Takes Two to Tackle
Titles by Jeanette Murray
One Night with a Quarterback
Loving Him Off the Field
Takes Two to Tackle
Below the Belt
Against the Ropes [9/15]
Takes Two to Tackle
Jeanette Murray
InterMix Books, New York
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
TAKES TWO TO TACKLE
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2015 by Jeanette Murray.
Excerpt from Below the Belt copyright © 2015 by Jeanette Murray.
Excerpt from Against the Ropes copyright © 2015 by Jeanette Murray.
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-41044-2
PUBLISHING HISTORY
InterMix eBook edition / September 2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
____________________________________
Penguin Random House is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity.
In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers;
however, the story, the experiences, and the words
are the author’s alone.
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Contents
Titles by Jeanette Murray
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Special Excerpt from Below the Belt
Special Excerpt from Against the Ropes
About the Author
Chapter One
Stephen Harrison held up a hand to the cab driver who idled in his driveway, opened his front door, and walked through for the first time in four months.
The first thing that hit him was the smell. It should have been stale. The kind of odor houses get that have been on the market with nobody living in them. A little dusty, no air circulating. Instead it was fresh, with a faint hint of lemon.
Mags had been there. Recently, he realized, if the gleam on his entryway mirror was to be trusted. He didn’t look at his own reflection—avoided it, to be exact—but could see the shine from a mile away. His housekeeper should have stopped coming while he was gone. No point in keeping the house clean when nobody was living in it. In fact . . . he hadn’t made arrangements to pay her. Just the utilities and lawn guys to keep it looking decent out front.
Damn.
He dropped his bag on the entry bench and wandered through, trying to take measure of his own house as if it were the first time, like a stranger might.
Had it always sounded so hollow?
Maybe, but he’d had friends around often enough to take up space. And his friends weren’t tiny guys. He’d have friends with him right now, if he hadn’t lied and told them he was coming home tomorrow. He just needed to be alone, so he’d taken a cab from rehab. They’d bitch about it when they realized what happened, but he was on his own now. And that’s how he needed it, for the first little bit.
He entered the kitchen, noted the appliances had that just-buffed shine, the granite countertops were sparkling, the bowl he usually kept fruit in was empty but for napkins.
He hesitated a moment, took a deep breath, then opened the refrigerator door. And let the breath out with an anticlimactic whoosh. His alcohol, every drop, was gone. He checked the freezer, then the cabinet he usually kept his good stuff in. All empty. He’d been wiped clean.
That would have been Trey and Josiah’s choice.
What kind of a pussy did they think he was, that he couldn’t step out the doors of rehab, walk back into his own home, and not immediately fall into old habits? He wasn’t a freaking kid. He could handle himself.
No, no, I can’t. I am not an island . . . and all that other AA stuff. His brain still had to catch up to the new way of thinking. He was still too new at this whole sobriety thing. And they’d known that, and given him the step up.
Resentment and gratitude were an ugly mixture, rolling around in his gut.
With a sigh, he sank down into his favorite armchair and stared at the dark television. He’d let the cable lapse while he was gone—it just didn’t make sense to keep it—and it occurred to him he hadn’t called to reconnect it. So he was alone, on his first night back, with nothing to do and nobody to do it with.
Stellar plan, Harrison.
The doorbell rang, and he snorted. Alone, no longer. He slapped his hands on his knees and stood, taking his time getting to the door. When he paused, debated answering it, the person out front knocked hard against his front door.
“Open up, asshole. We know you’re in there.”
Josiah. Stephen grinned, in spite of his mood, and threw the door open. There he stood, with Trey behind him, both holding overnight bags.
Josiah blinked as he stared at Stephen. “I’m sorry, we’re looking for the Harrison residence.”
“Bite me.” Unoriginal but effective. He let them both in and closed the door behind them. “What are you two doing here? Looking for a sleepover?”
Trey tossed his own bag next to Stephen’s on the floor of the foyer. “Cassie kicked me out. I need a place to stay for the night.”
Cassie Wainwright, daughter of the Bobcats’ head coach, had hooked up with Trey the year before. Stephen had had the pleasure of watching their initial meeting happen. After Cassie had connected with her father—having never met the man before—she’d decided to put down roots in Santa Fe instead of Atlanta.
“Uh-huh.” Last he’d heard, Trey and Cassie still weren’t living together—much to his friend’s disgruntlement—so nice try on that one. Since his other friend wasn’t currently involved with anyone, he gave Josiah his best What’s your excuse? face.
Josiah let his bag drop. “My potted fern kicked me out.”
He couldn’t help the laugh that spilled out of him. “You two are such assholes.” Slinging an arm around each of them, he walked back to the kitchen. “Which one of you stole my liquor?”
“Oh, we had a big-ass party here while you were gone.” Josiah slapped his back and went for a water. “Poured it all out in the pool out back and went swimming. Stuff of legends.”
“If we’d known you were coming back today,” Trey said as he took the bottle Josiah handed him, “we would h
ave stocked your fridge with more than water.” Giving Stephen the once-over, he smiled a little. “Or maybe some Jenny Craig meals. Dude, you’re half-missing.”
“Apparently,” Stephen said dryly, “alcohol is fattening.”
“You don’t say,” Josiah said in a hushed whisper, eyes widening over the bottle he tipped up. “Didn’t I tell you to stop buying this plastic crap? Get a damn filtration system and a water pitcher. Glass,” he added. “Pretty sure you can handle that.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He sat down at the kitchen island on one of the bar stools. Last time he’d tried that, the stool had creaked under his weight. “I’ve got a meeting on Monday with the coaches.” He glanced down and noted the way his shirt hung off his frame. “I’m screwed, aren’t I?”
“You’ve lost a few pounds,” Trey conceded, then grimaced when Stephen lifted an eyebrow. “Sorry, man. I don’t know your stats. How the hell much did you lose?”
“Too much.” Football was all he knew. And being the biggest guy out there was all he was good at. Without the added weight, there was no way he could do his job as effectively. “I need to put some pounds back on.”
“So you’ll do it the healthy way this time.” Josiah set his bottle down and bent to look Stephen in the eye. “We’ll lift weights together. You can check with a nutritionist about the right diet plan. There are other ways to put weight back on without resorting to old habits and bingeing on cake.”
Trey grinned. “Look at it this way . . . at least you’re looking pretty good. The ladies are gonna love it.”
Stephen let his forehead fall to the cool granite.
***
Margaret Logan managed to get the door open, slip inside, and close it behind her with her toe, all without setting the two sacks of groceries down.
That, sadly, was her first win of the day.
She blew hair out of her eyes and moved toward the kitchen, humming along with the bump music the podcast on her phone was playing via her earbuds. Normally, she preferred to watch the news when she cleaned, as it was the only time she actually had to see the rest of the world around her. But Stephen had cut off cable when he went out of town, so she’d been bringing her old, refurbished iPod with her, loaded down with podcasts that were inspirational and listening to those while she cleaned. Everything from business to finance to self-help guru motivational speakers, she had it.
Went out of town. She rolled her eyes. Mags knew exactly where he’d gone, as did almost everyone else. He was in rehab somewhere, and thank God for it. Stephen Harrison was the sweetest man, but he clearly had a problem. Even so, she wouldn’t mention it if they crossed paths while she was there. Her business was dependent on her discretion. She could keep her lips closed even with the KGB torturing her.
Stephen was due back today, she knew, since she’d spoken to Trey Owens when she ran into him the week before while he was cleaning out Stephen’s fridge and cabinets of alcohol. The man was blessed with good friends . . . and good-looking ones. She smiled a little as she set the bags of groceries on the counter.
So it wasn’t her job to do the grocery shopping. He’d done something good for his health, and he should be greeted home by some healthy food to help out with the transition.
As she hummed and put groceries away, she ticked off the items she planned to do before he got home. Since he’d been gone, she’d popped by every so often just to keep the place from going stale, dust it up and run the water and double-check that everything was okay, security-wise. Simple things. Not even half her usual cleaning load.
Then again, he’d stopped paying her when he’d “gone out of town,” so she didn’t feel too bad about half-assing the job.
She pulled a bag of celery out of the sack, turned, and screamed.
“Jesus Christ!”
There stood a man who looked sort of like Stephen Harrison, buck-ass naked, in front of her. She dropped the celery, covered her eyes with one hand and reached for her purse—which had her cell phone—with the other.
“Who are you?!”
She heard him move—away from her, it sounded like—and she tried to breathe. Did Stephen have a brother coming in from out of town? If so, what the hell was he doing, walking around his brother’s house naked? Rude much?
After digging around blindly in her bag, she managed to get her cell phone. “I’m calling the cops!”
“No, you’re not.” The phone was plucked from her hand and she heard it clink down on the island granite. “Mags.”
She blinked. Okay, that was definitely Stephen’s voice. She peeked through two fingers, saw he’d wrapped a blanket from the family room couch around his waist, and sighed. Taking a step back, she laughed, a little shaky. “Sorry. You scared me.” Then she blinked. “You’re . . . home,” she finished lamely.
Home was not the first word that came to mind. Hot was. He’d been adorable when he left. Cute, but the effects of too many beers had shown.
The beer gut was gone now, along with the hint of sadness that had followed him, which he’d always covered up with false cheer. The false cheer was gone, too. Now . . . he was a stranger.
A hot stranger. He wasn’t ripped, but he was definitely lean. Actually, maybe on second—fine, third—perusal, a bit too lean.
And she’d spent way too much time staring at his torso now. Looking up—and up—into his eyes, she caught a gleam of amusement.
“Weight Watchers,” he said simply.
That made her smile. “Yeah, right.”
They both eyed each other warily before Mags broke from her frozen spell and reached for the dropped celery. They’d always had an easy employer-employee relationship before . . . Why was she feeling so awkward now? To put something in the silence, she added, “Welcome home, by the way.”
“Thanks.” Apparently comfortable with his near nakedness, he settled on a stool to watch her put away the groceries. She waited for a moment, then shrugged and went to work.
“The lawn guys were here weekly, in case you were curious.” She loaded the veggies in the crisper and started on the next shelf up.
“Applesauce?” Stephen’s voice was full of disbelief as she set the apparently offensive food item in the fridge. “I’m thirty-one, not three.”
“Applesauce—no sugar added—is a good snack.” She pulled a cup from the crate and tossed it to him. He caught it one-handed in a palm the size of a baseball mitt. The rest of him had shrunk . . . his hands had not. “Snack time.”
He raised a brow but leaned over the island and reached into a drawer. Then his hand swept around, knocking a few dish towels to the ground. “What the . . .”
“So, funny story.” Mags reached into the drawer containing the silverware and slid a spoon toward him. “Remember how I kept telling you your kitchen was a disorganized wreck?”
He scowled as he ripped open the foil top of his applesauce, a bit more forcefully than necessary. “I remember telling you I didn’t care.”
She ignored that and put some apples in a shallow wooden bowl by the never-used KitchenAid mixer. “And remember me begging you to let me reorganize the drawers and cabinets?”
Stephen pulled the spoon from his mouth and pointed it at her. “I remember saying no.”
“Since you weren’t here, I decided to do you a favor and organize your house for you.”
When he just stared at her, she added, “You’re welcome.” With that, she pulled her hair into a knot, tossed the cloth bags in the hallway by her purse, and reached under the sink for the cleaning supplies.
“I didn’t pay you.”
“I know.” She sprayed down the granite and got to wiping.
“Why did you keep coming if I didn’t pay you? I thought the agency would stop sending you.”
She would have preferred the news, but company was a nice second place while she cleaned. “Being able to organize your house was payment enough.”
“So it was you who moved my linen closet around, leaving me towel-less after my sho
wer.”
She nodded and wiped.
“And why I couldn’t find any boxers in my drawer before coming downstairs.”
“Is that why you came down naked?” She hid a laugh by ducking down to wipe the floor where she’d dropped the celery. He just grunted. “Yes, guilty. I rearranged your drawers and closet.”
“I thought it was the guys playing a prank or something.”
That brought her up short. “That reminds me. Why did they tell me you were coming home late tonight? And if you’re here, why aren’t they? Why would they make you spend your first night home from rehab on your own? What’s wrong with them?”
“Whoa, easy.” He held out one hand, used the other to toss the applesauce cup into the trash can across the room. “Little harsh on my friends, aren’t you?”
“Why aren’t you more harsh?” She paused by the island, waited a beat, then made a shooing motion. He picked up his forearms so she could wipe down where he’d had his snack.
“I lied and told them I was coming home today, and took a cab by myself yesterday. And yes, they found out anyway, showed up last night, and spent the night here. I kicked them out early this morning so I could get ready and make it to my meeting later. Plus . . .” He ran a hand through his hair, then just draped himself over the island. She bit back a sarcastic comment about having just wiped it down. “I needed some quiet. Real quiet, not that manufactured zen yourself out junk in rehab. You know?”
She did know, and could sympathize. “Fine, then.” He looked so lost, she wanted to perk him up a little by annoying him. “I also rearranged the furniture in your small guest room.”
“What the hell for?”
“Funsies. So how’s the whole sobriety thing going for ya?”
He blinked, thrown off. “You don’t dance around it, do you?”
“Should I?” Feeling more cheerful now, she tossed the rag in the washrag bin and put the cleaning solution under the sink.
“No. God, no.” He ran a hand over his face and huffed, sitting back up again. The edge of the counter had imprinted a line into his skin. “I just assumed people would be all delicate about it, not wanting to mention rehab.”