Rules Of Engagement

29

That’s so like her. Straightforward. No BS. She stands her ground but does it politely, with what my therapist would call “respectfully assertive boundaries.”

Everyone else freaks out when I get mad. With the exception of d**k, no one has any idea how to handle me.

But this ferocious little steel magnolia knows exactly how to put me in my place without batting an eyelash.

“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it. “I sometimes… it’s hard for me to… I have a temper.”

When she arches a brow, I rush to clarify. “Not like that. I don’t put my hands on women in anger.

I’d never, ever do that.”

“I know you wouldn’t, Mason,” she says softly. “But there are a lot of other ways to hurt someone than with your fists.”

I blow out a hard breath and drag a hand through my hair. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” When she smiles at me, the rush of relief I feel is heady.

“Apology accepted. Now I think maybe you should walk me to the door, because unless gravity is doing something funny and the house is supposed to be tilting like that, I’m very tipsy.” Closing one eye, she squints at her front door.

“I told you drinking all that whiskey so fast was bad.”

“Don’t be smug, Sparky. It’s not a good look on you.”

“Sparky?”

She takes my arm and leans into me for support, so close her head is right under my chin. “Don’t tell me no one’s ever called you that before. It’s the low-hanging fruit of nicknames for you.” She smells fresh and clean and herbal, the way the air smells when it rains in the mountains.

I love the mountains. I’ve got a house in Telluride. It’s the only place I’ve ever been happy.

I’m seized in a grip of desire so strong that for a moment I lose my breath.

When I can talk again, I say, “Even if someone did call me that, they wouldn’t have the balls to say it to my face.”

Maddie tilts her head back and smiles up at me. “Guess my balls must be pretty big, then, huh?” “Massive.”

Stop staring at her mouth. Stop it.

I tear my gaze from her and focus on her front porch instead. “Can you walk or do I need to carry you?”

“Psh. Carry me. As if.”

She takes a step, loses her footing, and squawks, grabbing hard onto my arm. “Why is the ground all slippery?”

“That’s not the ground, Pink,” I say, chuckling. “Up you go.”

In one swift motion, I lean over, pick her up, and swing her into my arms.

She’s horrified for all of about two seconds, stiff and outraged, then she says, “Well, hell,” and slings her arms around my shoulders. Her smile is wide and happy as she relaxes against me. “Home, Jeeves.”

I take a moment to examine her fuzzy gaze. “You don’t really drink whiskey, do you?” “Lord, no. That stuff tastes like pure gasoline. How can you stand it?”

“Because I’m so manly.”

“Oh, right. I forgot. Are we going to stand here in the driveway all day? Not that I’m complaining. This is surprisingly comfortable. If the football thing doesn’t pan out for you, you could start a business carrying tipsy ladies around.”

I start up the path to her front door, enjoying her weight in my arms, her smell in my nose, and the feel of her against me, soft and warm. “Like Uber, only more personalized.” “Exactly. And if you took your shirt off, you’d make a killing in tips.” She’s noticed my body.

Pretending to be insulted instead of pleased, I say, “I’m more than just a hot bod, lady.”

Closing her eyes, she rests her head against my shoulder. “I know. You’re smart and funny, too. If only you believed in love and didn’t have such a fixation on giant hooters, I could find you a nice girl pretty quick.”

“You’re smart and funny, too.”

Stabbed in the gut. Shot in the chest. Slugged in the face by Mike Tyson.

Never once in my life has anyone said anything nice about my brains, never mind my sense of humor. Probably because I act like I don’t have either. It’s always my talent at football people are impressed by. That or how much money I make. Or how easily trouble finds me.

But not Maddie.

Maddie who idolizes my arch enemy Tom Brady.

Maddie who calls it like she sees it and doesn’t put up with my s**t.

Maddie who doesn’t give a f**k about money, because she’s too busy giving all her f***s about other people’s true loves and happily-ever-afters while ignoring her own.

Sweet, sassy, beautiful Maddie, who’s drunk at noon on a Sunday because she wouldn’t let me drink alone, even though she thinks whiskey is disgusting.

She says, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You just made a strange groany noise.”

I really wish she’d pass out now. “Maybe you’re not the only gassy one.”

She giggles. “Maybe, but if I was gassy—and I’m only saying if—my farts would smell like rose petals.”

“And you accuse me of having a big ego?”

“No, seriously. I take vitamin C with rose hips every day. I bet my innards smell like a beautiful rose garden.”

“Your innards? Woman, you’re drunk.”

“In the middle of the day, no less,” she says happily. “You’re a bad influence.” You have no idea.

I walk up the steps of the porch and stop in front of the door. Then I look down at her, nesting comfortably in my arms with her eyes shut. “Hey. Sleepyhead.”

“Hmm?”