Playing for Keeps - Book 1

Chapter 14

Eating breakfast with Cash is the best type of distraction. It never occurred to me that I would start to care less what my father thinks the longer I admire Cash from the other side of the table. Watching him eat bacon and eggs, shirtless, and what it does to me, well, I might as well never go back to Bexley. My mind is officially mush.

And so I spend a good part of the morning mentally blowing off my responsibilities, watching Cash clean up the dishes, showering, and getting dressed – a white tee shirt and khaki pants. He's utterly oblivious to my struggle. He avoided broaching the topic of my conversation with my father. I want to tell him how quickly I'm falling for him, but it takes extraordinary strength to keep my mouth shut when he opens the passenger side door of a limo and smiles at me.

"Ready for some fun?" he asks; a determination in his jaw says he's thinking, plotting.

My stomach twists with excited nerves. "Can't wait."

He wouldn't tell me what he planned even though I begged him. I don't like surprises, but I love how he refused to give in. I watch him from the opposite side of the limo as he pours a glass of water; his mouth turns into a smile as he watches me nervously fidget with my white pyramid brass necklace.

"Did you make that one too?" he asks.

"I did."

"You've got real talent. Ever think of making it as a career?"

Crafting jewelry all day while drinking herbal tea would be my dream. The problem with dreams is, that's all they are. Dreams. Not reality. I love my creative outlet, but my father would never approve. It would be the ultimate slap in the face to him. He'd think of me as a free-spirited hippie like my mother. Not a chance in hell I'd ever want him to see me that way. And after our telephone conversation this morning, I'm already treading on thin ice.

"I love making jewelry, but my dad would never approve of it as anything more than a hobby. It's a nice thought, though."

He slides along the leather seat until he's beside me. I crowd a bit closer, tucking myself neatly into his side. Exhaling, I mould my shape against his.

"So, sports marketing?" he asks, "That's what you want to do then?"

My heart slowly melts into my gut. We've never talked about future plans. Cash and I seem to have what I would say is an elusive relationship — lots of unanswered questions, no promises and great sex— but talking about future plans? Definitely new.

"No, I'm waiting for Harvard to remove me from their waitlist. I'm waiting for an offer of admission to their MBA program. I'm not sure what I want to specialize in." I say, lifting my chin to look up at him.

He raises a brow, "Harvard, huh."

I shrug, "Yeah."

"That's halfway across the country," he frowns. "What about studying at USC?"

"I've already received an offer of admission from USC," I say. "But I don't want to go there. I want to go to Harvard."

I hear him exhale in one long, tense breath.

"What about you?" I ask, "Is your goal to end up back on the Tornados?"

He nods, sipping water and stretching his legs out in front of him. "Yeah, but before I can return to the majors, I've got to shake my bad rap. It's difficult to convince people you're something other than what they want you to be."

I chew my lip and contemplate my response, "You go along with your bad rap because it's easier that way?"

"I've never had anything to make me want to change," he says.