Triple Dare

“Since when does the dare-ee get to decide her own terms?”

“Since the dar-er needs her help to get rid of his ex.”

“Okay.” The corners of his mouth curled upward as he thought of a way to play along without risking anything. “One date. You can come watch me tear it up at third base in the Battle of the Badges game.”

“Battle of the Badges?”

“Softball—cops versus firefighters. They kicked our asses last year.” Cade tipped back his beer, letting the rich, chocolatey liquid slide down his throat, and mentally patted himself on the back. It was genius. Him on the field. Ivy in the stands, cheering him on. Sasha watching the whole thing. He’d convince his ex it was over and still keep Ivy at a safe distance.

“One tiny flaw in your plan.” Ivy shifted her legs back over the arm of the chair and sat facing forward. “How do you know Sasha will be there?”

“Oh, she’ll be there,” Gabe chimed in. “It’s a huge event. Almost the whole town turns out. Winners get bragging rights and pizza after the game, courtesy of the losers.”

“How come I’ve never been? Never even heard of it.” Ivy’s nose wrinkled again. A habit of hers, apparently.

Cade frowned, wondering why he’d never noticed it before. What else had he missed? He shook off the thought and focused on answering Ivy’s question. “We only started playing a few years ago.”

“When is it?”

“Friday at six.”

“All I’d have to do is watch you play?” Ivy bit her lip. The unconsciously erotic gesture sent his sex drive into orbit.

Cade cleared his throat and scraped a hand through his hair. “And root for me. Maybe wear my extra jersey. Typical girlfriend stuff.”

A strange look crossed her face, and for a moment he thought she was going to say no. But then she stood, chugged the rest of her beer and faced him.

“Okay. Pick me up at five thirty. And don’t forget the jersey.”

3 (#ud6445082-345e-5b1a-8f68-e339e5a1043a)

IVY CURSED HERSELF for the thousandth time as she pulled back the curtain and peered out the upstairs window, watching for Cade’s SUV. What the hell had she been thinking? Or maybe she hadn’t been. One too many chocolate stouts and her damned ego had gotten her into this mess.

But she couldn’t help it. It had hurt like hell when Gabe and Cade started discussing the eligible female population of Stockton as if she wasn’t sitting two feet away. What, pray tell, was wrong with her? Did they think she wasn’t good enough for Cade, that no one would believe a super stud like him would date a girl like her?

She wasn’t Jabba the Mutt anymore. She wasn’t.

Not that those two dumb-asses recognized it. To them she’d always be an overweight, insecure, pimply-faced kid.

Well, she’d show them. Especially the chief dumb-ass. Cade.

Ivy abandoned her vigil at the window and headed for the full-length mirror in the master bathroom, needing one last confirmation that all her primping had paid off. Hair tamed in a ponytail, adorably pulled through the back of a Stockton Fire Department baseball cap she’d found in Holly’s closet? Check. Just enough makeup to hide her freckles and play up the pale green flecks in her hazel eyes? Check. Legs tanned, shaved and showcased in an appropriately snug pair of denim cutoffs? Check.

She smiled at her reflection, thinking back to a few years ago when tight had been a four-letter word in her fashion vocabulary. If there was one thing Andre had taught her—over and above all the lessons in photography she’d learned as his apprentice-turned-associate—it was that she wasn’t doing herself any favors wearing clothes that looked like they were designed by Omar the tent maker. “Remember,” he’d said. “You wear the clothes. They don’t wear you.”

Well, she’d wear the hell out of this outfit. She grabbed a pair of silver hoop earrings and her collection of Alex and Ani bracelets off the counter and started downstairs, humming the latest pop radio earworm courtesy of Taylor Swift. All she needed now was Cade’s jersey, which he’d promised to bring. She’d look a little strange if she showed up in only a sports bra. Even if it did wonders for her double Ds.

The doorbell rang when she was halfway down.

“Be right there,” she called, taking the rest of the steps two at a time.

But when she got to the door, her hand on the knob, she froze.

You got this, girl. Show him little Ivy Nelson’s all grown up.

Her heart pounding and her palms moist, she swung open the door. “Hi. Come on in. I’m almost ready.”

She stood back to let him pass, but he stayed firmly planted on the stoop with a dazed expression on his face. “I, uh, brought this.”

He thrust out one hand, a fire-engine-red jersey clenched in his fist. He wore an identical one, the initials SFD across his chest, tucked into a pair of form-fitting, gray baseball pants.

“Thanks,” she said, the tremble almost gone from her voice. Amazing what a little good, old-fashioned leering could do for a girl’s self-confidence. She pried the shirt from his fingers, tossed it onto her shoulder and motioned him inside. “I’ll go put it on and we can get out of here. Can’t have you missing batting practice.”

He followed her in. “We don’t have batting practice, but I should probably stretch before game time.”

“I can help.” She stood in front of the half mirror in the foyer and slipped on her jewelry. “A model taught me some great partner exercises on set in the Turks and Caicos.”

She didn’t mention that the model worked for Victoria’s Secret and that the shoot was for their swimsuit edition. No need to conjure up comparisons between her size-ten frame and the ideal 34-25-34 figure of a VS girl.

“Sounds good.” He leaned against the doorjamb. “Sasha ought to get the picture pretty quick if she sees us working out together.”

Right. How could she forget? This was all for show. For Sasha. Not real. Not for her.

Ivy unbuttoned the jersey and slipped it on, determined not to let Cade’s comment burst the bubble of self-assurance she was floating in thanks to his initial reaction. She had him for tonight, and she was going to make the most of it.

The shirt hung well past her hips, like she thought it would. A throwback to her Jabba days. But she had a plan for that. She pulled the ends together and tied them securely at her waist, checking in the mirror to make sure it had the anticipated effect of highlighting her breasts while revealing just enough—but not too much—skin.

Perfect.

“All set,” she said, turning to face him.

“Damn.” He eyed her up and down, his baby blues leaving goose bumps in their wake. “My shirt never looked so good.”

She eyed him right back, lingering a little longer than necessary between his legs, where the baseball pants weren’t hiding anything.

Down, girl.

“I don’t know.” She licked her lips. “It looks pretty fine on you, too.”

“Oh, yeah?” He pushed off the doorjamb and took a step toward her.

“Mmm-hmm.” She followed his lead, moving into him. “I’ve always been a sucker for a man in uniform.”

He cocked his head. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Maybe.” Another step and she was close enough to put a hand on his chest, praying the whole time he wouldn’t brush it off. When he didn’t, she let her fingers curl into the soft fabric of his jersey. His heartbeat pulsed under her palm, almost as fast as hers. “Or maybe just practicing my witty banter. You know. For Sasha.”

His crystal-blue eyes darkened to indigo. “Anything else you want to practice?”