Page 6 of The Wiener Across the Way

I rolled my eyes. I knew this was coming. “Not another actor. Not for a long time. And not a musician either. I’m so tired of big dick egos but no actual big dicks.”

Penelope snorted. When it was just the three of us, and Wiener the Pooh, I could be more myself. I’d die if anyone else ever heard me talk like that. Cute and innocent was the Kelsey Best persona everyone wanted from me. So that’s what they got.

Pen held a finger up and made that face she did when she had a really clever idea. “What about Declan Kingman?”

“Who?” The name sounded so familiar, and warm and delicious. “He’s not that FlipFlopper who says he’s into thick girls but is, like, weird and fetishy about it, is he?”

“No. Ew. The guy who rescued Pooh this morning.” She put her hand over her heart and pretended to swoon. But popped right back up. “He’s not an actor or musician and I doubt he has a FlipFlop. He’s a professional football player, so he knows how to be in the spotlight, but he isn’t in the showbiz world.”

My legs went all jelly again thinking of our brief encounter. His strong hands gently cradling Pooh, his eyes meeting mine with a mixture of concern and warmth.

“Declan Kingman,” I repeated, rolling the name around in my mouth like a new flavor. Mmm.

I pondered that for a moment, the idea of Declan slowly seeping in. A part of me was excited at the thought of seeing him again, but another part dreaded the idea of another public relationship. Not that it would be real or anything. All for show.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m not ready to jump into something just for the sake of headlines. And do pro athletes even do these kinds of setups?”

Skeeter nodded, understanding the dilemma. “It doesn’t have to be serious. Just a few public appearances, something to get the press off your back about Jake. I can reach out to his agent. Honestly, Kels, it would probably give his career a boost to be seen with you. So it’s win-win.”

I didn’t know diddly squat about football. Except they had cute butts. It was the tight pants. Hugely different from the gray sweatpants that had shown off every one of Mr. Kingman’s attributes and then some. He’d tried really hard to hide it, but someone should have told him that was a lost cause, and that most, if not all, of my staff would probably be imagining what that bulgecould do when they were alone in bed tonight.

Whew. I picked up my water. Was Denver always this hot this time of year?

“Okay, call his people. But make sure they understand this isn’t long term. I’m not pretending to be in some long-distance relationship while we’re on the international leg of the tour.”

I’d better do some research on football and the guys who played it.And by research I meant scrolling FlipFlop to see if he did have an account. Surely, he did. Because even if it was a manufactured romance, I could still get some inspiration for some kind of a love song out of it.

Since that’s all anyone wanted from me anyway, not an artist seeking truth in her work. Not that I would ever complain. I was lucky and privileged and got to make music for a living instead of working at a desk, or in a restaurant, or any other number ofjobs that real people did every day and probably worked a hell of a lot harder than I did.

I supposed if anyone would understand that, it might be a man who played a game for a living.

MEAN DECK KING

DECLAN

The roar of the crowd from yesterday’s game is what should be echoing in my head, a muddled mix of cheers and boos. It wasn’t. “Book Boyfriend” was drowning out all other thoughts.

I was on the field for practice, trying to focus, but my mind kept drifting back to Kelsey Best. Her laugh, her smile... her dog. I shook my head, chiding myself. Focus, Declan, focus.

Out of nowhere, a football smacked against my helmet.

“Hey, Earth to Declan,” Chris called out, waving his arms to get my attention. I rubbed the spot where the ball had hit, glaring at him. Classic Chris. Wasn’t the first time I’d been beaned in the head by a ball from my older brother. At least this time I was wearing a helmet.

I jogged over to where my brothers stood, Chris with his quarterback’s smirk, Everett tossing a ball up and down, and Hayes stretching his legs.

“What’s up?” I tossed the ball back to Chris, but Hayes snagged it right out of the air. The kid was fast.

Chris clapped me on the back, his big shit-eating grin barely containing his excitement. “No one in the world would believe it, but you’ve been nominated for the league’s meanest player.”

“Just like Dad back in the day,” Hayes added, thumping me on the arm in a brotherly punch.

“Yeah, our not so secret weapon is the Kingman mean machine on defense,” Everett chimed in, nodding approvingly.

I blinked. I was just doing my job. Usually pretty damn well. My plays on the field were aggressive, sure, but mean? I glanced at my brothers, their faces alight with what they saw as an honor.

“Who else is on the list?” I had to be on there because I was a legacy for the award. “It better be full of the best goddamned linesmen in the league.”

That came out a bit gruffer than I’d intended. It was irritating that I both wanted to win the accolade and I didn’t want anything to do with it.

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