Sweet Spot (Summer Rush #1)

• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• About the Author
  
• Other Books by Cheryl Douglas
  

Sweet Spot

Book One in the Summer Rush Series

Cheryl Douglas

Copyright © by Cheryl Douglas

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, including photocopying, graphic, electronic, mechanical, taping, recording, sharing, or by any information retrieval system without the express written permission of the author and / or publisher. Exceptions include brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Persons, places and other entities represented in this book are deemed to be fictitious. They are not intended to represent actual places or entities currently or previously in existence or any person living or dead. This work is the product of the author’s imagination.

Any and all inquiries to the author of this book should be directed to:
[email protected]

Sweet Spot © 2016 Cheryl Douglas

Tenley woke up to a pounding headache and a ringing phone. Bad combination, especially when the alarm clock read 2:12 a.m.
Who is stupid enough or desperate enough to call me at this hour?
Only one person she could think of.

“Hello,” she grumbled to the unknown caller, guessing it was her ex. When all she heard was heavy breathing, she said, “Speak or I swear I’ll—”

A raspy chuckle made her sit up and take notice. Definitely not her dirtbag ex. He didn’t even sound that hot when he was half-asleep.

“Come on, now. You’ll what? And remember, you don’t wanna be nasty to the man of your dreams.”

She rolled her eyes, knowing he wouldn’t be the man of her dreams even if he had a face and body to match that panty-drenching voice, ’cause she’d stopped dreaming about men a long time ago. Not that she was into women. She just wasn’t into being screwed around, and men who promised they were her dream man usually turned out to be her worst nightmare.

“Who is this?” she demanded, squinting into the darkness.
These damn headaches are going to be the death of me.

“I’ll give you one hint. I can do things with my tongue that’ll make your eyes roll back in your head. You just got a taste of that tonight.”

She pulled the phone away from her ear.
Was this guy for real?
He didn’t sound hammered, but she knew lots of guys could drink a mickey and still sound as if they’d just gotten off work.

“Look, buddy, I think you’ve got the wrong number.”

That made him pause. “What’s your name?”

“None of your business.”

She was too smart to give some random drunk her name, even if he did have a sexy, gravelly voice that reminded her it had been way too long since she’d had a hook-up. For all she knew, he could be a psycho stalker who called up women, hoping they’d tell him their name and address, then dropped by and slashed their throats while they slept.

Okay, maybe she’d watched a
Law and Order
marathon and was getting carried away, but still, she didn’t know this dude and wasn’t telling him jack.

“How about if I tell you my name?”

“What makes you think I’d care?”

He laughed. “You’re a real firecracker. I like that.”

“I’m glad you’re amused, but I have to get some sleep.” He was probably one of those underwear models with abs of steel and an ego as big as his junk.

“Are you sleeping alone?”

She rubbed her eyes.
Did he seriously just ask me that?
“Again, none of your business.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. That’s a shame.”

“Not really. I choose to sleep alone. I’m a blanket hog. Besides, my battery-operated boyfriend is a lot less trouble than any man.”
Okay, why the hell had I told him that?

“Honey, if you need one of those to get off, you’ve been dating the wrong men.”

“Are you saying I wouldn’t need one if I were dating you?”

She was right about the ego. She couldn’t help but wonder if she was right about the size of his junk too. Her best friend and roommate, Stacey, claimed it wasn’t the size but if they knew how to use it. But Tenley knew she only said that because most of her boyfriends could wear a jock under their jeans and still not impress anyone.

“No way. Not only would I keep you satisfied, I’d make sure you never wanted another man.”

It was her turn to laugh. This one was a seriously delusional mofo if he believed that. “Uh, I hate to disappoint you, but there isn’t a man alive, no matter how…” She cleared her throat. “Well-endowed who could keep me happy forever.”

“That sounds like a challenge. I like challenges,” he purred.

“If you like challenges so much, start training for the Boston Marathon, ’cause you’re wasting your time on me.”

“What do you do?”

“Stand on the street corner waiting for my Prince Charming to rescue me.”

He laughed, which was a welcome change. Most guys were stupid enough to believe her when she told them she was a hooker. Some had even offered a few hundred bucks if she’d show them a good time. Maybe this one was worth a few more minutes’ amusement.

“Come on, I’m serious. What do you do?”

“Kick ass.” That was the truth. Okay, maybe not the literal truth, but she showed other women how to kick ass, should the need arise. “When I’m not making Pink Panties for all my girls.” He probably didn’t know that was a cocktail, and she wouldn’t tell him she was a mixologist at her brother’s bar at night, and a kickboxing instructor by day.

“Now I’m really intrigued.”

“You’re asking all the questions. How ’bout answering a few for me?”

“I’m an open book, baby. Ask away.”

Tenley knew that usually meant he’d told the same lies so many times they rolled off his tongue, but she was willing to play along. “What do you do?”

“I’m a pitcher.”

“A pitcher?” She sat up straighter, propping her pillows against the vintage iron headboard her roommate claimed was shabby chic. She thought it was rusty crap, but since she didn’t care, she let her do her thing with their fugly little shoebox apartment. “Oh yeah? Double-A, Triple-A—”

He laughed. “Pro.”

“Shut up.” With two older brothers, she’d been obsessed with sports since she could walk and knew every pitcher in the majors. “You’re lying your ass off.”

“Do you kiss your mama with that mouth?”

She glared at her phone as if he could see it. “You don’t like it, you can always hang up.”

“Nah, I’m gettin’ into this.”

“Just don’t think you’ll be gettin’ into me.” She decided it was best to let him know upfront their harmless flirtation would never get him where he thought it would. Even if he was a pro ball player.

He chuckled. “You are too much.”

“So, what’s your name?” She expected him to tell her he was a closer that had just been called up from some farm team.

“Rowan Nixon.”

“No way.” Not that she would know what Nixon’s voice sounded like. Sure, she’d seen him do the occasional interview, but she hadn’t committed the all-star starter’s voice to memory.

“Only one way to find out for sure if I’m telling the truth,” he said, sounding amused. “Meet me for a drink tomorrow night.”

“Can’t, gotta work.” Though she would regret that if this guy really was who he claimed to be. Her brother would go crazy when she told him Rowan Nixon had drunk dialed her and asked her out.

“Where do you work?”

“You first. What was your win-loss record last season? Or wait, how about your E.R.A?” He could just be a fanatical fan who’d memorized Nixon’s record, but the chances were in her favor that she’d trip him up if she questioned him about his career.

“Twenty wins, five losses. Two point five six E.R.A.”

Hmm, he answered that without hesitation. “What about your last contract?” Since that was public knowledge and obscenely large, any serious fan would know the answer, but she was running out of ways to trip him up. “How much and for how long?”

“Two hundred and seventeen million over seven years.”

Damn. Right again. “Where were you born?”

“Toronto.”

“Uh-huh. Where’d you go to college?” He’d earned a business degree at Duke while there on a scholarship.

He laughed. “Duke. Now you have to answer a question for me.”

She had to admit, he sounded legit. “You answer one more for me first. Are you drunk? Is that why you’re wasting your time talking to some wrong number you won’t even remember tomorrow?”

“Trust me, I’ll remember you.”

The way he said that almost made her believe him. When she realized this headache wasn’t going to go away without a little help, Tenley reached into her nightstand for her pain meds and dry-swallowed. “You didn’t answer the question. Are you drunk?”

“I tipped a few with the boys tonight.”

“Who did you mean to call?”

“Some hot redhead I met tonight.”

At least he was honest. She liked that. “Are you disappointed you got me instead?”

“Hell, no. This is the most fun I’ve had talking to a chick in ages. So will you fill me in now?”

“Depends on what you want to know.”

“What’s your name?”

She almost believed that she really had Rowan Nixon himself on the other end of this line.
Could it really be him?
Not that she’d ever lose her shit and go all fan-girl on him. He probably got enough of that. She still wasn’t a hundred percent convinced he was who he said he was though, so she still had to play it safe. “Tenley.”

He chuckled, making her frown. “That’s different. Like you. I like it. You know you sound like one of those phone sex operators, right?”

She couldn’t help but smile. Score one for sleep and a hot, dry room.

“Tell me what you really do… for a living.”

Since she suspected he’d never believe her anyway, she said, “I teach kickboxing.”

“Shut the fuc—” He cleared his throat. “I mean, for real?”

“Yup.”

“Okay, now I gotta meet you.”

She was warming up to the idea of a face-to-face meeting as crazy as it sounded. If he was lying about who he was, he wouldn’t have the kahunas to show up and admit it, would he?

“What was that shit about pink panties?”

He wasn’t that drunk if he remembered the drink reference.

“I’m a mixologist too.” She rolled her tongue in her cheek, wondering if he’d know that was just a fancy name for a bartender who specialized in mixed drinks.

“Cool. Where?”

Score one for the man. She didn’t have to explain it to him.

“My brother has a bar on Peachtree.” Since there were plenty of bars on the street, he’d have to do his homework if he really wanted to find her with just that information. Make ’em work for it had always been her motto.

“Were you serious about the kickboxing thing?”

“Yeah, why?” She always got defensive when people thought she was lying about her job. Just ’cause she was only five three and a buck twenty soaking wet, everyone assumed she wasn’t a threat. But those who crossed Tenley learned the hard way that it was a big mistake to underestimate her.

“How long?”

“Eight years.”

“How old are you?”

This dude wanted to know more about her than the last three guys she’d dated combined. “Twenty-eight.”

“Old enough.” He chuckled. “That’s good, real good. Gimme your stats.”

“My stats?” She heard the ice in her voice. If he asked her cup size next, she was hanging up.

“Not like that. Hair, eye color, tats, stuff like that. I want to be able to recognize you when I see you.”

“Why don’t I just send you a selfie?” She was joking, of course, but that gave her an idea. “Hey, why don’t you send me a selfie so you can prove you are who you say you are?”

“What? You think I’m lying?” He sounded amused instead of offended, which was good. She hated guys who took themselves too seriously. “Sure, why not? But only if you promise to do the same.”

What could it hurt? “Your number was blocked. Why?”

“Not on my cell. I’m on my home line, and I don’t want some crazy chick I met in a bar looking me up.”

“Smart.”

“Okay, gimme your cell number.”

Since he already had her home number, she assumed it couldn’t hurt. She rhymed off hers, reaching for the phone on the nightstand. “Okay, I’m waiting.”

“If I am who I say I am, will you go out with me?”