The Player Next Door - Kathy Lyons Page 0,5
folded her arms across her chest, as much to fight the urge to dig around very intimately in his pockets. “The Ketchums live there. She makes the best pies and he’s a retired school teacher.”
“And they’re away on a two-month cruise courtesy of their son.” He waited a moment for some reason, his gaze both wary and expectant. But she didn’t know anything about the Ketchums’ son and so she said nothing. Then he sighed for some mysterious reason. “I’m house-sitting.”
She thought about that for a moment. In her experience house sitters were college kids who needed a cheap place to live for the summer, but that might just be because her entire life revolved around a college campus. Who was she to wonder if the Ketchums picked a modern-day Hercules to watch their house?
She might have questioned him further. He just didn’t fit as a house sitter. He was too big and confident. Not that house sitters couldn’t have their act together, but as a general rule, they didn’t. Not if they were still doing odd jobs at his age which had to be in his early thirties.
But since he’d just saved her life and was looking more strained by the second, she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. So she gestured for him to precede her to the Ketchums’ house.
He all but rolled his eyes at her. What? Couldn’t a woman be skeptical? Apparently not. But he resolutely crossed to his front door, then raised his eyebrows at her. “Now’s where you get that key. It’s in my shorts. Right side.” He angled his hips and even pulled up his hoodie enough to show her the cut beauty of his physique.
She had to admit she was impressed. Michelangelo had sculpted bodies like this. Pristine marble that demonstrated a thorough understanding of anatomy. But this man was alive, his flesh rippling as he moved.
Her fingers itched to stroke that skin, so she folded her arms tight to her body. “You are fully capable of getting that key.”
He looked at her, his jaw tightening. “I don’t need to resort to cheap tricks to get fondled by a woman. My arm’s immobilized, I’m going to call my doctor the moment I get inside, and damn it…will you please just get my fucking keys?”
Okay. So her attempt at humor hadn’t worked. And perhaps he was in a lot more pain than she realized. So with a quick nod, she reached forward and pulled out the key ring. It was a quick movement, done in the blink of an eye. Or so she pretended.
Actually, her hand had to flatten across his hip to grab it. Heat and iron muscles rippled underneath her palm. The thin nylon of his shorts did nothing to blunt the cut tightness of his body. Wow. Had the temperature just shot up twenty degrees? And then the answer clicked in her mind.
“Are you a cover model?” That would explain why he was house-sitting. From what she understood, they weren’t paid a lot.
“I’m an athlete.” He ground out the words as he snatched the keys out of her hand. “Pro.” That last word was punctuated with a glare.
Touchy touchy. Or perhaps—she grudgingly admitted—in a lot of pain. She stood back, watching him unlock the front door while she searched her memory. She didn’t follow sports at all, but she had lived in Chicago for the last four years. Some sports were hard to miss even when one lived in an ivory tower, and that included basketball. Granted, this man didn’t play for the Chicago Bulls, but he was a thorn in their side, or so her fellow professors claimed. And now that she’d placed him, she wanted to whack herself in the head for her stupidity. In her defense, he’d grown out his hair, hiding the signature eagle tattoo. Plus no one expected the famous Knicks point guard Michael Giamaria to be house-sitting next door.
So, a NY Knickerbocker was house-sitting in Chicago. No one would believe her if she told them that. And worse, what the hell did she say to him now?
While she pondered her next attempt to get him to laugh, he opened the door and pushed into the modest ranch-style home. He didn’t even glance back at her as she trailed in behind.
“I’ve got it,” he grumbled. “You can go home now.” Then a pause before his tone moderated a tad. A very tiny tad. “Thanks.”
“I can help with the ice,” she said, loath