Passion Overtime. Pamela YayeЧитать онлайн книгу.
the door swung open and a flabby, silver-haired man, who he guessed was Walter Morrow, burst into the room with more exuberance than Richard Simmons. Terrence stood, hand outstretched, game face on. He took a step forward, but his legs buckled like a folding chair.
Momentarily speechless, his gaze swept over the woman with the familiar scent. Walter welcomed him to Hollington, but Terrence didn’t respond. His eyes were glued to Kyra and the longer he stared, the harder it was to think. She had a fresh, modern look that was sexy but not overdone, and seeing her again after all these years made his heart race a hundred miles an hour. He was known to say, “You’ve seen one pretty face, you’ve seen ’em all!” But today, Terrence was prepared to eat crow. Kyra wasn’t the typical beautiful woman. She was infinitely more. More natural, more graceful, more sophisticated. There was a simplicity about her, something warm and compelling and, though it was hard to believe in this day and age, genteel.
“Terrence Franklin, the pleasure is all mine.”
He felt a sharp pop in his shoulder and snapped out of his daze. Mr. Morrow was pumping his hand so hard, his knuckles cracked.
“It’s good to be back at Hollington.” His decision to return to his alma mater had been twofold. He’d make some plans for the future and reconnect with Kyra. He’d never forgotten the sacrifices she’d made for him, and he was going to make things right with her if it killed him. Staring at her now, he said, “This school holds a lot of special memories for me.”
“That’s right. You rushed for ninety-three yards against the Wildcats in your first game!” Mr. Morrow’s face clouded with nostalgia. “I wasn’t president of Hollington back then, but I was in the bleachers that night. You were incredible and the energy in the stadium was electric!”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Excuse me, but I just have to ask. What’s Terrell Owens really like? He’s a hothead, isn’t he? A real live wire, I bet,” he speculated. “Come on, you’re out of the league now, you can tell me. I promise it won’t leave this room.”
Football had been his life since he picked up his first pigskin at the age of nine, but Terrence didn’t want to discuss his teammates, his endorsement deals or any of the other usual crap fans liked to talk about. Uninterested in the conversation, he stared at Kyra, desperate to make eye contact. Why wouldn’t she look at him?
As if remembering Kyra was standing behind him, Walter turned and gave her a hearty push forward. “This is the little lady I’ve been chatting up over the phone. Terrence Franklin, I’d like you to meet—”
“Kyra Dixon,” he finished smoothly. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
Mr. Morrow’s cheeks sagged when his jaw fell open. “You guys know each other?”
“We took a few classes together,” she was quick to say, “and we knew a lot of the same people on campus.”
Her smile was polite, guarded, filled with manufactured warmth. He’d been haunted by her face for all these years and he knew forced emotion when he saw it. “Welcome back to Hollington, Mr. Franklin. We’re glad to have you.”
Disappointed by her lukewarm greeting, he dug his hands into his pockets and shook off feelings of frustration. He wasn’t doing play drills in the scorching Dallas heat or working out with his trainer, but he needed a moment to catch his breath. This was insane. He’d dated models, dancers and an impressive collection of singers and actresses, but he’d never been more nervous than he was right now.
“I wish I could stay, but I have a board meeting in fifteen minutes,” Mr. Morrow explained. “I’d cancel, but everyone’s expecting me.”
Thank God. I thought he’d never leave. While Terrence waited for the man to disappear, he studied Kyra closely, carefully, examining every aspect of her appearance. Light eyes, plump glossy lips, curves stacked on top of curves. Her hair had a soft sheen to it and was cut in a dramatic, cheek-grazing bob. The reddish-brown hue was a sharp contrast to her coffee-with-cream complexion and played up her soft, pale eyes. Underneath her mustard blazer was a white blouse and a belted skirt that emphasized her soda pop bottle shape.
Terrence licked his lips. He’d just finished a bottle of vitamin water, but he was suddenly thirstier than a Kenyan marathon runner. High-heeled sandals gave Kyra height, and reminded him of those clunky shoes she used to wear back in the day. The PR manager hated her diminutive height and still did everything in her power to appear taller. Five feet four inches was listed on her driver’s license, but she used to swear on a stack of bibles that she was five-six.
“Terrence, we’ll talk later this week,” Walter promised, pausing at the door. “If you need anything, anything at all, just let Kyra know. She’ll take good care of you.”
“What was that all about?” he asked, when they were alone. “Why didn’t you tell him the truth?” He added, half-teasing, “You’re not embarrassed of me, are you Kyra?”
The corners of her lips tightened. “We’re going to be spending a lot of time together in the coming weeks and I’d like if we could put the past behind us.”
Her eyes were so pretty, so deep and incredibly bright, he couldn’t concentrate on what she was saying. Kyra was all business, but that didn’t stop Terrence from wanting her. He wanted to touch her, hold her, feel the delicious heat of that shapely body. But he knew better than to touch her. Not yet, anyway. After, when she’d loosened up and quit being so tense, he’d show the public relations director that he was a changed man.
The sound of his name on her heavily painted cherry-red lips brought him back to the present. “Fine. If that’s what you want, I’ll go along with it.”
On the football field he was flashy, brazen, daring even, but here, in Hollington, standing inches away from his first love, his confidence deserted him. He was just another man, lusting over a ridiculously beautiful woman, and though he was a smart, articulate guy, he didn’t have the words to tell Kyra just how stunning she was. “Anything else on your mind?”
“I know you’re very busy, so let’s get started.”
Terrence pumped more shine into his smile. “I have all the time in the world.”
“Well, I don’t.”
His face must have showed his surprise, because she suddenly looked contrite.
Gesturing to one of the chairs around the table, she sat down and crossed her legs. Shoulders squared, hands clasped, she looked like a woman in control of herself and her surroundings. And for now, she was. “I promise to be brief.”
Terrence followed her lead. Seated, his eyes roving appreciatively over her chest and hips, he tried not to stare at her moist, luscious mouth.
“Mr. Rawlins quit unexpectedly, leaving us scrambling to find a suitable replacement, and although the interim coach is doing a fine job, President Morrow made it very clear that you’re the only one he wants for our team.”
“What do you think, Kyra?”
“I think you’ll bring excitement back to Hollington and connect with the freshman players.” Another artificial smile. “Why don’t I tell you more about the specifics of the job, and we’ll go from there?”
Kyra tucked a chunk of hair behind her ear. Sunlight splashed through the window and bounced off the diamond ring on her hand. Panic swelling in his chest, he checked to see which finger. Second from the left. What? Kyra was married?
Twenty minutes passed. Kyra delivered her pitch and though her enthusiasm was contagious, he didn’t hear more than five words. How was he supposed to concentrate when she smelled so damn good? No one could concentrate under these conditions. Not even the Pope, and he was the king, or rather, the father of cool.
“I was hoping you’d stop me when I got carried away,” she confessed, dropping her hands in her lap. “What do you think so far?”
“I