather show me?”

“You aren’t a sex therapist.”

“Trust me—there are plenty of testimonials I could gather that would say sex with me is wholly therapeutic.”