Right as Raine (Aster Valley #1) - Lucy Lennox Page 0,2
give his new girlfriend the job of being his live-in personal assistant. I wondered how that was going. If Miss Gulf Coast could navigate her way around an Excel spreadsheet, I’d eat my shoe.
Not really. But I’d eat trans fats, and that was pretty much the same thing.
“I’d volunteer to help him out, but I’m not interested in working for another player,” I said, lying through my teeth. In fact, I’d loved living in Nelson’s multimillion-dollar home with its amazing gourmet kitchen. That kitchen had been a dream come true for a wannabe chef like me. And having my own suite of rooms far away from Nelson’s own living space had been amazing—far better than any kind of apartment I could have afforded.
Until I’d moved my shit into his bedroom. But that was a subject for another time. And by “another time,” I meant never.
Although, I couldn’t deny how nice it had been not to pay rent for those two years. I’d socked money away like crazy, saving for the cafe I wanted to open one day. Now that I remembered the feeling, I was almost tempted to find out more about becoming a full-time personal chef. But how much money would make it worth dealing one-on-one with another spoiled, entitled ballplayer? At least it would be an opportunity to actually work in my field instead of doing these PA gigs.
“Nobody’s asking you,” my father growled at me with a pointed stare. “You working for Nelson was clearly a recipe for fucking disaster.”
It turns out, you can be a grown-ass adult and still be cowed by your parents. My jaw clenched against the words begging to spew out. Words about parenting ultimatums needing to die a quick death before the child in question turned twenty-four fucking years old. I fought against the desire to go to work for his player just to prove my father wrong.
“Who is it?” I asked instead, knowing I was tipping my hand. It had to be a rookie if he was having trouble keeping up with the demands of his job. And rookies were total assholes.
“Raine. Wide receiver from University of Colorado.”
My stomach swooped. Tiller Raine. Tiller Raine who’d won the Heisman. Who’d been on the cover of magazines. Who’d made my father strut around like a jackass for months bragging about his first-round draft pick. Who was currently, albeit secretly, saved into my Favorites photo album in a screenshot from an ad for Under Armour. In the ad he was wearing nothing but compression shorts with a giant, NFL-sized bulge in the middle.
But I’d cropped his face out of the photo because his expression said he knew exactly how fucking beautiful he was. Cocky asshole. I’d met him once at a cookout thing my father had forced me to. Raine had looked right through me like I’d been a hologram. If I couldn’t do anything for him, I didn’t matter to him. It was behavior I’d seen time and time again over the years from my brothers’ jock friends and my dad’s jock players, including Nelson Evangelista.
“Extra no,” I said firmly.
Mom reached over and squeezed my hand. “But honey, he’s so good-looking. And he’s gay.”
The last part was whispered because even after my being out for over a decade, my family still had a hard time with it in some ways. I’d actually been impressed with my dad recruiting an out player—even now, no one knew about Nelson—until I’d heard him brag about Raine’s stats to one of his other coaches. Coach had sounded prouder of Tiller Raine than he’d even been of my brothers, who’d all been successful athletes themselves.
Hell, even my brother Jake played pro ball for the Bengals. But he was no Tiller Raine.
My father blustered. “Don’t matter if the man’s gay, Loretta. Ain’t nothing happening between these two. Mikey will stay away from Tiller Raine. I only wanted you to help find him a goddamned personal chef! Forget I said anything. Jesus.”
“His sexuality has nothing to do with anything anyway,” I said peevishly. “Even if I did take the job, it’s not like I’m going to sleep with my boss for god’s sake.” The “again” was left unspoken since my mom presumably didn’t know about my stupid slipup with Nelson.
“Damned right you’re not,” Coach said in his most blistering voice, the scary-as-fuck one that made grown men cry.
I tried not to roll my eyes and remind him I’d said it first. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not doing it.”