Playing Hard: A Bad Boy Sports Romance by Eve Maddox Page B

miss him very much.
    “A gift we shouldn’t squander,” Murray continues. “That’s why I’ve invited Riley here this afternoon — to discuss our next move.”
    My head shoots up. “What?” I ask, horror creeping through my veins. “You asked Riley to come here? Without asking me first?”
    We’re sitting in the great room of my father’s home, a massive, cathedral-ceilinged room with exposed beams, wood paneling and stone walls. There’s artwork on the walls worth more than some people’s houses. I can only imagine what Riley will make of this. The thought of him walking up the winding path through our garden, past the tennis courts and the huge lawns where my mother used to host garden parties is bad enough. I can just imagine the smug, cocky grin on his face, and remember the way he called me a ‘rich bitch’.
    “Yes,” Murray answers me. “Is there a problem?”
    Before I can even think of a way to answer that question, the intercom on the wall buzzes. Murray walks across the room to it, and, on the edge of my consciousness, I hear him talking to our butler, Jonathan. My head’s in such a mess that I can barely keep myself together.
    Riley Knox is coming here.
    He’s coming here.
    To the house I grew up in.  
    To my home.
    I can’t explain why this has me so disturbed.
    Except for the fact that Riley makes me feel like I’m crawling out of my skin with lust.
    Except that when we met, I could barely stop myself from leaping onto him and clawing his clothes off his body like I was some kind of animal.
    Except that he makes my head spin and my bones ache and all I want to do is run my tongue over those sculpted pectoral muscles and perfect abs, tasting his skin and his sweat and his —
    “So, what’s up, Ava?”
    My head shoots up.
    Shit. Shit. Shit.
    I was so caught up in my dirty little daydream that I hadn’t even noticed that Jonathan had shown Riley up already.
    He’s standing there with exactly the same shit-eating grin I imagined him with as he looks around the room.
    Something about the sight of Riley Knox standing there in the doorway of my father’s great room apparently short-circuits something in my brain, because I just sit there staring at him, saying nothing, and doing nothing.
    Riley wanders in, hands in his jeans pockets, looking around the room in a totally casual way.
    “Nice place,” he says. “I like the tennis courts. You play?”
    “A little,” I manage to get out through my gritted teeth. Riley’s tone of voice makes it completely clear he’s trying to dig at me. And it’s working, too. I’m already clenching my fists so hard my nails are cutting into my palms.
    “Thanks for coming by, Riley,” Murray says, completely oblivious. “I’m glad you could make time in your study and training schedule. That must be tough.”
    Riley nods. “I manage somehow,” he says, his grin never wavering.
    “I’m sure.” Murray’s already lost interest in the small talk. “Now, I asked you here today, as I’m sure William — I’m sorry, Coach Jackson — has already explained. Now that we’ve done the groundwork, we have to capitalize on the interest we’ve generated. This is going to be delicate work. We not only need to ensure that your relationship looks completely authentic, but that it’s also highly visible — but in such a way that it doesn’t seem as if we’re orchestrating anything. I have some ideas —”
    Murray continues on in the way that only Murray can, talking about publicizing our totally fake relationship as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. Maybe to Murray it is. He did run his own PR firm for a while. God only knows how many celebrity relationships he orchestrated for attention during that time. It’s not as if it’s unheard of. And isn’t there some crazy rumor that the guy from One Direction’s baby isn’t real, and it’s all a publicity stunt? My blood goes cold as I hope Murray hasn’t heard that story. I am not