Page 62 of Fashionista's Playbook

I chose my words carefully. Not for fear of hurting him, but to not give too much of myself away. “The last time in my life things were too good to be true; they really weren’t.” I blinked back tears, for the teenage girl I’d been. “And it was—bad.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Moriah.”

“You wouldn’t mean too. But life is messy.”

His sad laugh vibrated against my back. “I’ll prove it to you.”

And that did quite a bit to push away the ugliness that had crept in. I hoped he could, because I hadn’t been this happy in a very long time.

****

Cocooned in the softness and warmth provided by high thread count, expensive sheets, I clung to sleep. An incessant chirping grated on my nerves and made that impossible. Not that I could move to make it stop. When had I invested in a weighted blanket? The heaviness over me was far more comforting than it was confining.

And why did it smell so good…?

I froze before I opened my eyes, and spent several seconds enjoying the even, breathy sounds Travis made and the feel of him wrapped all around me.

The windows in his room were covered by thick, blackout privacy curtains which left me with no idea what time it could be. And maybe it was the wine last night, but I couldn’t remember what day it was or where I was supposed to be.

I knew exactly where I was—in bed with Travis Madera. My boss and star tight end for the Outlaws. As I opened my eyes, last night came back in wondrous, vivid detail.

The beeping refrain continued from somewhere near the other side of the bed. Half-blind with sleep I nudged his shoulder. “Answer your phone.”

Mumbling and stretching, he rolled away from me. I nestled into the warm spot left behind when he sat up and plucked his iPhone from the bedside table.

He silenced it and turned back to me, wrapping me in his arms again. “Good morning, Mariposa.”

I’d never imagined being held that way, I liked it.

“More like mid-afternoon.” I chuckled and marveled at being this happy and sore, at the same time.

His phone chirped its annoyance again and Travis swore. “If I cut it off, the little prick will show up.”

There was only one person in his life that earned that moniker: his manager.

Travis swiped the screen and ground out through clenched teeth. “What is it, Ace?”

“Yo, look, you made a big splash last night.” Ace said through short bursts of breath, like he was out for a jog thinking of ways he could further exploit the players he represented. “I mean I’m not sure why you chose that lump to be photographed with—I can find you someone more fashionable if you’re having a hard time…”

His nasally voice trailed off into the sudden whirring of humiliation in my ears. I gripped the blanket, twisting the fabric around my fingers to control my emotions. It didn’t matter what Travis or I felt, how good the sex was, to the people around him I was a replaceable lump.

When I made to slide from the bed, Travis’ tattooed arm shot out and gripped my wrist.

I followed the line of rigid muscle from where the sheet rested at his stomach, up to the hard tension of his shoulders. When I hazarded a glance at his face, a muscle twitched in his jaw and the look in his eyes was anything but sorry.

He was angry.

Oblivious to Travis’ silent reproach, Ace continued. “…and we can go on Fox Sports, set up a whole thing with them and tour prospective facilities, parlay that into different sponsorship opportunities.”

“Hollis.” Not his first name. “I need you to do something for me, it’s important.”

“Sure man, anything.”

His hand slid over mine. “Go fuck yourself.” He made to hang up while the man sputtered. “Oh, and you’re fired.”

Travis slung the phone on the bed like it was covered in something vile.

“Well...” I slipped from the covers clad in only Travis’ t-shirt.

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