They started as strangers texting…

The last thing star tight end Gray Grayson wants to do is drive his agent’s daughter’s hot-pink car. But he needs the wheels and she’s studying abroad.

Unknown: Mr. Grayson, my father tells me he lent you my car. I don’t care if he’s going to sign you or not. As said agent’s daughter, I know football players & their ways. So let me be clear. There will be no shenanigans taking place in it or you’ll answer to me. You want to hook up with someone, do it in a bed and not in my car. Sincerely, Ivy Mackenzie

GrayG: Hey, Miss Mac. You do realise your car is a bubblegum-pink Fiat, right? Even if I could get it up surrounded by all that heinous pink, the car is better suited for Lilliputians. So don’t worry, there will be no shenanigans (Shenanigans? Srsly? What are we, 80?) anywhere near the car. I’m not about to pull a hamstring in the pursuit of pleasure. BTW beds are overrated. Branch out a little.

Soon became best-texting buddies…Gray Grayson drives Ivy nuts. He’s irreverent, sex on a stick and completely off-limits. Because Ivy has one golden rule: never get involved with one of her father’s clients.

But when they finally meet in person, everything goes haywire. Game on.

Ivy

Most people hate the airport. I get that. Everyone is in a hurry, hauling around luggage, some afraid to fly, some annoyed by the heinous TSA lines.

And yet, for me, there’s an air of excitement to an airport. At least as a traveler. Because either you’re going somewhere or you’ve arrived. For that alone, I love the airport. But my absolute favorite spot? The arrivals gate.

I love those gates. Love watching the people who wait with an almost nervous anticipation for their loved ones to arrive. Love seeing faces light up, people cry out with joy and laughter or even tears when they spot that special person. Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, friends, lovers… An endless stream of reunions.

In the years after my parents got divorced, I used to go to the airport and simply sit on one of the cracked pleather chairs and soak it all in. Here, at least, I would see the good side of love.

I’m here again, at the arrivals gate. Only this time, I’m the one arriving. And there’s no one here to greet me. No sister. No dad.

After being in a plane for nearly eight hours, my eyes are gritty, my knees ache from being crammed into a too-small space, and I probably stink. It’s hard to tell; my fellow travelers kind of stink too, making us one big moving, bleary-eyed unit of airplane funk. Or we were. Now people are picked off one by one as open arms embrace them. I scan the crowd for a familiar face, trying hard not to be disappointed when I don’t see one.

Too soon it becomes obvious that I’ve been forgotten. The crowd thins, and what remains are the people waiting for the next wave of passengers to be cleared through customs.

Clutching the handles of my massive rolling suitcases, I lumber over to an empty seat and make myself comfortable. My phone is out of juice and is a useless black screen.

“Fuck,” I mumble, blinking hard before running a hand over my face. I want to speculate why my dad or sister isn’t here, but if I do, I might cry. And I’m not crying here.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Being Sean Mackenzie’s daughter means waiting until clients are appeased, crises are averted, and deals are hammered out in ironclad contracts. Given that my dad is one of the top sports agents in the country, there’s almost never an empty moment left for me. But you’d think the infamous Big Mac, as the sports world dubbed him, would remember to pick me up. Or, at the very least, ask my sister, Fiona, to get me.

They’re just late. They were tied up in traffic. You’ve been gone for a year. They wouldn’t miss your homecoming.

In a minute, I’ll get up and search for an outlet to charge the phone and then call Dad. Right now, I don’t want to move. I’ve sat for hours, and I’m suddenly too weak to do anything but slump in a chair.

Worse, without the phone, I cannot appear busy, as if I’m intentionally sitting on my own. I can’t scroll through my screen and watch TikTok while pretending it’s important business. I can’t text Gray, which is ironic since I didn’t tell him I was coming home, wanting to surprise him instead. I can only sit in perfect silence as the world moves past me.

Travelers walk in several distinct paces: brisk, trudging, and harried—the last usually reserved for families. Viewed as a whole, these paces set a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic. Maybe that’s why I notice the lone person bobbing along at top speed from far down the massive corridor. A guy. And he’s running.

Idly, I watch him. He’s easily a head taller than anyone in the airport, which is something in and of itself. Even from this distance, his face hovers above the moving sea of people. Though I can’t distinguish his features, it’s clear that he’s anxious. And he’s fast, weaving around slower-moving passengers with an ease that’s impressive for someone so tall.

He’s closer now, close enough that I can see his broad shoulders and wide chest. Close enough to see the gold glints in his dark blond hair, as he runs past a thick block of sunlight shafting in through the plate-glass windows.

All at once, my breath grows fast and my heart trips. A smile pulls at my face, as I rise to my feet. I want to hope, want to believe.

His gaze, hard and determined, is on the arrivals gate.

God, but the way he moves—fast water over smooth stones. People stop and stare as he goes by. How could they not? Massive, muscled, yet perfectly proportioned and at ease within his skin, he’s clearly an athlete. And he’s gorgeous. Strong jaw, chiseled features, golden skin, and sun-kissed hair.

He blows right past me, only to stop on a dime at the edge of the cordoned-off area of the arrivals gate. For a minute, he scans left and right, his gaze never going far enough to meet mine. Then he bends over, bracing his hands on his knees, and curses under his breath. He isn’t winded, but upset. It’s clear.

He curses again, pushes himself straight, and then starts to pace, as if standing still is too much for him.

Muttering and scowling, he stalks a wide circle, bringing his hands behind his neck in aggravation. The move does crazy things to his biceps, bunching them up, making them even bigger. I doubt I could get my hands around them. Though I imagine trying.

And all the while, I grin like a fool. I can’t help myself; he’s just so cute. I’m still grinning when his gaze finally collides with mine.

Distracted as he is, his eyes almost scan past me, but he sort of stutters and then freezes. For a moment we stare at each other. His soft mouth parts and his arms slowly lower. Recognition clears the haziness from his blue eyes, and a flush of color rises up his neck.

A current crackles between us, lifting the tiny hairs along my arms. My breath catches then turns swift.

This is joy, unfiltered and pure. And so heady I almost don’t know how to handle it.

As if he feels some strong emotion too, his cheek twitches. He takes one step toward me, then pauses, tilting his head to peer at me as though trying to make sure.

I smile wider. Seeing me smile has his lips curling, a slow, tentative move.

“Mac?”

Although he’s at least twenty feet away, I read my name on his lips with ease. And then I’m laughing, a total goofball snort.

“Gray.”

Even from a distance, he hears me. And then he’s moving, so fast he’s almost a blur. On the next breath, I’m enveloped by a wall of hot skin and hard muscles.

He gathers me in his arms and swings me around like it’s effortless. For the first time in a year, I feel delicate and small. He smells of sunlight and sweat and, strangely, of home. I press my nose into the warm crook of his neck, as he laughs and squeezes me tight.

We’ve never touched before now, never even seen each other in person. Yet there is nothing awkward about wrapping myself around him. It feels perfect.

Gray’s hand engulfs the back of my head as he holds me close. “Holy shit,” he says in a voice that’s resonant and yet light with happiness.

We’ve been texting back and forth so much I had to pay extra on my phone plan, and I’ve never heard his voice until now.

“It’s you, Mac. It’s really you.”

And it’s really Gray. The person I’ve communicated with almost nonstop since that first text. So quickly, he became a friend, a necessary part of my day. My strange addiction. The thought leaves me shy. Yet I don’t want to let go.

Gray

I can’t believe I’m holding her in my arms. Ivy Mackenzie. Aside from Drew, I’ve never clicked with someone so quickly. Now she’s here.

And, God, she feels good. Solid, real. Soft, warm. She smells of airplane food, stale coffee, and travel. Not the best scent. But beneath that, there’s a hint of something sweetly feminine, like sugar and vanilla. I draw it into my lungs and feel a stab of alarm because it’s going to my head—the smaller, greedy one. Not the way I want to think of my best girl. And if she notices my reaction, I’ll feel like a dirty perv.

I should let her go. Take a step back. But a sudden and not-altogether-unexpected shyness hits me. What if it isn’t like before? What if now that we’re face-to-face everything turns awkward? I’ve never had a close female friend. Never really wanted one.

Part of me doesn’t want to let her go because then we’ll have to talk, to look each other in the eye. Another part of me just wants to hold her because it feels so damn good—perfect. But I can’t stand here forever. Eventually, she’ll want to be let down. Only she’s clinging to me too. Her long limbs wrapped up around mine. Maybe she’s just as nervous.

The realization gives me the courage to ease my grip and let her slide down my length.

She doesn’t go far. She’s tall. Amazonian tall. I didn’t expect that. But I like it. I’m six foot six and two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, which means girls are usually dwarfed by my size. I’m constantly having to bend down to so much as wrap an arm around them, let alone get a kiss. And fucking them? I worry about crushing some girls. Literally.

But Mac? She’s got to be around six feet tall. The top of her head fits nicely under my chin. And she’s not a twig either. Just a perfect run of long limbs and soft, sweet curves.

Shit. I’m ogling her. I take another step back and meet her eyes. I can’t help but smile. I’m so fucking happy to see her, it’s a little scary.

“I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you,” I tell her, still nervous. “You look…different from the picture your dad has on his desk.”

It’s the only one I’d seen of her.

Mac’s blunt little nose wrinkles in disgust. “God, not that one of me at fifteen?”

“Pretty sure that’s the one.” I’m trying not to laugh, but it’s hard.

Her scowl grows. “That’s a horrible picture. I’m going to kill Dad for leaving it out in the open.”

I don’t blame her. She was a round-faced, braces-wearing teen in that picture. In my mind, I’d still viewed her that way: chubby cheeks, button nose, big brown eyes.

The reality is different. Her eyes are still big and brown beneath almost straight brows, but the baby fat is gone. Her cheeks are high and defined, her jaw a smooth curve. And, no, I didn’t think she’d still have straggly hair pulled back tight in a barrette. Or maybe I did—but it’s not straggly or pulled back.

Her glossy dark brown hair comes to rest just above her shoulders, with a strong sweep of bangs over those eyes of hers.

I gravitate toward women who wear their hair long and flowing, but Mac’s cut is kind of sixties retro.

My girl, I realize, is hot. Not obvious, sex-kitten hot, but girl-next-door, I-gotta-know-what-she’s-hiding-under-that-shirt kind of hot.

No. Not going there. I’m just proud, is all. Mac won’t lack for attention.

Frowning, I bend down to take hold of her luggage. “Let’s get you home.”

We fall into an easy pace, her long legs keeping time with mine, which is so novel to me that I find myself relaxing into my natural stride, not the shortened steps I usually take around women.

I can’t seem to stop looking at her. It’s weird: every line and curve of her is utterly new to me and yet familiar in some bone-deep way. It makes me think of amicable numbers. Each one is capable of summing up the other.

Fuck, this girl is already turning me into an emotional sap. But it doesn’t make me any less happy.

“Your dad sends his apologies.”

“I just bet,” she mutters, hurt and anger simmering beneath the surface.

I feel like shit for her, and more than a little pissed at Big Mac for putting that hurt in her eyes.

“He was stuck—”

“Taking care of a client,” she finishes for me with a wave of her hand. “I know.” A small sigh leaves her. “I’m used to it, believe me.”

I do. Doesn’t make it any better, though. It makes me even more pissed off at her dad.

“I’d have been here on time, but ah…”

Hell, I don’t want to tell her that I’d only just gotten the call to pick her up. But she figures this out on her own, and her mouth tilts in a smirk.

“So I’m guessing he hit up Fiona. Only Fi was out, so he begged you.” Her brows draw together. “What’s Fi’s excuse, do you know?”

“Puking her guts out, apparently. He said she has the flu.”

“Oh.” Mac’s annoyance visibly deflates. “Poor Fi.”

She pronounces it “fee” instead of “f-eye.”

I haven’t met Mac’s younger sister. I know she goes to a local all-girls college, where I’d trolled for chicks during my freshman and sophomore years. But I’m not telling Mac that. She already gives me grief for being a “manslut.”

Stupid term. Personally, I prefer “equal-opportunity fuck master.” Again, not telling Mac that.

“You don’t mind, do you?” I ask as we make our way out into the bright sunshine. Fresh air mixing with jet and bus fumes assaults my lungs. “Me picking you up?”

“No,” she says quickly, maybe too quickly. “Why would I mind?”

I shrug, sidestepping a businesswoman booking it into the terminal. “You didn’t tell me you were coming home.”

Until the words are out of my mouth, I don’t think I’d realized how much that stings.

It’s worse when she grimaces. “Yeah, I know…” She stares down at her red Chucks as she walks. “I should have told you. I just…”

“Ivy,” I warn.

Saying her real name for the first time is intimate in some strange way, and I don’t know how I feel about that.

“Okay, okay,” she hurries on. “It was shitty. I just. Fuck it.”

She glances at me and there’s steel in that look, as if she’s bracing herself. “I wanted to, of course I did. I planned to surprise you tomorrow. But, I dunno, I was afraid too. What if it got all—”

“Awkward.” I start to smile, and my step grows lighter.

Especially when she smiles back at me, her apple cheeks going rosy. “You worried too?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, what if you didn’t like me in person? We’ve been so close…” I trail off, strangled by my own discomfort. And now it’s fucking awkward. Brilliant.

She solves this by slinging an arm around my waist and giving me a hug. The action sends warmth straight through my veins, and I find myself leaning into her embrace.

“I’m glad you’re here, Gray.” Her fingers press into my side. “Really glad.”

I’ve just officially met Ivy Mackenzie, and I realize I’ve missed her for what seems like years.

“Me too.”

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