Double Team Read online

  He's juvenile. Completely and utterly juvenile. I shouldn't be laughing – the things he said to me, telling me he wanted to throw me over his shoulder and pull my panties down my thighs, would have been far beyond inappropriate even if I were a "normal" woman and not the President's daughter. But the fact that I'm the President's daughter definitely makes them worse.

  Even so, it's not the most awful thing in the world, seeing him with his shirt off yet again. I flush warm at the memory of what I imagined him doing last night when I had my fingers between my legs.

  That does not mean I'm attracted to the jackass out there on a riding lawnmower. I know his type. He's the kind of guy who's used to getting away with frat boy antics, the kind of man who thinks he can whip out an arrogant little grin and women will fall all over themselves for him.

  I'm not one of those girls.

  I tell myself that again as I peer through the blinds like a nosy old lady, straining my neck to get a glimpse of him in his yard.

  Yep. I'm definitely not one of those girls.

  Fifteen minutes later, I'm running down the road, trailed by Brooks and Davis at a safe distance, my pace a little faster than usual - which has nothing to do with the fact that Bongo Dude was outside shirtless in his yard and I might have a little pent-up frustration to run off.

  Absolutely nothing.

  We're not more than half a mile into the run when I hear the rumble of a motor, and turn to see Bongo Guy.

  In the middle of the street, coming up behind us, driving the riding lawnmower like it’s a car. Still shirtless, even though it's not exactly a warm summer evening in Colorado.

  I pause as Brooks and Davis stop and reach for their weapons. Rolling my eyes, I put my hand up. "Seriously, I'm a million percent certain my neighbor is not trying to assassinate me by running me over with a lawnmower."

  "You never know, ma'am. Protocol," Davis reasons. I can't tell if she's actually serious, but at least she and Brooks refrain from drawing their weapons.

  I turn, ignoring the fact that a shirtless man is following me on a lawnmower, and resume jogging, but at a slower pace.

  "Need a lift?" Bongo Guy asks, grinning widely. He takes a swig from his can of beer.

  "From the guy who's drinking while driving?" I ask, glancing over at him. I'm glad I'm running because I can return my gaze to the road ahead instead of ogling his bare naked, excessively muscled chest.

  "I’m fairly sure a lawnmower doesn’t count," he protests.

  "Um, it counts."

  "I've only had one beer," Bongo Guy says. "Promise." He crosses his heart with his finger and looks innocently at me - as innocently as someone who's so obviously not angelic can look.

  Focus, Grace. The last thing I need to think about is how obviously not angelic this man is. "Should I even ask why you're riding a lawn mower down the road?"

  "Should I ask why you're being followed around by a couple of suits who are obviously packing?" he counters, referring to them as "suits" even though they're in running gear.

  I open my mouth about to speak the words, “I'm the President's daughter!” except that I don't. I hesitate. I don't know why I don't just come out and say it. No, that's not true. I know exactly why. It's because this is the first time in as long as I can remember that someone hasn't recognized who I am.

  Being the President's daughter is a privilege, of course. I have opportunities most people don't have, and I'm grateful for that. But it also means that's all anyone sees when they look at me. I'm labeled as my father's daughter and that's it. Hardly anyone wants to know anything about me beyond that. Sure, there are the people who know me for my work with the foundation, but personally? Not so many.

  So the fact that this guy doesn't seem to have a clue who I am is, oddly enough, liberating – even if he's crude.

  "Sightseeing," Bongo Guy says.

  "Pardon?"

  "The reason I'm riding the lawnmower. I'm sightseeing."

  "Sightseeing what? Old houses?”

  "Nah. I'm partial to another view."

  I'm grateful for the fact that I'm running and already flushed right now, because otherwise I think my face would have just turned bright red. "Do you usually drive around in a lawnmower following women?"

  "Actually, it’s the first time I've used a lawn mower for this purpose."

  "But it's not the first time driving around and following a woman?"

  "I used a tractor the other time."

  I can't help but laugh. "Classy."

  "It’s a long story."

  "I assume it's one that involves beer?" I ask.

  "Perceptive girl." His eyes crinkle at the edges as he grins. Even when I turn back to look at the road, I'm acutely aware of his gaze still on me.

  "So following me around is your idea of a good time?" I'm running slightly faster now, wondering if his lawnmower can keep up. How fast does a lawnmower even go?

  "Well, it's certainly better than following around Mrs. Johnson."

  "Who's Mrs. Johnson?"

  "The woman who lives across the street. You don't know your neighbors?"

  "I know my neighbors," I protest, feeling slightly defensive. "I mean, I don’t ‘know them’, know them. I wave hello. I'm a nice person. I don't need to know their names."

  "How long have you lived here?"

  "A couple of years." Okay, now I'm totally defensive. "You're obviously friendlier than I am. With your nudity and riding lawnmowers and…whatever it is you spend your time doing."

  "You don't know what I do?" He asks the question like he's pleased with himself.

  "Something that gives you enough time to play the bongos naked and ride around the neighborhood, clearly." He grunts his response. I continue to run, my steps pounding a steady rhythm on the pavement. "Are you waiting for me to ask you what you do?”

  “Most women want to know these kinds of things.”

  I choke back a laugh. "You're full of yourself. And I’m not most women.”

  “Clearly.”

  I run in silence for a few more minutes before exhaling heavily. "Fine. What do you do?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “You can’t tell me?”

  “It's top secret." He takes another sip from his beer and grins.

  “Wait, don’t tell me. You’re a secret agent living undercover as an obnoxious frat guy.”

  “Frat guy? You think I’m a frat guy?”

  I shrug. "You’re the one with the bongos and canned beer and –”

  “What kind of secret agent frat guy lives in a house like that?”

  “One named Dick Balsac?”

  He laughs. "It’s actually Aiden.”

  “Aiden,” I repeat. "Huh. Dick suits you better.”

  “Funny. Do I just keep calling you sugar or do you have a name?”

  “You can stop calling me sugar,” I say. "It’s Grace." I deliberately leave off my last name, although I’m not entirely certain that Aiden would recognize me as the President’s daughter even if I told him.

  “Grace with the bodyguards.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you’re someone important,” Aiden says as I keep running.

  I laugh. "That’s definitely debatable.”

  “Or someone who needs bodyguards. So you're someone people want dead.”

  “Is this your version of I Spy or something? You’re going to try to guess my identity?”

  “You got something better to do in the next… how many miles are you going?”

  “Five.”

  “Shit, I don’t know if the lawn mower can go five miles.”

  “That’s a real shame. Looks like I’ll have to run these five miles on my own. In silence.”

  “Don’t worry. I've still got plenty of juice left in this baby.” He’s talking about the lawnmower, yet his words definitely sound sexual.

  I try to put that thought out of my head, focusing my attention on my cadence and the sound of my feet on the pavement. One-tw
o. One-two.

  Hot bare-chested guy a few feet away.

  Focusing isn't my strong suit right now.

  Aiden's words break through my thoughts. “So you’re someone people want dead.”

  Do people want me dead? Not right this minute; at least I don't think so. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Are you going to tell me if I guess right?”

  “Are you going to tell me who you are?” I counter.

  “Nah. I like it this way. So… have you ever hooked up with someone whose last name you didn’t know?”

  I choke back a laugh. "Is that your lame version of a pick-up line?"

  "I'm just trying to get to know my neighbor, Grace No-Last-Name. It's a reasonable question."

  "It's not a reasonable question."

  He ignores me. "You don't look like a pop star or a model, so that’s out.”

  "Hey! What's that supposed to mean? Are you following me just so you can heckle me?"

  This time when I glance over at him, I see his cheeks redden. Is Mr. No Shame embarrassed? “I meant that you’re not all, like, super skinny and shit.”

  “That's not helping."

  “If you want me to tell you exactly how hot your ass looks in that running gear, I can. I was just trying to class it up a bit.”

  I laugh. "That’s appreciated.”

  “So you’re not a rock star or a model and you’re not super famous -”

  “How do you know I’m not super famous?”

  “You don’t have any fans following you.”

  “This is a gated neighborhood.”

  “Good point. But you don’t look super famous, which clearly means that you're in witness protection.”

  “You’re suggesting that I’m being followed by bodyguards because I’m trying to not call attention to my brand new government-provided identity?”

  “Well, when you say it that way, it just sounds ridiculous.”

  We’re rounding the corner, and when Aiden slows down, I find myself slowing down and then stopping instead of running ahead. "Had enough of guessing?”

  He looks at his watch. “I have to be somewhere.”

  I raise my eyebrows. "Hot date?”

  I don’t even know this guy’s last name, but the thought of him with another woman sets me on edge.

  “Jealous?"

  “Definitely not jealous,” I lie, giving a casual shrug. "Have fun on your date, Bongos.”

  "It's trainin—uh, work," he says. He starts to back up his lawnmower and spin around as I turn to jog away. Then he pauses, looking back at me to call, “You’re a drug lord, aren’t you? Some kind of crime kingpin.”

  I laugh. "You got me.”

  “See you around, sugar."

  7

  Noah

  Aiden stands in my kitchen in workout clothes, making a protein shake. When I walk in, he whistles. "That’s some fancy-ass shit.”

  “Shut up, jackass." I straighten the collar of my shirt. I feel as ridiculous as I look in this outfit. There’s a reason I don’t wear tuxedos. Aside from the fact that I try to avoid doing anything that requires a tux (or a suit, for that matter), they don’t make tuxedos in “football player” size. This thing had to be tailored for me, which seems like an insane amount of effort and expense to go to in order to attend a swanky ten thousand dollar per plate fundraiser.

  Going to the fundraiser was not my idea. It was my agent’s idea, since apparently I'm more marketable if I show up at a public event or two, mind my manners, and pretend I like being around people. The real reason I’m going is that it’s for a good cause, even if it's going to be a room full of uber wealthy snobs eating caviar to benefit a foundation run by the daughter of the President of the United States.

  "Why are you going to this again?" Aiden asks.

  "Because I'm donating my ranch to a foundation for the summer, and this fundraiser is to benefit the foundation."

  "For what?"

  "The foundation gives deserving kids a chance to spend time on a ranch – learn life skills, that kind of thing."

  "Shit, are you having a mid-life crisis? First you move into this place, and now you're not going to spend the summer at your ranch being grouchy and avoiding everyone? You're going to let a bunch of kids have the run of your property? You don’t even like kids.”

  "Fuck off."

  Aiden presses the button on the blender in response. When he stops, he pours an extra-large protein shake into a cup and takes a swig. "Remember to put your pinky up when you're drinking champagne. It's classier like that."

  "I think I'll pass on the etiquette lessons from the guy who walked into my kitchen the other day with his junk hanging out."

  What the hell was I thinking, agreeing to this? I've been here for an hour, and so far it's been a parade of rich old men and their trophy wives or girlfriends asking to take photos with me while offering condescending condolences about the team's big game loss in February, as if I'm personally crushed because the team didn't win.

  I’m not, by the way. I'm still a little pissed off about it, though. More so now that I’ve been reminded of it about a hundred times.

  I knew this fundraiser was a bad idea. Normally, I'd never do something public like this. Make donations? Sure. I've done lots of those. But I’ve never donated my ranch before – it was the first major thing I bought after I got signed in Denver. For the past few summers, in between seasons, I go out to the ranch and decompress, away from everything and everyone. This summer is different, though, because I’m in negotiations and I can’t hole up away from everybody, as much as I want to do just that. So when my agent came to me a few months back with info about this charity, the idea of donating the ranch just popped into my head.

  I should have anticipated that my cutthroat agent would want to maximize the public relations part of that donation as much as possible, which is why I’m reluctantly at a fancy event where I’m supposed to smile and pretend to be interested in what a bunch of wealthy people who are completely out of touch with reality are talking about. I realize the irony of saying that when I've played on a multi-million dollar contract for the past four years, but even now, I have a hard time seeing myself as wealthy. I'm still the same poor kid from West Bend, and I always will be.

  Before long, I find myself at the bar, asking for the bartender