Page 9 of The Game Plan (Game On #3)

Fiona

“Is it wrong that I’m thinking of hiring a mother’s helper?” Ivy picks up a perfume bottle, sniffs it, then wrinkles her nose

and sets the bottle down.

“I’m inclined to say it’s wrong you haven’t already,” I say.

She sighs and runs a hand through her dark hair. It’s longer than I’ve seen it in years, spilling over her shoulders, her

ubiquitous bangs grown out to frame her face. “Mother guilt blows. I feel like I should be ashamed for wanting some time to

myself. And with Gray.”

“Ivy Weed, I’ve been at your house for all of two days, and I want to cry for you. Babies are tough work. You have the means

to hire help, so do it. Happy mommy and daddy, happy baby.”

I don’t mention our childhood. I don’t need to. Our mom stayed at home and refused to seek any form of help, even though she

had the means. She was a walking stress basket. There’s kid guilt too. And it sucks.

I glance in the small mirror set up on the glass countertop and smear a bit of poppy red sample lipstick on my lips. The shade is too strong for my light coloring. “Here, this would look better on you.”

After Dex and I had returned home, Ivy had all but attacked him with hugs of gratitude. Fairly well rested after a few hours

off baby duty, she’d been itching to go out, and called a sitter. So here we are, having sister time and idly shopping. And

I’m fighting the good fight not to think about what happened in the Tea Garden.

Ivy shakes her head. “Gray doesn’t like lipstick. Says it tastes bad.”

I snicker and move on.

“Speaking of jobs,” she says as we leave the store. “How’s yours going? Bob Sugar still giving you grief?”

I laugh at the nickname Ivy and Gray gave Elena Ford, my little shithead coworker. At least Bob Sugar was up front about stealing

Jerry Maguire’s clients. Elena is far more insidious. About two months ago she started at the design firm where I work in

NYC.

At first, I thought I’d made a friend. Elena was sweet, slightly clueless, and immediately came to me for guidance.

You’ve been here six months , she’d said in her sweet, pleading voice. And you’re so talented. Me? I’m terrified I’ll get everything wrong and be out on my ass.

I know all about fear of failure. I am the family fuckup, always flitting from this thing to that. So I helped Elena, showing

her my designs, talking about what inspired me, what I thought the client was looking for.

How was I to know she’d waltz into our Monday mockup meeting with designs for the Greenberg condo that looked almost exactly

like mine?

Sure, there were differences. Just enough that it didn’t look like a complete copy. But the overall style and themes were exactly the same. I’d felt sick. But hey, it could have been a coincidence. And Elena was still so nice, thanking me for all my help. Cracking jokes in the staff lounge.

Except our boss, Felix, chose Elena to assist him with the condo. She’d won. I’d been okay with that. Only it happened again.

Ivy’s arm links through mine, pulling me back to the present. “You’ve gone quiet.”

I sigh and lean into her shoulder as we head for the Embarcadero. “I don’t want to dislike anyone, but I’m beginning to actively

hate this woman.”

“What did she do now?” Ivy asks darkly.

“It’s my fault,” I mutter, my stomach twisting. “I told her what I had planned for 44 Park—”

“Fi,” Ivy cries. “You didn’t!”

“Give me a break. It was before I realized that she was, you know, thieving scum—”

“A creative leech,” Ivy puts in helpfully. We have another name for her too. It rhymes with hunt. “Argh, that bitch is totally

gaslighting you.”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “I feel so stupid.” And sick. Heartsick. “She did it again. This time it was worse. Same use of Art-Deco touches

mixed with raw woods and industrial framework. Same fucking color scheme.”

“How in the hell does Felix not notice?” Ivy’s dark brows are nearly touching now, she’s scowling so hard.

“He made a comment once on the similarity. Elena just grinned and said some bullshit about great minds thinking alike.”

Ivy snorts. “Brilliant.”

“Yes, wasn’t it? Her mother is a creative editor for Elle Decor. She has numerous and powerful contacts. Why should Felix care when it’s good business?”

As usual, I vacillate between rage and sorrow. Working with Felix is my dream job come to life. He’s a major player in the

NYC design community. And I’d been his star apprentice. Until Elena came.

Now I’m second fiddle, watching as she climbs the ladder on the rungs of my work. It blows. Especially since she makes it

her business to stop by my desk and fill me in on all the cool shit she gets to do with Felix. Evil hag.

“Well,” Ivy says,“now you know. Don’t give her any more fodder, and she’ll have to come up with something on her own.”

“I guess. I just keep thinking, I’m here and she’s there, working her witchy voodoo.” Part of me hadn’t wanted to go on vacation.

But I’d already been granted the days; the flight was booked.

“Do you want to go back?” Ivy asks, sympathy making her eyes soft.

“Naw.” I give her arm a squeeze. “I need the break. And I’ve missed you, Gray-Gray and little Leo so much.”

“We’ve missed you too.” She kisses my cheek.

“And I guess it could be worse.” I smile. “I could be working with Dad.” Ivy is his partner-apprentice.

“Har!” She rolls her eyes. “Though he really isn’t that bad.”

“I bet living on opposite coasts helps.”

“You know it. Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

We end up at a Spanish tapas restaurant on the Embarcadero and basically order our weight in food. I pop a cube of Manchego

cheese into my mouth and sigh.

“Maybe I should move to San Francisco,” I tell Ivy. “I love it here.”

Her nose wrinkles. “Don’t tease. It isn’t nice.”

“I’m serious. I’ve been living in Dad’s apartment like a mooch. NYC is exhausting. Maybe I should move out here.”

Even as I say the words, I know what I’m doing. Dreaming of running away. Shit gets hard, I bail. I’m not proud of it. But I can’t seem to stop.

Ivy gives me a sad little smile, as if she too is aware. But she doesn’t say that; her attention is diverted by someone behind

me, and she waves whoever it is over.

I glance back to see a very large, very hot guy making his way toward us. He’s dressed in smoke-gray slacks and a pale pink

cashmere sweater that would look horrible on most guys but works with his dark skin and bulging muscles.

“Hey, hey, Mrs. Grayson, I thought that was you.” He leans down and gives her a kiss on the cheek.

“Hey, Jaden.” Ivy glances at me. “Fiona, my sister. Jaden Willingham.”

He gives me a grin. “Best defensive lineman in the business.”

“Modest too,” I say, well aware of athlete egos. And though I really don’t get into sports, it’s impossible not to be aware

of things with Ivy and Dad in the family. Which is how I know Jaden is a player with Gray’s team.

“You know it,” he agrees happily.

“Have lunch with us,” Ivy says, gesturing to the unoccupied seat between us.

“Cool.” Once he sits, he turns to me. “So, Fiona... Ivy’s sister.”

“Wait.” I hold up a hand. “Don’t say it. You knew the moment you saw us. We could be twins.”

He chuckles and gives me a long, appreciative look. “Gorgeous identical twins.”

Ivy and I are like a yin and yang sign. But it’s fun to tease.

Jaden takes the plate Ivy has made up for him. “Where’s your lazy half?”

“Working out,” she says with a smirk.

After the sitter arrived, Gray and Dex had gone to train. You know, for fun.

Shudder . I get my ass on a treadmill three times a week. But what they do? No, thanks. Although I can appreciate the results.

I take a sip of sangria and take my mind off Dex. But it’s hard. I swear I still feel his mouth on my breast.

Answer to the question about whether I’d feel his beard if he sucked my nipple?

Yes. Hell yes. To my toes.

I’m still experiencing aftershocks from what he did to me in the form of random clenching between my thighs and painful throbs

of need.

Fuck. That man is too sexy for his own good.

“What you up to on your week off?” Ivy asks Jaden. “All play?”

He takes a drink of water that our waiter has set down for him, then leans my way. “This is what I love about your sister.

She’s like a den mother and coach all rolled into one.”

I know he means it. Ivy has a way with guys. They always end up a little in love with her.

She laughs when Jaden gives her a friendly half hug and exaggerated kiss on the cheek, but then she frowns, her gaze shooting

across the restaurant.

“Damn,” she mutters.

Jaden follows her gaze. “What? That dude with the camera?” He shakes his head. “Little pests, man.”

Paparazzi. Ivy and I grew up with them. Though they’re nowhere near as annoying toward athletes—or most of them—as they are

with actors and singers. Even so, we’ve always regarded them as the enemy.

Since I’m not really news, I’ve grown lazy about spotting them. But Gray is a huge star here. Already one of the best tight

ends in the NFL, and ridiculously hot to boot, he has his fair share of attention. Ivy, as an agent, daughter of my dad and

Gray’s wife, gets a lot as well.

“I think they took a picture of us kissing,” Ivy says to Jaden.

“And tomorrow they’ll be saying we’re having a wild affair,” he finishes with an annoyed sigh. “Don’t let it bother you, Ivy.”

“I don’t.” She shrugs. “It just pisses me off. Gray deserves better than that shit.”

“Well.” I toss down my napkin and turn to Jaden. “Let’s give them something else to talk about. Smack one on me, lineman.”

A glint lights his eyes. “I like your style, Fiona.”

I know Jaden can tell we’re just messing around to help Ivy. I’ve always been a flirt. Pretending to kiss a guy is nothing

to me. But some small part of me wonders why I offered to do this, because it suddenly feels very wrong.

It’s too late to back out. Jaden cups a hand at the back of my neck and leans in. His kiss is brief—hell, he’s practically

laughing as he does it—but it’s just long enough to make certain the photographer will see and take a picture. And though