Scoring the Player’s Baby
The WAGS Series (All Titles Are Standalones)
by Naima Simone
About the Book
THE NEXT STANDALONE NOVEL IN THE WAGS SERIES BY NAIMA SIMONE.
After a divorce from her cheating football player ex, PR whiz Kim Matlock would rather drive a pine tree through her walled-off heart than work at the Seattle Wedding Expo. And the last thing she expects is to be grabbed and kissed breathless by a hot giant of a man looking to fend off a stalker. She doesn’t want emotional entanglements, but she can’t say no to one scorching night with the sexy stranger.
To her shock, she finds out afterward that a) he’s a pro football player, aka her kryptonite, and b) she’s pregnant.
But nothing could have prepared her for his response…
Jesus Harry Christ. Kill me now.
Ronin Palamo winced as his sister slapped him in the stomach. Two things occurred to him at once: he’d uttered his slightly blasphemous prayer out loud, and Hana packed a punch. Since he’d been the one to teach her how to throw a smack, he couldn’t prevent the thump of pride from pounding in his chest.
“Oh, stop being such a drama queen,” Hana grumbled. “You keep mumbling under your breath, and you won’t have to ask God to take you out. I’ll do the job myself.”
In spite of the threat she delivered with convincing menace, he grinned, wisely deciding to keep the “bridezilla” comment to himself. It still shocked him a little when he thought of their family’s tomboy with the Napoleon complex getting married. Hence this dreaded, mind-numbing, soul-snatching afternoon at the Seattle Wedding Expo.
He shuddered. Just the word “wedding” sent fingernails scraping down his back. And not in the good, hot-and-sweaty-mid-sex way either. It was a wonder he hadn’t broken out in hives. Yet.
Still, Ronin was the big brother—the only brother—of his loud, crazy, but loving brood of four sisters. And when Hana had come to him, asking if he’d attend this idea of hell with her, well, he couldn’t refuse. He loved her and would do anything for her. Including subject himself to boutonniere-induced seizures.
“You would threaten the man who gave up his Saturday—his last free Saturday before preseason starts, I might add? Talk about ungrateful.” Ronin tsked. “Who raised you? Wolves?”
“No, your mother.”
They glanced at each other and started snickering. Truth be told, their mother would probably find the comparison flattering. A fierce, dominant, protective female who provided for her pack and would rip anyone to shreds who dared cross them? Hell, the wolf was probably her probably her patronus. Thank you very much, Harry Potter.
“Seriously, Han, how much longer am I required to suffer? We’ve been here”—he peered down at his watch—“two hours already. How many floral arrangements and invitations can you look at in one afternoon?”
Yep, he was whining. He didn’t care if he was being a big man-baby. The occasion called for it. And if any of his teammates found out about this, he would be the brunt of every joke in the locker room. Didn’t matter that he was the star wide receiver for the Washington Warriors football franchise and had been for seven of the eight years he’d been on the NFL team. Didn’t matter that he’d been All Pro six years running. Nope, if any images of him studying wedding favors leaked, his ass would be in a sling from now until the end of the season.
Thank God, no one had seemed to recognize him, probably due in part to a “gently used,” black fedora he’d picked up from one of the thrift stores near his house, and his long hair tucked into a bun that “only samurais and girls should wear,” as his oldest sister, Alea, put it.
He scrubbed a hand over the nape of his neck. He wouldn’t dare steal any of his sister’s joy and excitement, but all these flowers with their cloying smells were like delicate-scented nooses strangling the hell out of him. Each slow pull drew him back to another time—exactly two years ago in just three more days—when baskets, arches, and sprays of flowers had filled a church, their fragrances suffocating him along with the dark hole of grief…
With something that felt uncomfortably close to desperation, he scanned the hall, searching until he located her.
The noose loosened a fraction, enough for him to drag in a cleansing, free breath of air. Yeah, this he was used to. Familiar with. How many times in the last two years had he eased the dagger-sharp pain of loss, the yawning, empty loneliness, with lust, with sex? Too damn many to count.
He’d noticed her almost the moment he’d arrived. Standing in front of a booth bearing a huge banner with an image of a glamorous hotel that looked like something out of a 50s black-and-white movie, and aptly named the Grand, she was a stunner. Rivaled the sophistication and beauty of the seven-foot image behind her. Even from across the convention hall, he noted her beautiful, almost…aristocratic features. Yeah, she had that “don’t come for me unless I call for you” vibe his youngest sister described as “resting bitch face.”
Except he didn’t see it as a negative.
No, she exuded graceful poise and confidence.
From the slanting, sharp cheekbones, to the elegant slope of her nose, to the full, damn near lush mouth that had his dick giving its stamp of approval, to the sleek fall of dark brown hair that framed her face and fell inches below her shoulders, she could’ve been a supermodel, or a warrior queen sitting on a throne, demanding her subjects’ attention and adoration.
And he should really lay the fuck off Outlander. All this poise–elegant-cheekbones–adoration shit was threatening his Man Card.
It would help if he could stop staring at her like a creepy stalker. But even with the features of a queen—there he went again—her body was that of a goddamn porn star. Slender, but damn, curves for days. The form-fitting black suit jacket and skinny skirt didn’t conceal the breasts that appeared to be a perfect handful—perfect for hands hissize—or the generous flare of hips that could no doubt take a little rough handling. Hell, she looked built for sex. And not the gentle, under the covers, all the lights out sex. No. Fucking. She seemed like she could not only take a fucking but give one out so good it’d make a man sell his soul for another raw, sticky-skinned, dirty round.
Need, rough and spiked, knotted his gut as he returned his regard to her lovely face. From this distance, he couldn’t detect the color of her eyes, but he’d bet his left nut her gaze was straightforward, unwavering, and didn’t take any shit. Damn, he wished he could see the color, so he could picture what they would look like glazed from a hard-won orgasm.
Tour Wide Giveaway
To celebrate the release of SCORING THE PLAYER’S BABY by Naima Simone, we’re giving away for a $25 Amazon gift card!
GIVEAWAY TERMS & CONDITIONS: Open internationally. One winner will be chosen to receive a $25 Amazon gift card. This giveaway is administered by Pure Textuality PR on behalf of Entangled Publishing. Giveaway ends 7/13/2018 @ 11:59pm EST. Entangled Publishing will send one winning prize, Pure Textuality PR will deliver the other. Limit one entry per reader and mailing address. Duplicates will be deleted. CLICK HERE TO ENTER!
About Naima Simone
USA Today Bestselling author NAIME SIMONE’s love of romance was first stirred by Johanna Lindsey, Sandra Brown and Linda Howard many years ago. Well not that many. She is only eighteen…ish. Though her first attempt at a romance novel starring Ralph Tresvant from New Edition never saw the light of day, her love of romance, reading and writing has endured. Published since 2009, she spends her days—and nights— writing sizzling romances with a touch of humor and snark.
She is wife to Superman, or his non-Kryptonian, less bullet proof equivalent, and mother to the most awesome kids ever. They all live in perfect, sometimes domestically-challenged bliss in the southern United States.