Beauty and the Baller (Strangers in Love)
: Chapter 2

Two and a half years later

A white Jeep roars into my yard, barely missing my mailbox; stalls for a second; and then mows through my flower bed. Azaleas, monkey grass, pampas grass, all driven over, but when it takes out my yellow rosebush—the one Mama planted for my first birthday—I’m ready to murder someone.

I stamp my foot and pull out my earbuds in the middle of “Unchained Melody,” by the Righteous Brothers.

Sparky hisses, his back arching.

There. I’m justified in my anger. He only hisses at bad shit.

Standing on the sidewalk under the glow of a streetlight, I lift Sparky up and rub his head, his blue cat eyes still glaring at the car as it backs out of my yard (without acknowledging us), then jumps the curb and lands on the road. The vehicle zooms through the stop sign at the end of our street, then takes a harrowing right turn onto the highway.

“Thank God we weren’t in her way,” I mutter, and by her, I mean the girl who burst from the house next door shouting “It’s over! I mean it this time!” and then threw herself into the Jeep that nearly killed us.

Someone new is living in the old Locke house.

And if this Jeep is indicative of their company, we’re going to have problems.

Usually, I’d go meet them, “do the pretty,” as Mama used to say, but life’s been hectic since her funeral. In the few weeks I’ve been here, I’ve dealt with the bank and lawyers, gotten my sister enrolled in high school, and arranged for my things to be shipped to Texas. My clothes still haven’t arrived. All I have is what I stuffed in my duffel in my apartment in New York when I heard Mama had passed from an aneurysm.

A swell of roaring grief threatens as I twirl Sparky’s purple diamanté leash through my fingers. She’s gone at fifty-five. Too young. My mama. Fighting back the tears, I glare at the majestic two-story white house next door. Stately with Doric-style columns and a fresh coat of white paint on the bricks, the focal point is a big front porch, bookended by fancy wicker swings. The Party People have put a lot of work into the house since I’ve been gone.

My childhood home, by contrast, is a small two-story bungalow in need of multiple repairs. The worst part is I don’t have the money to keep up with the payments. I made September’s, and I have enough until the end of the year, but I don’t know about the future. Mama had savings, but most of it is earmarked for my sister’s college. She did have a small life insurance policy, but it hardly counts, and it may take a few months to trickle in. For the hundredth time . . . what am I going to do? A desperate feeling curls in my stomach. Money doesn’t buy happiness, but a little right now would go a long way to easing my stress.

Anger burning bright at the Jeep, I turn my attention back to the party house. Cars are parked two by two in the long drive. Adding more insult to injury, one of them, a white Mustang, has partially pulled up behind my driveway, blocking Mama’s (my) older-model pink Cadillac.

The front door opens next door, and several women spill out, holding drinks as they line dance in the yard to “Cotton-Eyed Joe.” The girls appear youngish . . . hang on . . . is this a college party? Blue Belle is a small town, but we do have a community college on the west side of town.

My ire rises. I need to establish some rules with my new neighbor. One, invite all the neighbors when you throw a party in the cove (it’s called southern hospitality); two, control your parking situation; three, play decent music; four, don’t let your party go past ten on a Saturday night.

I march toward the house—

“Nova! Wait a minute,” calls a voice from across the street, and I stop and turn. Illuminated by her porch light, Mrs. Meadows stands on her steps, somehow appearing regal in her floor-length blue robe, fuzzy house shoes, and Stetson. In her sixties, she’s tiny, about five feet, with shoulder-length gray-blonde hair. Don’t let the short stature fool you. She’s a powerhouse.

She moves off her stoop and hurries over to me, squinting at Sparky in my arms. “That thing looks like a rat. Oh goodness, why is the skin wrinkly? It looks evil, dear. I like a calico cat, the ones with fluffy tails, but I prefer dogs. I’ve got a little Pomeranian. His name is Bill, after my late husband. He adores hot dogs. I shouldn’t give them to him, but when he begs, I can’t resist.”

I’d forgotten how much she loves to talk.

“Ah. Great. Sparky here is just hairless—but not harmless,” I say, then point to the flower bed. “One of my neighbor’s partiers took out my special rosebush and my sister’s. I can’t let that pass. Aren’t you on the HOA for our neighborhood? These cars are everywhere on the street. That has to be against the rules.”

“Yes, I’m on the HOA, the school board, the beautification committee, and the booster club,” she says proudly, then sighs as she checks out my flower bed. “I’m sure it was just an accident. I’m sorry about Darla, dear. It was so sudden. I came to the visitation and the funeral. She was a good woman.” She winces. “And of course, her jelly was amazing.”

I bite back a smile. Mrs. Meadows and Mama were friends but rivals when it came to food. Mama had taken the blue ribbon at the county fair for her jelly for the past five years: her strawberry versus Mrs. Meadows’s apple.

“Thank you for the casseroles you brought over,” I say. Which reminds me to add thank-you notes to my list of things to do, right next to get a job. With few employment opportunities here, I picture myself driving around town with a Pizza Hut thingy on my car. Worse, I imagine myself delivering to the houses of people I went to high school with. Nova Morgan, homecoming queen, delivering a deep dish right to your front door.

“You plan on staying in town?” she asks.

“This is Sabine’s home, and I’m her guardian now.” Me. In charge of a fifteen-year-old.

She tips her Stetson up. “Well, at least you didn’t have to relocate a family down here. Bless, you never did get married, did you? Of course, everyone thought you’d marry Andrew, but . . .”

I wince at my ex’s name and hear the southern subtext. I haven’t snared a man; therefore I’m a failure.

“Nope. On the shelf at twenty-nine. Now . . . if you’ll excuse me, I need to talk to my neighbor.”

She takes my arm gently, being careful around Sparky. “Dear. Just let Coach have his party. We beat Wilson High last night—and it’s his birthday. The boosters are throwing him a small thing. You know how important football is to Blue Belle.”

I physically recoil. A Texas high school football coach is living next door!

She’s oblivious to my horror. “We made it to the state finals last year with him. He used to play pro ball—”

I glare at my decimated bushes. “I don’t care who he is.”

“I understand you’re upset, but let the flower beds go for a moment.” She gives me a reassuring smile, one I’m sure she’s given many Blue Belle citizens who need managing. She herds me away from the party house. “How are you? Really? I heard that quarterback from the New England Cougars broke your heart for a supermodel. Just terrible. What was his name?”

I’d bet a hundred bucks she knows his name, stats, and salary.

My chest tightens. “Zane, and she was a flight attendant.”

We dated for six months; then things started to fizzle. He was in the middle of football season, and I was working two jobs. It felt like a lull, but I assumed once we weren’t so busy, it would fire back up.

I didn’t know he was looking for greener pastures.

We should explore options but still see each other, Nova.

In other words, I’ll keep you on the line while I bang this hot, younger girl I met on a Delta flight.

A long sigh comes from me.

Since high school, athletes were my kryptonite, but Zane was the last straw.

I’m done now. No more jocks. No more sexy muscles and cocksure attitudes. I swear to God and Jesus and the Holy Ghost.

“Ah,” she murmurs. “I see. So you’ll be looking for a man. Maybe you should meet Coach, but don’t go over there angry. Let me see if I can get him to the Waffle House for breakfast tomorrow, and you can drop by, yes?”

I come to a stop. “I don’t need a man, Mrs. Meadows. I have a life. A career.” This is a lie. I have nothing. The Manhattan preschool where I worked has already hired someone. The Baller has tons of servers who wanted my position.

“Call me Lois. Remember that time I caught you stealing apples from my prize tree in the backyard? The green ones I use to make my jelly?”

“Yes.” I’d taken them several times before, successfully, but that day I fell out of the tree and skinned my knees. She scolded me for half an hour, pacing around her backyard and waving her hands as she warned me about the perils of a life of crime. I was ten.

“Lordy, you were a handful growing up. I never told your mama about any of it.”

“Thank you?”

She nods sagely. “All I’m saying is I know when to preserve the peace. Instead of telling your mama about you stealing my apples, I gave you a good talking-to, and that was the end of it.”

“I see. You want me to preserve the peace. With the coach?”

“Yes. I’ll chat with him for you.” She leans in. “Look, things are precarious right now. I’m worried he might not stay in town, so we got a special committee together to replace him a nice local gal to settle down with—” She lets out a squeak as I flip around and march toward his house. “Wait!”

I walk toward my neighbor’s. “I get it, Mrs. Meadows; you don’t want me to rock the boat, but I’m not going to . . .” I inhale a breath as I search the sky for words. “Ruin anything for the team or you. I just want to talk to him.” And get a look at him because she’s made me wonder just who the heck this man is. A person needs to know their enemies, and yes, right now, he’s the bad guy who’s having a party, and I must assess. “Plus, there’s a vehicle parked behind mine, and I want ice cream.” Just now, I decided it.

“Take my car.”

I halt and gape at her. “You’re serious, aren’t you? He doesn’t get a pass just because he’s on a pedestal.”

She reaches for her inhaler in her pocket and takes a shot. “I knew you were going to be trouble.”

“Trouble is tattooed on my ass,” I reply.

She follows me down the sidewalk to his house, her fluffy house shoes keeping step with my Converses. “My grandson, Milo, plays wide receiver. He’s really good, Nova, and we’re hoping he can get a football scholarship to UT next year. I need Coach to stay in town if it’s going to happen.”

“That’s wonderful that Milo’s talented,” I say gently as I recall a rambunctious blond-haired little boy who used to play with my sister. “I can understand that you want the best for him. You’re a good grandma.”

“Right. Let’s me and you go back to my house. I have this essential oil, lavender, that I put in a diffuser. It gives you calm, and I’ll fire it up; then we can have some tea and cookies. I can get out my apple jelly and give you a jar to—”

“That sounds fabulous. Some other time.” I march up the newly redone steps of the house to the porch, taking in the mounted ceiling speakers where the music is blasting. Nice.

I dodge around the dancing women. She follows, panting slightly.

Points to Mrs. Meadows for determination, but my roses demand recompense. Seeing them mowed down is a metaphor for my entire life, and now that I know he’s an ex–football player, I replace it even more despicable.

Through the glass door I have a view of the kitchen that leads to an open area, a huge den where several women are watching a football game on the big screen. Some lounge on the kitchen stools, chatting as they sip drinks and munch on the appetizers on the countertop.

Not a man in sight.

Frowning, I pause, realization dawning. “You mentioned a special committee. Did they invite these women?”

“Yes, I planned it. I’m head of the Blue Belle Booster Club. In hindsight, I should have invited you. My mistake. I’ll be sure you’re at the next football event.”

“Don’t bother. You’re trying to get him married?”

She lets out a gusty breath. “How many times do I have to say it? We want him to stay, Nova. We’ve introduced him to some of the prettiest girls in town. Melinda Tyler is here. She was Miss Texas. Very good family. She might be the one.”

Ohh, a beauty queen. Only the best for a coach.

I huff out a rueful laugh. I’m not surprised at all by the machinations. When I was in high school, the Blue Belle Booster Club bought a new Escalade for our coach after he won state. Once they rented a $2,000-a-month billboard in Huddersfield—our biggest rival—with just 34–10 on it and kept it up all year. Everyone knew what it was. The score from the game where we’d decimated them. The boosters—and their special committees—will do whatever it takes to keep the team happy. Need a million-dollar jumbotron? Done. Want a college-size stadium? You got it. Want a wife in a small town? We’ll replace her.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter.

She shrugs. “He had a woman, but she lives in New York, and you know how those city girls are.”

“I’m a city girl.”

She harrumphs. “Not in your heart, dear. Anyway, she’s some model and never would have settled down here. She came to some of the games last year and was highfalutin, just plain old pretentious. That’s who took out your bush, dear. I saw her peel out of here, and if you let me, I can call a landscaping company to fix them, and I’ll even pay for it—”

“Aunt Lois! Great party!” calls one of the girls from the other side of the porch as she swings in the wicker seat. She waves. Round face, brown hair. Pretty. Chewing gum.

“How old is your niece?”

She bristles. “Twenty.”

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-two today. He likes them young.”

My teeth grit. “Well. I can’t wait to meet this fine, fine man.”

I murmur sweet words in Sparky’s ear and set him down on the porch. I adore my cat, the only male who’s never let me down, but he’s not a people person per se, which is why I keep a firm grasp on his leash. Straightening my shoulders, I open the door, step into the kitchen, and scan the room.

Eventually the women take notice a few at a time and turn to look. They are all younger than me and look fabulous: cute shorts and skirts, low-cut slinky tops, hair long and styled. I don’t recognize a soul. Most of my high school friends have moved on to bigger cities, or I’ve lost touch with them. Part of me wilts as I take in the fashionable crew—then I shove it aside. Not here to impress anyone.

One of them, a leggy redhead in a shimmery green pantsuit with a belted tie, arches a carefully manicured brow at me as she sips on a martini. There’s a small diamond headband on her head. Hello, Miss Texas.

She rises from her seat in the den, as graceful as a swan, and glides toward us in that way that beautiful women have when they’ve had classes in posture. I had those same classes.

She gives a perfect smile to Mrs. Meadows, then takes me in. “Hi there. Who are you?” She says it like I’m a five-year-old and lost.

I’m wearing gray joggers with a hole in one leg and a wrinkled Johnny Cash shirt, and my hair is scraped up in a messy bun. I’m desperately in need of highlights. Not a stitch of makeup.

You wouldn’t believe it now, but a long time ago, I was a beauty queen. The memories of those days prick at my heart, and I shove them down and give her my sweet, sweet smile. I add a little extra Texas to my voice as I run a sweeping gaze over the ladies. “Hey, y’all.”

“Hey . . . ,” comes from a few as they size me up.

Yes, an interloper is here. Someone not in fashion and considered elderly.

“Come on, Sparky.” He prances ahead of me as I walk to the island and grab one of the cold sodas that are resting in a cute little tin tub—a woman did that. I twist off the top, then take a long drink as I glance at the myriad of food, streamers, and balloons, all in maroon, gold, and navy, Bobcat colors. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, COACH is written on a large banner that’s been draped from the ceiling over the fireplace in the den. Whoever this guy is, they’re laying it on thick, and if he’s winning games, well then, he’s their new favorite person.

I note the stainless steel appliances and the large white marble island. The new cabinetry. The ash-colored hardwood floors, the rustic wood-and-metal pendant lights. It’s all very urban farmhouse. The renovations make me yearn to fix Mama’s—my—house. That knot of responsibility tightens again in my chest. One day at a time, Nova.

“And you are . . . ?” comes from the redhead, her voice inquisitive. She’s followed me.

“I’m Nova Morgan.” I grab a chip, swoop it through what looks like homemade guac, and chew. “Great party. ‘Cotton-Eyed Joe’ on repeat is just fantastic, but I’d love it if you turned it down. I have a sister next door who’s trying to sleep.” Lie. She’s not even close to going to bed.

Someone moves in the room, and the music is turned down considerably. My bets are on Mrs. Meadows. I shake my head. She really is something, trailing me to the party in her nightclothes.

“Oh. I’ve heard of you,” Miss Texas says, a light dawning in her green eyes. “You went to school with my sister.”

I squint at the glossy red hair. The Tyler family had four girls, all gingers with M names. It dawns on me. “You’re Marla’s little sister?”

Miss Texas sniffs. “Yes. She lives in Dallas now. She married Brad.”

I wince. I might have kissed Brad, Marla’s long-term boyfriend, in tenth grade, and I might have made sure Marla knew about it . . .

“Good for them. Where’s Coach?” I ask the room.

“That would be me,” a deep voice says from behind me. There’s arrogance mixed with exasperation in his voice, and my lips tighten. Metaphorically, I pull up my big-girl panties and mutter, Bring it on, jock-ass.

Steeling myself, I turn to face him, seeing the french doors from the den have been opened, which is probably where he came from. The back entrance leads out to a glittering blue kidney-shaped pool, lit by underwater lights. There’s even a waterfall. Modern, sleek-looking chaise lounges dot the area. Girls in bikinis walk around. A few men. Finally.

I focus on him, gasp, and then shut my eyes, hoping he’ll disappear. But when I open them, he’s still there.

No, this can’t be right . . .

But the logical side of my mind says, Fate just bitch-slapped you.

I bite back a groan.

Holy shit.

Ronan Smith.

The worst, most horrible, can’t-even-think-about-it-without-cringing one-night stand ever.