Play Fling Read online

  “Chemistry you cannot deny.” -Julie Murillo, freelance editor

  “Brooke and Elliott’s story will have you cheering, laughing and crying.” -Devin McKee, author, Dangerous Magic

  “A must read! Scott takes cupids and love to a whole new level in this fun-filled, heartwarming story about falling for someone you shouldn’t, but do.” -Ann Charles, author, Nearly Departed In Deadwood

  Play Fling

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2010 by Amber Scott

  Cover Artist: A. D. Holt

  Editor: Julie Murillo

  https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/AmberScott

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblances to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental. This work is intended for a mature audience of 18 years and older.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ~~~

  “Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.”

  -Much Ado About Nothing, William Shakespeare

  Chapter One

  If Brooke Munkle checked her watch again, it might as well be announced on loudspeaker: Would the pathetic owner of the rude, no-show friend please remove her denial and vacate the big table? Brooke glared down the lines of creamer skinning her half empty latte cup. Her best friend, Millie, had, in fact and without a doubt, stood her up. Brooke didn’t have ten more minutes. She would be in class by then, forced to hand in her paper, unread. “Is this seat taken?” a quiet, sonorous voice asked.

  Brooke locked eyes up to one fine specimen of male. He gave her a crooked smile, the charming kind, and pushed his glasses up his very straight nose. Her tongue sucked to the roof of her mouth. “Umm. No.” A flutter tickled her voice. “Be my guest.”

  She straightened, gathering her papers and stack of novels to make room where Millie should be warming space, should be sitting next to her. How awful.

  He plopped down a stuffed file folder, his smile brightened, and the chair he took practically screamed over the floorboards. A stream of pages from his folder spilled onto hers. He swept them back into the tattered manila. His loopy smile tipped her way again.

  Flutter. This time down in her belly.

  Was he searching for something to say? No, no. No need to break any ice on her account. Brooke didn’t smile back. Or return his friendly nod. She glanced around the café, double-checking the bookstore entrance Millie typically came through. Three other tables sat empty. Better seats, certainly, than this one.

  She shouldn’t have taken the big table alone. Everyone tried to muscle in on the big table. Well, he could soon have it. Millie had five minutes left before Brooke gave up. Gaze averted, Brooke sipped her lukewarm latte and put on a cloak of aloof confidence. Eyebrows up, finger to her lips. Looking finely busy and unperturbed, if she said so herself.

  Her turtleneck scratched her throat and her pulse thrummed. She kept her hands in her lap. Was it warm in the cafe or was it him?

  When Jenny, the barista, abandoned her perch to wipe down Brooke’s already clean table again, no question remained. Brooke stuck out. Jenny meant well. Her smile shined a world of good intentions. She couldn’t know she made Brooke feel all the worse. Like some charity case. Jenny wiped and lingered. Smiled and wiped.

  Or maybe Jenny just wanted a healthy eyeful of broad shoulders. Shoulders angling to make Brooke relocate. Maybe Jenny thought Brooke should move, too.

  Ugh. Where the hell was Millie?

  A friendly employee pitying her. A hot body after a table. If only the café were bigger, or better populated for a Friday afternoon, she might not feel so stark friggin’ naked.

  No haven here today. The aromas of books and coffee, the grinding noises, the shuffling paper, none of it settled her one iota. What if she sneaked out the side entrance, unnoticed? Millie could still show, though, perpetually tardy as she was, and Brooke hated the thought of her finding Brooke gone. Standing around, looking, waiting. Feeling anything like she did now.

  The guy next to her shifted. His scent wafted her way. Earthy. Subtle. She considered sidling her chair away but that would underline her discomfort. Brooke plucked a thread from her slacks and paged through her term paper instead. No sense actually reading the words in front of her. Too late to change passive intros or mistaken homonyms. Class started in fifteen minutes. Millie would show. She would read it. Brooke would feel better.

  Not that Millie looked forward to reading the things for Brooke. She often complained, in fact. “Why do you have me read your papers on the due date? If I find something wrong, it’s not like you can go back home and print a new one off. Right?”

  Brooke couldn’t say exactly. She just needed Millie to take a scan. While Brooke watched. Got a gauge of what Professor Shope’s assistant’s reaction might be. The ever-elusive grad student screened all Shope’s papers, or so the history teacher claimed at the close of each assignment. “The best of your work will reach my desk, rest assured.” Or, “Mr. Jovovich gives me only the best among you.” Her favorite, “Impress him and you might get the chance to impress me.”

  Shope opened each class by skewering the poor bleeding carcass of whichever paper deemed the worst. At length, he quoted then commented. Her papers—thankfully—had not been flayed alive. Yet. Talk about humiliating. If Millie read it first, didn’t balk or laugh, Brooke would get the small boost she needed to hand her work over for slaughter.

  At thirty-nine years old, Brooke should have the confidence to simply hand the things over and let it ride. What was one teacher’s criticism in the bigger scheme of life, after all? Or his assistant’s? Millie was smart. Educated. Even for her less than understated ways, real knowledge came out those high gloss lips. She could trust Millie.

  Brooke wasn’t even taking the class for a grade. Still….

  Her unwelcome table bully was eyeing her. She could feel it. She rubbed her shirt’s knit cuff between her thumb and finger. Don’t fidget. Just keep pretending to read, appear engrossed. He won’t interrupt. Pick up one of the novels if you need to. She stole a glance at the stack of novels. Longing filled up her belly, quieting the flurry. Twenty dollars was burning a hole in her pocket.

  He cleared his throat. She glanced over. His smile struck her hard in the belly. She gulped and looked back down.

  What if the guy wasn’t angling for the table at all? What if he wanted…no. Couldn’t be. Of all the blondes in this place, he wouldn’t pick the middle aged mousy one. She should have worn a hat. Or her driving glasses. But then, she shouldn’t be sitting alone at the coveted table that never opened up any other day, with a stack of books she shouldn’t really buy, pretending to read.

  Where was Millie, damn it?

  Brooke peeked at her watch and exhaled. Forget it. She stood to leave.

  “Excuse me,” the guy said. Even his voice was pretty.

  Brooke smiled tightly and made contact with eyes too blue for anybody’s good. His brown-rimmed glasses framed the blue, luring her in. “Yes?”

  He paused, his mouth open, but only his hands moved. They were nice hands. Long fingers, bronzed skin. Not soft, but not rough either. “Can you tell me what time it is?” he said at last.

  Really? Oh, thank God. For a moment she thought he might be about to hit on her. Must have r
ealized she was just a tad bit above his age bracket. And by a tad, try fifteen years. At least. “Quarter after three,” she said and gathered her things, pushing the stack of novels back.

  Exactly enough time to walk to class and score a window seat. She’d phone Millie on the way to be sure nothing disastrous had happened to her. Clearance to stay nice and mad at her. Part of her didn’t know if she should be mad. After all, had Millie ever been on time? Oh well. Two long hours from now, she’d be watching the sun slink behind the Sierra Nevadas, the sky drenching in lavender, the weekend on the horizon.

  “You’re leaving?”

  Brooke glanced back. Blue Eyes had stood as well and now looked at her, rather expectantly.

  “Uh, yes.” Did her relief show? “It’s all yours.”

  “Oh, well, thanks,” He adjusted the tattered folder against his hip. “But I didn’t actually want the table.” Papers leaned out. “Do you have a class?”

  He didn’t want the table? “Yes.” Brooke frowned. “And I’m afraid I’m late.”

  She turned away, blaming Millie for the pitch in her tummy, not him or his college boy good looks. She’d be late if she spent another minute not walking through the quad and straight to Lincoln Hall. If the table wasn’t what he wanted, she didn’t want to know what was. Namely, if she was.

  Despite feeling his eyes following her, Brooke stopped at the cash register and pushed her twenty-dollar bill across the laminate divide. Her hand shook. Jenny glanced up from her worn pamphlet, covering it with both hands. “Can I get you something to go?”

  “No, thank you. I think you dropped this back there. It fell out of your pocket.”

  Jenny’s eyes widened and she shook her head, but before she could refuse the money, Brooke hurried away. She pushed through the bookstore’s front doors, sighing at the cool air on her hot cheeks. By the look of things, Jenny could use twenty dollars more than Brooke right now. The girl’s pregnant belly was getting bigger every week and if she had someone to look after her, she’d be wearing better shoes. She’d be in school, rather than working next door to one.

  Peacoat buttoned, Brooke dug for her cell phone. She dialed Millie, inhaling the crisp air deep into her lungs.

  Voicemail. Of course. “Millie, it’s Brooke. I’m going to class now, but please call me when you get this and leave me a message so I know you’re alright. Don’t worry about my paper. I’ll have someone else read it before Shope arrives or… something. I suppose we can meet up on a day that’s better for you.”

  Brooke snapped the phone shut, satisfied with her speech and tone. If Millie didn’t get the real message from that, she wasn’t as smart as Brooke thought. This time, Brooke couldn’t ignore it. Late for dinner or a movie, forgivable. On its own, today’s no show amounted to little. Things happen. But the sum total of Millie’s habit went beyond rude. Millie needed to know. If talking to her didn’t stop it, not making plans with her anymore might.

  She’d be risking a fight with her only friend since the divorce but, hey, she had Sampson and he was the better listener of the two anyhow, furballs or not. It was settled then. Brooke took another deep breath.

  The snow piled lawns gleamed white in the afternoon sun. Sidewalk salt crunched under her boots, joining her stride’s rhythm. She matched her breathing to it and her mind unwound. She walked and she fantasized. Which of the five novels could she go back for next week, a few more weekend eBay store sales in her business bank account? The highland Scottish romance tugged her heart first. The cover had hooked her. Clinch hold, golden abs. Surreal and delicious. Hmmm. Maybe. The suspense by an author she trusted tempted her too, though, while she really should select the women in business self help book.

  “Excuse me, miss?” a voice called in the rear distance. “Miss?” Brooke glanced past her shoulder. “Wait up a moment?”

  Blue Eyes loped her way, hand waving, eagerness bounding on each step. Brooke half tripped, then stopped. Her breath jammed in her throat. He was carrying all five books she’d left behind. Oh no! Had he assumed…?

  He came to a halt before her, breathing fast puffs of steam. “You left these.”

  “Oh, no. No, no, no,” Brooke said and smacked her forehead. “I—I was only looking at them. I hadn’t bought those yet. You see, I didn’t have time and I hadn’t gotten through them all to decide which one I could—I mean wanted, and….” She breathed in. “I think you might have just stolen those.”

  “Stolen?” He pushed his glasses up. His smile widened.

  This amused him? “Yes, stolen. As in robbed? Shoplifted? I always leave the books I don’t want. Jenny insisted it’s alright to—.”

  “Jenny?”

  “Jenny, yes, the barista? She says she likes to look at what peop—.”

  “Barista?”

  Her hands flapped. “Yes. The waitress. Jenny. She likes to put them back, to see what people look at and imagine—but none of that matters. You have to take them back.” And remove himself before she fell face first over her runaway tongue. Of all the times. She did not need this right now. “I would do it myself, but I’m late.”

  Cheeks on fire, she turned on her heel. She didn’t need to look to know Blue Eyes had not run straight back to the bookstore. He followed her. Of all things. Well, not so much following as catching up and joining her. Joining her? Oh dear. When security tackled him to the ground, knocking the thieved novels from his grip, she would be assumed his accomplice. What should she do? Run?

  Her cell phone rang to the rescue.

  “Hello,” she answered, too grateful to check the caller ID. She didn’t care. She’d answer even if it was her dad. Guilt ready, neglectful daughter complaints handy, he’d be saving her from three scoops of embarrassed with a very on top.

  “Hey, Brooke. You busy?” Oh, thank God. Jason, her ex-husband.

  “No. I’m not busy.” She glanced meaningfully at her sudden companion. Bad boy. Go home. “Not busy at all.”

  Blue Eyes chuckled, eyes twinkling.

  If not for it being bright daylight and a busy sidewalk, she’d consider screaming rape at the top of her fluttering lungs. “What’s up?” she asked Jason instead and sent Blue Eyes a flat-out glare.

  Blue Eyes shook his amused head.

  “You sure?” Jason asked. “You sound funny. Out of breath. I didn’t interrupt anything interesting, did I?”

  Interesting? Not in the way he was innuendo-ing.

  “No!” She cringed. Too loud. “No. I’m fine. Just, just walking fast is all.”

  “Oh, you’re at the gym. Sorry. I’ll keep this short.”

  No! Keep it long. She needed at least five more minutes to avoid one cheeky grin and five hot books. Either the cold air or the fast pace was making her feel a little drunk. “What’s up?”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes, of course, Jason,” she said, another meaningful glance attached. “What do you need, Babe?”

  “Did you just call me ‘Babe’? Okay, you know what? I don’t want to know. It’s no longer any of my business. I just called to get your friend Millie’s number.”

  “What?” Brooke halted, Blue Eyes forgotten. “Why do you need Millie’s number?”

  “Because she called me ten minutes ago and didn’t leave her number on her voicemail. And her number showed up blocked.” Keys jingled in the call’s background. “You didn’t have her call me?”

  “No.” Why on earth would she ever have Millie call her ex-husband?

  “No? Hmm. I thought it might be something for you. A favor you need. Or a business referral, maybe. I don’t know. Either way. I don’t have her number. So?”

  She resumed walking, picking up her pace. “So, what?”

  “So, what is it?” he said on an empty laugh.

  Jason probably enjoyed this. She could just imagine him, standing outside a meeting, tossing his keys and catching them. Smirking. Not only might her friend need him, possibly for business, but Brooke didn’t know about it? She co
uld almost hear him lick his damned chops.

  “I don’t know it off the top of my head. And I’m running late.” Like she’d actually give him Millie’s number, like she’d actually called. “She probably just needed me, my home number or something.” Yeah right. But better than any other explanation. “If not, I’m sure she’ll call back.” Not unless Brooke found out why she’d called him in the first place.

  “If you say so. I’ll let you get back to your workout.” He hung up.

  Brooke wanted to kick something. Damn him. She wasn’t sure what she had to be kicking about. Technically, Millie calling Jason violated nothing. They’d been amicably divorced for over a year now, and she’d filed in the first place, not him. Her shoulders sagged.

  He’d won all her other friends in the settlement with his poor me tactics. He couldn’t have Millie, too.

  “Maybe these will cheer you up?” His voice softly teased too close to her ear. She jumped.

  She’d forgotten he was there. Wait a minute, why was he still there? Before she could demand exactly that, he hopped into her path and presented her with the stack of stolen novels. If shoving them at her and forcing her hands to hold them counted as presentable, that is.

  “They aren’t stolen,” he said and grandly bowed. Laughter danced in his expression.

  “I—I can’t take these—what?” Brooke didn’t know what to do.

  The afternoon sun lit his chiseled features. “They aren’t stolen. They’re a gift.”

  He ended his bow with a flourish, then strode away, leaving Brooke speechless for no less than the fourth time in her entire thirty -she-wouldn’t-admit-something life. Worse, she couldn’t possibly remember when the other three had been.

  Chapter Two

  Even if Michelle hadn’t taken up lounging in Shope’s office’s narrow couch like she owned the thing, Elliott Jovovich would be distracted. For a moment, he gave up on the stack of papers in front of him. He couldn’t read the words because his mind kept replaying the scene in the quad from two hours ago. Her. He wished he knew her name. Every cent he’d spent on those books had been worth the look on her face.