Playing it safe, p.1
Playing It Safe, page 1
Table of Contents
Content Warning
Dedication
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
Epilogue
Glossary
Acknowledgments
About the Author
If you love sexy romance, one-click these steamy Brazen releases… Undercover Engagement
His Holiday Crush
Scoring the Player’s Baby
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Amy Andrews. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
10940 S Parker Rd
Suite 327
Parker, CO 80134
rights@entangledpublishing.com
Brazen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Liz Pelletier and Lydia Sharp
Cover design by LJ Anderson/Mayhem Cover Creations
Cover photography by MikeOrlov/Deposit Photos
ISBN 978-1-64063-607-1
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition September 2021
At Entangled, we want our readers to be well-informed. If you would like to know if this book contains any elements that might be of concern for you, please check the book’s webpage for details.
https://entangledpublishing.com/books/playing-it-safe
To Daniel de Lorne and Courtney Clark Michaels for reading, loving and believing in this book and guiding me where it was needed. I couldn’t have done it without your help. Big love to you both.
Chapter One
Donovan Bane loved women. He loved his fourteen-year-old daughter and the sassy young woman she was becoming so much more than he would ever be capable of articulating. He loved his high school best friend-cum-ex-wife. He loved his mother and his three sisters and his multiple aunties and female cousins. He loved the women his Sydney Smoke teammates had chosen as life partners and considered them friends.
He loved the way women laughed and moved and put themselves together. He loved how they smelled and the great way they took care of themselves and that innate feminine confidence they exuded. Like they were born with their shit together instead of cluelessly stumbling through life like so many guys—including himself—he knew. He loved the way they talked and their circuitous way of telling a story that was both evocative and entertaining.
He loved all their shapes and sizes. Tall and short. Slender and curvy. Soft and toned. All things in between. Redhead, blonde, brunette. He loved them all.
He just didn’t love them like that.
“What about him?” Valerie King asked fellow WAG Harper Nugent.
“Hubba hubba,” Harper murmured in a reverent tone. “I don’t know who he is, but I want to.”
Donovan was sitting at an outside table with them at the café tucked in on the ground floor beneath the overhang of the stadium at Henley, the home ground of the Sydney Smoke rugby union team. It was a pleasant spot with a spectacular view over the pitch and, currently, a cool winter breeze blowing through the open, shaded area ruffled his sweat-dampened hair.
He’d been passing by on his way out of the stadium after the Smoke’s training session when he’d spotted them and stopped to say hi. Val was waiting for her father—Griffin King, coach of the Sydney Smoke—to be finished with a press conference, and Harper had just finished a meeting with the big bosses about the murals she’d been commissioned to paint on the tunnel that led from the locker rooms to the pitch.
They’d invited Donovan to sit and chat for a while, and he’d obliged. He wasn’t much of a chatter, but Val and Harper were great company, there was nothing pressing to be done on this glorious Monday, and hell, if they wanted to sit and converse with his sweaty ass, then who was he to deny them? But he’d been barely registering their chit-chat about finding a suitable date for a mutual friend in deference to cooing at Val’s nine-month-old.
He was bouncing Griffin—or Little Griff as he was affectionately known by the players, so as not to confuse the kid with his grandfather—on his knee, his big hands almost completely enclosing the baby’s torso. The kid was grinning his gummy smile, all flaming red hair sticking up like a troll doll and twin trails of drool running down his chin.
“Do you know who that guy is, Dono?” Harper asked.
Reluctantly, he glanced up from the cherubic face, following Val’s and Harper’s line of sight to find a tall blond guy in a suit and tie, tray in hand, scanning the tables.
And then the buzzing started and nothing else registered.
The air sucked from Donovan’s lungs, his throat tightened, his heart bonged like a gong—a warning gong—inside his chest. Goddamn it. He wasn’t prepared for this. Why hadn’t there been some kind of sign from the universe that today would be the day he’d see a man that made the whole world tilt on its axis?
He’d always figured—hoped—that it would happen. One day. That it would be possible to experience that instantaneous something people who were together talked about in hushed tones. But he hadn’t been looking for it. Not with his career at an all-time high. He’d resigned himself to being alone until after he’d hung up his boots. He’d made peace with it.
Blond Suit Guy was inconvenient.
Donovan pulled his gaze back to Harper, ignoring how jammed up everything felt in his chest. “Never seen him before,” he said over the buzzing in his ears, injecting as much boredom and disinterest into his tone as he could muster. Then he returned his attention to Little Griff, who was dribbling like it was his superpower. “Dude, you gotta get control of that.”
Given how close Donovan had come to drooling just now, he wasn’t sure if the warning was for the kid or for himself.
“I think we need to find out more about him,” Val said, and involuntarily, Donovan’s eyes flicked back to Blond Suit.
This time there was a jolt to his chest as he watched the other man’s gaze sweep closer to their table. It wasn’t unusual to see a guy in a suit at the café, but it was unusual for Donovan to feel sucker-punched by one. The suit was a conservative charcoal and fit like a glove, the jacket hugging broad shoulders, the trousers hugging lean thighs. His shirt was a crisp white, leaving the job of flair solely to a tie, which reminded Donovan of peacock feathers.
Blond Suit’s eyes skimmed over their table as it had all the others, moving quickly over Val and Harper then Donovan before moving on. It had been a nanosecond, yet it blasted like a white-hot spotlight into his soul, searing and searching. Illuminating all the lonely places. Making him want things he couldn’t have.
Just as quickly, and before Donovan could catch his breath or recover enough to look away, the gaze cut back. To Donovan. It cut back and held. Not on Val—a stunning redhead—or Harper—a curvy goddess—it held on him. Settled on him. One second. Two seconds. Three. But in those blips of time an entire understanding was being communicated. An array of possibilities was being offered. A doorway was being cracked opened.
He smiled then. A casual smile that could have been interpreted as friendly by everyone else in the café, but those eyes said differently, and fucking hell, Donovan’s head swam. He was so lightheaded every muscle in his body tensed to counteract the sensation, including his hands around the baby, who squeaked in protest.
Although it hadn’t been Donovan’s intention to python squeeze the coach’s grandson in the presence of his mother, he was grateful for the distraction. Ignoring his galloping heart, he dropped his gaze like a stone, smiling blindly at Little Griff.
“He’s looking this way,” Harper murmured. “No time like the present.”
In his peripheral vision, Donovan could see her smiling. God, no, please. Don’t. Just don’t. But then she was half standing and gesturing, and he shut his eyes.
Fuck.
Donovan didn’t need to look up to know the other man was approaching. He could feel it in the way the air suddenly hummed with electricity and how every breath he took sizzled in his lungs.
“Hey,” Harper said, addressing the guy Donovan was studiously avoiding as he came to their table. “Looking for some company?”
“Thanks.” He placed his tray down. “Don’t mind if I do.” He undid the two buttons holding his jacket together, revealing a plastic ID tag sporting the Sydney Smoke logo attached to his belt. Which meant…Blond Suit worked here.
The place Donovan was at almost every day of his life during footy season.
“I’m Val,” she said, carrying on like the whole damn world wasn’t suddenly shifting and every cell in Donovan’s body wasn’t humming with awareness. “That’s Harper.” She nodded at Harper.
“Hi,” he said, shaking both their hands. “I’m Beck. Nice to meet you.”
“Is that short for something?” Harper a sked.
“Beckett. But only my mother and grandmother call me that.”
“Okay.” Harper nodded. “Beck it is. And this mountain of sweat”—she poked Donovan’s meaty right bicep sporting a half sleeve of black warrior-esque tattoos—“is Donovan Bane.”
Donovan took a beat to stem the riot of feelings inside before glancing up from Little Griff and meeting Beck’s eyes. The zap that arced between them would have put Donovan on his ass if he hadn’t already been sitting. Unthinkingly, he squeezed the baby again as Beck offered his hand and said, “Hey, man.”
Easing his grip as Little Griff let out another squawk, Donovan swallowed. “Hey,” he said, his voice practically fucking cracking as he reached across to take the proffered hand. The hot current that sizzled up his arm was shocking in its intensity.
Much to Donovan’s relief, Beck didn’t hold for longer than was normal, releasing straight away, turning his gaze to the baby. “Your kid?” There was a twinkle in his eye and a half smile that was friendly, not flirty, but there was still this thing buzzing between them, and Donovan didn’t have to ask to know that Beck was feeling it, too.
“Ha!” Val laughed. “As if with that hair.” She ruffled her son’s soft ginger mop. “Although Dono does have an adorable fourteen-year-old daughter, which is why he’s so good with babies.”
“I concur,” Harper said. She and Dex had an eighteen-month-old, Gemma, who adored Donovan.
Little Griff, however, wasn’t so sure, as Donovan gave a third involuntary squeeze to the baby’s rib cage. A flash of something that looked like uncertainty in Beck’s gaze put an itch up Donovan’s spine. Was the other man puzzled as to how Donovan could have a teenager, or was he wondering if he’d been mistaken about Donovan being into dudes?
Val cooed at her son, leaning over to grab him off Donovan’s lap. “Come on, grizzle bum, you hungry?”
Nobody at the table—including Beck—batted an eyelid as Val quickly reached in under her long-sleeve T-shirt and undid the snap of her maternity bra. Little Griff, cradled in her arm, was already searching for his snack as she lifted the shirt enough on that side for him to find what he was looking for but not enough for anyone to know she was feeding unless they looked really, really closely.
The baby, who was absently fondling a cluster of sequins on his mother’s shirt, just looked like he was snuggling. Donovan had loved watching his daughter, Amiria—Miri for short—breastfeed. It had been endlessly fascinating and further confirmation of the might and majesty of women.
“So, you work here?” Harper asked as she passed over a bottle of water to Val.
“That’s right.” Beck pried the lid of his coffee cup off and reached for the sugar. “It’s my first day. I’m in the finance department.”
Finance? Donovan had no idea why a finance guy would be ticking all his boxes. Finance guys weren’t his type. Not that he’d ever been with any guy to know what exactly his type was or, for that matter, allowed himself to wonder such things. He’d never let himself go there. Had a gun been put to his head, Donovan would have thought his type would be some buff, outdoorsy guy. A fellow athlete probably. Or someone who worked with their hands.
Not a desk jockey.
Someone more like him in build and physicality. Beck, who looked about six-foot-two, wasn’t a small guy by any stretch, but at six-four and built like a tank, Donovan tended to dwarf most men.
His dick, however, was saying this guy was definitely his type.
“So, you pay these guys?” Harper said with a smile, inclining her head toward Donovan.
“Ah,” he laughed. “I guess, yeah.”
“This is who you have to suck up to, Dono,” she said.
Oh Christ… Do not think about sucking anything on this man!
Beck’s gaze flitted briefly to Donovan and back, and he felt the awareness in that glance down to his bones. Thankfully, Val jumped in, negating the need for Donovan, usually sparse in his communication, to say anything.
“Are you from Sydney?” Val said.
“Yep.” Beck stirred his coffee. “The southern beaches originally. I’ve been working at a firm in the city for the past decade. But I was starting to feel the barnacles growing on my ass, so I knew I needed to change things up and”—he shrugged—“here I am.”
Yep. Here he was. With his sandy blond hair and his body-hugging suit and the power to fucking sizzle air. Oh, and a really, really nice mouth. Full lips, the bow of the top lip beautifully delineated and flashy as fuck. The bottom lip extra lush. It made Donovan wonder what it would be like to grab that sexy tie and yank Beck closer. Kiss those lips. Bite that bottom, fuller one. To lick it and suck it into his mouth and savour it’s taste.
To hear Beck groan as he did it.
Donovan blinked. Jesus. Do not look at his mouth, dickhead. But that was easier said than done. He’d never kissed a guy. Never been kissed by one, either. He fantasised about it—a lot. More than fucking or wanking or blowjobs. Just the sheer pleasure of being able to kiss someone freely and wantonly and without thought or hesitation…
“Nothing boring about a rugby club,” Val said with a smile.
Beck laughed as his gaze once again cut to Donovan’s for the briefest second. Christ. He had dimples. They were more elongated than pointed, bracketing his mouth rather than punctuating it, but they were on full flash now. “So I’m learning.”
His gaze moved away quickly. But it lingered in Donovan’s gut, sitting warm and solid and full of potential.
“Are you a rugby fan?” Harper enquired.
The other man shot her a sheepish grin and leaned in conspiratorially. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m more of an AFL guy.” He flicked his gaze to Donovan. “Sorry,” he apologised, that damn smile hovering on his bottom lip.
Donovan sought for a witty reply, but witty replies had never been his forte—hell, conversation wasn’t his forte—and this guy had him all at sea. Thankfully, both women were exceptionally capable of defending the game.
Val shot him a faux-scandalised look. “Hush your mouth. You want this stadium to collapse on top of us?”
“Don’t worry,” Harper assured, patting Beck’s hand. “You’ll be converted before you know it, right, Dono?”
Donovan nodded awkwardly, words stuck in his throat. But now that there was no baby to hide behind, he didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he went to his default tic when he was nervous, cracking his knuckles, absently making his way through each finger.
On both hands.
Neither woman seemed to notice his discombobulation, but Beck’s gaze flicked from Donovan’s face to his hands and back again, his eyes—they were blue—soft with understanding and assurance, which was even more dangerous to Donovan’s equilibrium.
God, he should go. Just excuse himself and go.
“You’ll have to come to the home game on Saturday night. Join us in the corporate box,” Harper invited, drawing Beck’s attention. Thank Christ. “The view up there is amazing, and if Dono marauding through a pack of opposition players like they’re Skittles doesn’t make you a fan,” she teased, “then there is no hope for you.”
Beck’s attention returned to Donovan. “You’re that good, huh?”
Donavan avoided Beck’s gaze. Still cracking his knuckles, he said a little more gruffly than intended, “I do all right.”
Which was a lie. Donovan Bane was fucking magic to watch, and he knew it. He just didn’t brag about his prowess like fellow teammate Lincoln Quinn, who practically rented a billboard every time he scored a goddamn try. But Donovan did know his worth and wasn’t afraid to own it. He just couldn’t do it in front of this guy. Not when he felt ridiculously awkward and tongue-tied and…and…discom-fucking-bobulated.
He felt fifteen years old again, beset with confusing feelings about his PE teacher and the dawning realisation that it might be connected to the nagging sense of otherness he’d felt too often in his life.
Jesus, Donovan. Just leave already. Shift your ass!
Firing up his legs to do just that, he was pulled up short by Val saying, “So…Beck, you’re what? Early thirties?”
“Thirty-one.”
