Illegal Use of Hands

Chapter 3

I have to be out of my f*****g mind.

Max studied the woman across from him and wondered what level of insanity prompted him to speak so freely. Putting his hand in a vat of boiling water might cause less distress, yet he couldn't seem to stop himself.

His very well-kept secret was he'd wanted Stacy Halligan from the day she moved in next door to him. His first glimpse of her—trim figure clad in cutoffs hugging a very sweet ass, a ragged University of Michigan T-shirt, thick auburn hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, kissable lips in a face free of makeup that he sure didn't think it needed.

Even then, she'd had attitude. The movers carried in the heavy pieces for her, but she seemed determined to haul the stuff from her car herself, refusing help when the movers offered. The day was hot and within an hour she'd sweated through that T-shirt, her n*****s like sweet cherries nudging the soft fabric. And every time she bent over to get another armful from the trunk or the back seat, those shorts outlined every inch of her delectable ass.

He could have hidden in his condo. However, curiosity got the better of him. So, he pulled his car out of the garage and proceeded to wash it in the heat of the day, despite the inevitable water-spotting. It gave him a chance to watch her, and also allowed him to hide behind the vehicle to disguise the painful erection poking at his jeans.

Finally, he couldn't stand it anymore. Waiting until the last of the boxes and bags and suitcases were in her place, he grabbed two bottles of beer from his fridge and carried them over there. She opened the door, her face set in a fierce frown. He'd never met a woman with quite so much attitude, and he wondered where the hell it came from. For a moment, he thought she might send him away. But he held up the beer and offered a hopeful smile. "Hi, I'm the welcome wagon."

Then her eyes lit on the beer and her tight mouth relaxed into a rueful grin. "I sure could use one of those—moving day is always a bear."

Not that Max didn't have plenty of women in his life. Even as a backup on the team, he was sought after by the football groupies. Plus, all his friends who were coupled kept trying to fix him up. He played it casually, never indicating a situation was anything but relaxed and fun. He had yet to find a woman he wanted to see more than three or four times, and certainly not one he considered making a part of his life.

Then Stacy marched into his life, and he'd been hooked ever since.

He struggled with being her friend when he wanted to rip her clothes off, drag her into his bed, and tell her how he felt. Especially since, from their conversations, she considered him a friend, no more, so he took what he could get. Only it burned his ass the way she constantly chose—okay, her word—assholes who didn't treat her the way he thought they should.

Three years later, he remained in the first quarter, except here was a chance to revise the game plan. He would have to do it very carefully, like the field general he was.

"Max?"

Stacy's voice penetrated his mental fog, startling him.

"Your suggestion?" she reminded him. "Although you've been looking at me like I have grease on my face or something, so I'm not sure I want to hear it."

He cleared his throat. "Got any more beer?"

She waved a hand toward the kitchen. "Help yourself. And bring me one, too."

He frowned. "Really? You've been sucking down that wine, and I don't think they go together too well."

"Who are you, my mother?" she snapped.

"Not hardly," he said in a soft voice. "I'm your very good friend." And then so low he half-hoped she didn't hear it, "And maybe even a little more than that."

When they were each holding ice-cold ones, he sat down, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, and took a long swallow of the cool, fortifying liquid. If she said no to his suggestion, he was s**t out of luck. All the way around.

"I have a game plan to propose."

She lifted one eyebrow. "Oh? Well, give."

Another swallow. Jesus, he wasn't this nervous even before a kickoff.

"What if we pretend to be a couple? I could be the guy who sweeps you off your feet. Sends you chocolates and flowers." When her eyes flew wide, he hurried on. "Just hear me out. Not to brag or anything, but I am the Warriors' number one backup quarterback. I get my share of publicity. Women tell me I'm not bad looking. I know not to wipe my nose with my hand, and I always wear clean clothes. I've been told I have a high profile in the hot guy department."

She gaped at him.

"I can certainly do the whole Valentine's schtick you mentioned before," he continued. "You know, come to your office to pick you up for lunch. Send flowers and gifts. Give you a little squeeze and a peck so word gets back to the asshole. And anyone else who needs an attitude adjustment."

He waited for her to make a comment. Why didn't she say anything?

"Well?" His nerves were doing a jitterbug. Had he blown his chance with her? "What do you think? We could make it work." He paused. "Unless, of course, you hate the idea."