Romancing the Running Back Read Free Page A

beating. It had to be natural to sharpen the claws a little, be on the defensive.
    But he was just so pompous. “There’s a more efficient way to wash lettuce,” she mocked under her breath as she shook the last head out and laid it on the paper towel. “You get it wet, then you dry it. Everything else is just technicalities. Who cares? What idiot can’t wash lettuce?” Picking up the knife and carving stone Cassie had laid out for her, she started to cut into the first tomato. “Apparently I’m the only idiot who can’t wash produce correctly. Trying to poison everyone with pesticides. You found me out! It’s my big secret!”
    “Uh, hi?”
    She gasped and whirled around, losing grip of the tomato she’d been slicing, watching in horror as it flew straight into the abdomen of a man who stood over a head taller than her. His dark face grimaced as the tomato splattered against his stomach, making a mess of his shirt.
    “Oh. My. God.” She looked up—and up—into his face. He had thick dreads that he’d pulled back into a half ponytail and expensive-looking shades perched over the top, giving her a full view of his sculpted face. His dark eyes, while shocked, also seemed to be laughing as he pulled the shirt away from his skin.
    “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know . . . and then you shocked me . . . and then the tomato . . .”
    “Let’s just put this down,” he said, gently gripping the hand that held the knife and putting the utensil on the counter. “You were scarier with the knife than the tomato. So, is this how you planned to poison us with pesticides? By throwing fruit laced with it?”
    Her face burned, but she shook her head. “No, just ignore that. I was upset and talking to myself. Just . . . I can’t believe I did that.”
    They both watched as the largest portion of the tomato slid slowly down his button-down shirt, then plopped to the kitchen tile. He snickered, and she let out a choked laugh.
    “It’s not funny,” she said, biting back a giggle. “I ruined your shirt.”
    “If only I could afford another,” he said mournfully, which made her crack up again. “There we go. I hate to see a pretty girl so sad.”
    She covered her face with the non-juiced hand and sighed. “Let me ask Trey if you can borrow one of his shirts. I’ll try to wash it later.” She already knew that would be a lost cause. The shirt, if her guess was right, was designer. Expensive. And not going to simply wash out in the laundry.
    “I’d love a shirt, but anything Trey has would be too small.”
    No kidding. Trey was tall, but this man was broader in the shoulders. Lean, not overweight, but she’d guess he still carried at least twenty to thirty pounds more than Trey’s lean figure.
    “Don’t sweat washing it. This will work.” He started to unbutton the front, and her eyes widened. He was going to strip naked in the kitchen? But he had a crisp white undershirt on, contrasting sharply with his dark skin. As he removed the long sleeves, she caught sight of several black tattoos inked down his arm. Curiosity had her wanting to lean in and get a better look at them. Manners kept her from doing so. She’d already assaulted the man with a tomato. Grabbing his arm to look at his ink seemed too much.
    “Do I get to know the name of the pretty lady that flings tomatoes?”
    Her face flamed again, but she held out her hand like nothing had happened. “Anya. I’m Cassie’s friend from Georgia.”
    “Ah, of course.” He smiled, teeth shining brightly. Lord, he was something to look at. “Nice to meet you.” His huge hand engulfed hers, shaking softly. “Matthew Peterson.”
    Another Bobcat, obviously, given his size and the company he kept. But damned if she actually knew who he was based solely on his name. Offense? Defense? Specialty . . . something? Coach? She nodded, as if it were obvious. “Of course. Nice to meet you.”
    He finished removing the top shirt, and to her