Free Someone Like You by Jennifer Gracen Page A

Especially with teaching them some basic footwork and strategies. Gotta get their passing game down before anything else, that’s top priority. All right with you?”
    â€œYeah, sure.” She nodded, but her expression was still tight and wary.
    Something in him wanted very much to take that look off her face.
    â€œHow about after practice,” he suggested, “we can go out for a drink or get a bite to eat, and go over all the things you wanted to tell me. Sound good?”
    â€œI, um . . .” She blinked again, obviously thrown. He wondered at it. “I can’t. See that kid?” She pointed to a skinny blond-haired boy who was fidgeting with his cleats as his feet tapped together restlessly. “That’s my nephew, Dylan. That’s why—how—I got involved with the league in the first place. I have to bring him home after practice.”
    â€œOh.” Pierce glanced back at the kid again, who was now clapping his hands on his knees like a rock drummer. Cute kid. Boundless energy. “You’re a good aunt, then.”
    â€œI try.”
    â€œWell, after you drop him off, wanna meet me somewhere?” The corner of his mouth curved up as he held her gaze. “To talk soccer. Of course.”
    Abby was transfixed by the way his sensual mouth pulled up in a teasing smirk. He possibly had one of the most kissable mouths she’d ever seen. Ohhh yeah. Just like she’d surmised: dangerous. “I’m a teacher,” she said. “That’s my day job. I teach first grade, over in Blue Harbor.”
    â€œBlue Harbor, really?” Pierce grinned. “One of my brothers lives there now. He got married recently. His wife lived there, so he left the city and moved in with her.”
    â€œThat’s nice. But, um, the thing is, it’s Monday. I have school tomorrow. I go to bed early, because I wake up early. So I can’t first go out at eight thirty or nine o’clock; I go to bed around ten, ten thirty at the latest.” There. That would put him off. That was the truth, and it sounded reasonable. But she cringed inside as she realized it also made her sound like she was a hundred years old. Mister Party Boy Soccer Star was probably laughing at her in his head. A wave of embarrassment whooshed through her.
    â€œOkay, I understand,” he said. He rubbed his scruffy square jaw, an absentminded gesture that she found unbearably sexy. She tried not to let her eyes wander over how his lean, taut frame filled out the tight white T-shirt and black shorts, or the way his tousled dark hair fell over his forehead, or how when he stood so close she could catch his scent, the faint smell of sweat mixed with some coconutty sunblock. And a hint of chlorine. Like he’d been at a pool all day. The sudden thought of him swimming made her girly parts throb. Those long, tattooed arms cutting through the water, his powerful shoulders and back with water cascading down them . . . wearing nothing but board shorts on his sinewy, sculpted body . . .
    Heat flushed through her like a tidal wave. She swallowed hard. What was wrong with her? Being near him scrambled her brain, and she didn’t like it.
    He flashed another killer smile and said, “How about tomorrow, then? I’ll take you to dinner. My treat, since I was the lazy ass who didn’t check my e-mail today. Is six o’clock good for you?”
    She blinked and stammered, “I, uh—no, it’s—dinner?”
    â€œYeah, dinner. You know, the meal people eat in the evening?” he teased. She scowled at him, and he laughed. “If not tomorrow, are you free Wednesday? Because if the next practice is Thursday, I’m sure you’ll want to fill me in before then, right?” The look in his sparkling blue eyes challenged and teased.
    Oh boy. She was way out of her element with him and she knew it. Bucket loads of easygoing charm to go along with movie-star looks?