He walked with her back to her bungalow, and waited while she dug her key out of her bag. When she turned around to tell him good-bye, he figured he’d push just a little bit more.

“So about New York …”

Her head was down, but she lifted her gaze to his. “I still don’t think that’s a good idea. I mean, it’s been great meeting you and all, but I don’t see us continuing our relationship beyond today.”

She was a tough one. So skittish. “I’m not asking you to marry me, Katrina. But we have chemistry. We can be friends, right?”

Katrina didn’t have friends. Especially not guy friends. She worked, then she went home and hung out with Leo and Anya. That was all she had time for. She didn’t socialize, and she absolutely did not date. She had no idea what Grant’s motive was, but she was not on board for this.

And it wasn’t because she didn’t like him. She liked him a little too much, and that was the problem. Just doing the photo shoots with him for the past couple of days sparked feelings and interest she hadn’t felt in …

Well, never.

She had no business feeling those feelings. Not with all she had on her plate. She couldn’t afford to avert her concentration when she had people depending on her.

“No. We can’t be friends.”

His brows rose. “We can’t. Why not?”

“Because … well, because.”

She inwardly cringed at her lame excuse. She was usually so adept at shutting men down, so cool at expertly pushing them away. Now she fumbled for a valid excuse, and she had no idea why.

Because you don’t want to, that’s why.

He stepped in, and picked up a strand of her hair. She looked down at where his fingers had hold of her hair, and recalled the way his fingers had felt in her scalp during the photo shoot.

She’d liked his hands on her. She wanted more of that. Her body wanted a lot, lot more of him touching her.

“You can do better than that. It’s because you think I’m an arrogant asshole.”

Her head shot up. “What? No. I never said that.”

His lips curved. “I know. Which is why I’ll be calling you when I come to New York.” He pulled out his phone. “Give me your number.”

Her number fell out of her mouth as if she were possessed. What was wrong with her, anyway?

“Great. Just a friendly call. We’ll have dinner. Go do some fun touristy things. You, me, and your brother and sister. No strings attached. Promise.”

She frantically searched for one of her expert shutdown comebacks, but all thoughts fled as he wrapped his arm around her and tugged her against his hard, muscular body.

“Until I see you in a few weeks, Katrina, I’m going to do what I’ve wanted to do since your director put our lips so close together today.”

He slid his hand into her hair—and, dear God, she really liked that. And then he kissed her, and she had no thoughts at all except how soft and full his lips were, how much passion he poured into the kiss, and how he backed her against the door of her bungalow so he could press his body against hers.

Oh, that body. She felt every inch of it aligned with hers, and she wanted so much more.

She dropped her bag and held on to his shirt, felt the mad wild beat of his heart against her hand as he pressed the kiss deeper, his tongue sliding against hers. She wanted to straddle him, to rock her center against his, to massage the thrumming ache he’d brought to life. That ache roared with demand and it wouldn’t be denied. She wanted to beg him to push open her door and get her naked, then lick her all over until she came about a hundred times.

But he finished the kiss, brushed his lips against hers, then leaned his forehead to hers.

She heard him swallow while she fought to catch her breath.

He took a step back and she saw fiery passion in his eyes. “I’m going to be honest with you here, Katrina. After that kiss? I’m not so sure about the just friends thing.”

He turned and walked away, and she fumbled behind her for the door handle, turning it and backing inside.

Just friends? Who was he kidding?

The man was dangerous.

She was going to have to figure out a way to never, ever see Grant Cassidy again.

FIVE

“TWENTY-FOUR AND OUT, SIX, HUT HUT!”

Grant backed away from center, ball in hand, and searched the field, scouting receivers while his front line did their job, keeping the defenders away.

He spied Cole Riley on an open route and threw the ball into Jamarcus Davis’s waiting hands.

It was a good play.

The whistle blew and he regrouped with his offense.

Both the running and passing game were going well. The team looked good this preseason. All their key players were healthy, and the rookies were coming along. If they were lucky and everyone stayed injury-free, they had a shot at a damn good season.

Practice today was long, but productive. Coach Tallarino was happy with their progress, and Grant liked what he saw on offense. He had a lot of targets to hit with his receivers, and that’s all he wanted.

“Looking good out there, Grant,” the coach said after practice. “How’s the arm?”

He’d had some stiffness in his shoulder during the off-season, but he’d worked it out with therapy and weights. “Doing good. No pain, no stiffness.”

“Let the trainers check you out. I don’t want to take any chances. And be sure to check in with the team docs before we take off for New York.”