of some undercover video show. A camera crew had to be nearby. They’d be ready to catch the moment when the skinny volunteer came face-to-face with a man who looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of some women’s fantasy magazine.
Yeah. Good TV. The unsuspecting victim goes to retrieve a naughty book and comes back to find a sex god’s perfect butt occupying her spot. Sounded like a great setup since it was so far from reality. Because guys like this—perfect, mouthwatering, to-die-for gorgeous guys—did not stumble across the paths of the Janie Nolans of the world. And they certainly didn’t place their rock-hard tushes and firm thighs on their blankets.
No. The nonglamorous Janies of the world only met horny college students who’d be loyal to even plain girls if they sucked them off on occasion. Or beefy jocks who didn’t notice them. Or nice teachers. Or store clerks whose clothes never fit right because they waited to purchase them at the deepest discount…like one man she’d dated. Guys who had never once been overpowered by uncontrollable lust, and certainly not by anything resembling love. Not where Janie was concerned.
She simply wasn’t capable of inspiring that kind of emotion in a man. She doubted she ever would be.
And she most certainly would not with a strong, powerful specimen like this one, with his thick, sandy brown hair blowing loosely in the breeze, his stubbled, lean cheeks, and a sexy pair of lips that were curled in a playful grin. His long legs were stretched out in front of him as he leaned back, bracing his weight on his elbows. The position emphasized the thick muscles striping his shoulders and chest. More devastating was the way it tugged his khaki slacks tightly across his impressive lap.
Very tightly…and very impressive.
Gulping, she reminded herself to breathe. Not stare. And lap leering is out.
The man was laughing at something Edgar said, a low sound that warmed her from a few feet away. His amusement brought out two deep dimples in his cheeks. Recognizable dimples. Suddenly shaken out of her lap-induced dementia, Janie realized whom she was staring at. “Oh God.”
It was Riley Kelleher, aka Riley the Rocket, aka the sexy, studly star pitcher who played for the Louisville Slammers and owned the heart of the city. Not just the women’s hearts, either—all the fans adored him. The man was often called the soul of the team, with everyone taking pride in his prowess and his love of the game.
She’d seen his picture in the paper—especially a few years ago when he was going through a divorce that had shocked even the most jaded sports fan—but he was so much better-looking in person that she simply hadn’t recognized him. But there was no doubt that one of the most sought-after bachelors—and talked-about playboys—in baseball was chatting up her elderly grandma.
“Janie! Here you are,” Mr. Smith said as he spotted her.
Wishing she’d turned around and walked away, Janie trudged closer to the old man who said, “Isn’t this a nice surprise? My grandson’s come to visit. I’ve been wanting you two to meet.”
Grandson. Janie’s breath escaped her lungs in one giant gush. Good grief, no wonder Mr. Smith knew so much about baseball—his grandson was one of the stars of the sport.
Though Janie’s dislike of baseball—and playboy baseball players, no matter how gorgeous—was matched only by her dislike of going to the dentist, she managed a weak smile. “Hi.”
The pitcher, whose reputation as a stud off the field was as well known as his abilities on it, slowly tilted his head back and looked up at her. Janie shifted from foot to foot and clenched her hands together like a starstruck teenager in front of a member of some boy band. Which was so not her, considering she didn’t hold sports figures up as heroes.
But being honest, it wasn’t his status that had twisted her tongue into an incoherent knot in her mouth. It was his looks.
“So you’re little Janie.”
She stiffened. At five foot four, she’d heard her share of petite/little/diminutive comments. “I’m just Janie,” she snapped.
He rose slowly, his muscular body moving with innate grace. When standing, he was only a head taller than she, probably of average height. Not too tall for her. Perfect, in fact.
Forget about it, he’s perfectly out of the question!
He extended his hand. “Gramps has told me a lot about you, Just Janie.”
“Funny, he never mentioned your name at all.”
“Well, Riley likes to keep a low profile,” Mr. Smith said.
The low-profile sex god was still standing there with his hand out, so Janie lifted hers, forgetting the book.
If fate had been kind, the manual wouldn’t have fallen to the ground. If it had been at least decent, Sex For The Ages wouldn’t have landed faceup at Riley Kelleher’s feet. And if it had any heart at all, the man wouldn’t have been able to read.
But fate screwed her again. Because as Riley bent over to pick up the book she’d dropped, he began to chuckle.
Oh, God, just let me die now.
She didn’t know which was worse: him thinking she was the one reading the sex manual, or finding out her grandmother was.
“Uh, yours, I believe?” he said, his voice not disguising his laughter. He held the book out to her. “Interesting reading for a Sunday afternoon at the old folks’ home.”
Oh, great, now he’d done it. Before Janie could warn him of the fire he’d brought down on his head, Grandma Anne was on him. “Who’re you calling old folks?” she asked as she struggled to her feet and grabbed the book. She wobbled on her pale, skinny legs, revealed by a pair of pink shorts that hung to her knobby knees.
“You pushed one of her hot buttons,” Janie murmured, almost feeling sorry for the ballplayer, who suddenly looked sheepish.
“My apologies, ma’am. I mean, the retirement home.”
“Community for the enlightened years,” she snapped.
To give him credit, Riley didn’t laugh at Grandma’s haughty tone. Instead, he replied, “That’s a perfect description.”
Grandma Anne jerked her thumb toward her own frail chest and poked herself with it. “I came up with it myself.” The power of her own thrust almost knocked her off her feet. Fortunately, Mr. Smith had slowly followed her up and was there to support her.
Not that a strong breeze wouldn’t have blown him over, too.
Janie couldn’t help it. She started to giggle, lifting her hand to cover her mouth so Grandma Anne wouldn’t see.
“I think I’ll take Annie to her room now,” Mr. Smith said, frowning at his grandson. “She’s had enough of an upset.”
Saying goodbye to her grandmother and kissing her smooth, delicate cheek, Janie watched as Mr. Superstar suffered under his grandfather’s glare. When the older couple had gone, he said, “Has she got a problem with being old, or what?”
“Or what,” Janie said dryly. “She has no problem being old. She has a problem with anyone telling her she’s old.”
“Like
