Halftime Husband Read online

  Halftime Husband

  Erin McCarthy

  Copyright © 2021 by Erin McCarthy

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  About the Author

  Also by Erin McCarthy

  Chapter One

  Valentine’s Day. The big V.

  The day designed to celebrate couples and make singles feel sorry for themselves.

  It had arrived and, personally, I didn’t feel the least bit sorry for my single self, which was why I was walking into a bar in midtown Manhattan for an anti-Valentine’s Day party. The event was for a children’s charity, which might seem like a bizarre tie-in, but I think it was intended to make attendees feel like they weren’t being consumed by hatred.

  Hate couples? Pissed at the world? It’s okay, you like kids.

  I love kids, don’t hate couples, and being single is actually totally fine with me. After my ex, Dante, had tried to surprise me in December with a wedding I knew nothing about, I had been very happily living the life of a woman who answers to no one. But. Oh yeah, the but. That didn’t mean I wanted love crammed in my face tonight, because happy couples reminded me that I kind of really sucked at picking boyfriends, and I didn’t like to admit that. No one does. I glanced down into the bar from the entrance. It was a full crowd of Cupid dodgers. I could easily spend the night here dancing and having a cocktail. Perfect.

  My friend Elijah clearly didn’t agree.

  “This is literally the worst idea you’ve ever had,” he said.

  Given that he said that at least once a week to me and we were still friends, I wasn’t too concerned. “Why, because you’re opposed to alcohol or random hookups with strangers?” I gave him a wink. Elijah never met a hot guy in a bar he didn’t want to go home with. “I would like to point out it was actually your idea to attend this when Kai gave you the tickets.”

  He just ignored that and rolled his eyes. “Look at all these people. Gross.”

  I eyed him, wanting to laugh. “Yep, there are people at a ticketed event. Shocker. This is your crowd. Single cynics. You could be the Mayor of Cynicville. Love Is a Hack Hamlet. Sexy Single City.”

  “Please stop talking,” he said.

  Not a chance. “Do it for the kids, Elijah.”

  “Are you finished?”

  I contemplated. I was out of alliterations. “Probably.”

  Elijah could deny it all he wanted, but he was still stinging from his boyfriend, James, dumping him on New Year’s Eve, at the stroke of midnight, in front of a roomful of people. He was triggered by holidays now. Which was fair. That had been a massive dick move, worse than Dante surprising me with a wedding.

  Tickets to this had been super expensive, way out of my recently unemployed dancer’s budget, but another one of Elijah’s exes was an event planner and had given us the tickets. I had thought it was meant to be, you know, nice, but Elijah had taken it as an insult. He was not in a good mood and I needed to be gentle with him.

  Everyone else in our friend circle was very much attached, and there was no reason we couldn’t have fun tonight, despite not having a cuddle bunny on the big V day.

  Elijah made a sound that might have been relief or general clearing of his throat, I wasn’t sure. “We’re overdressed,” he said.

  We were, without question. But since it had been billed as a charity event, I had a red dress that needed another spin on the town after wearing it only once—the night Dante had sprung the surprise wedding on me. The night I had escaped from said stupid wedding with the help of an unknown man in a suit. He had hailed a carriage we’d hopped into and whisked me away, saving the night, and the dress, from being banished to the vault of lousy memories.

  Unfortunately, after a spin on the ice rink, I never saw my rescuer again.

  We hadn’t exchanged numbers. He had kissed me, then said if fate allowed, we would see each other again. It had seemed wildly romantic in the moment. Who doesn’t want to trust fate? That it will hand you the love of your life in such an obvious way that there is no question. Exempting me from the responsibility of picking boyfriends for myself.

  Later, after the mistletoe had settled and I had spent New Year’s Eve very much single, I had thought there was literally no way I was going to run into carriage rescue guy again in a city as crowded as New York. It was a keeper memory, nothing more.

  Tonight, still very single, and ready to have fun, I wanted to let the red dress have another night to shine. I wasn’t breaking down doors looking for love. If love wanted to find me, it could slap me in the face to get my attention, but I wasn’t chasing love’s temperamental ass.

  “I look like I’m trying too hard to impress and you look like a woman in a perfume commercial. Any second you should stroll down that staircase and then dive into a pool.” Elijah adjusted his pocket square and gave a long-suffering sigh.

  “If there was a pool at the bottom, trust me, I would.” I wasn’t even kidding. Now that would be a party entrance. I eyed the stairs as I handed my coat to the attendant and took the ticket she gave me.

  Five steps down, maybe six. A curved banister. Oh, yeah, that was happening.

  I lifted the bottom of my dress with one hand, and gripped the railing with the other. I hopped up onto the banister, settling into a stable position.

  “What are you doing?” Elijah’s voice rose in alarm. “Dakota, no, please. That is both tacky as hell and dangerous.”

  I grinned. “I like how tacky was your first thought and dangerous was your second.”

  Feeling the vibe Elijah had mocked for my dress, I pictured walking as slow as humanly possible down the stairs, imagining myself as Charlize Theron in a commercial. The world was my runway. If no man was going to sweep me off my feet, then I would be my own love story. If I knew French, I would be speaking it in my head. J’adore.

  Nope. Not my style.

  Banister sliding was more me.

  “Seriously, don’t. I’m begging you.”

  I did.

  It was an amazing run. Very freeing. I got great speed, and even managed to put a hand on my hip in a social media-worthy pose. Perfect execution.

  Until the very bottom.

  The plan had a flaw.

  I hadn’t counted on someone being right at the bottom of the railing, pressed against it, holding a drink.

  There was no way to stop myself. I tried, attempting to jump off the railing, but my timing was off. I was going too fast, and before I could maneuver, I just plowed into the back of him. As if he had sensed movement behind him, he turned exactly at the moment of collision. My center of gravity was off and I was falling head down.

  I took an elbow to the chin.

  And a martini in the face.

  Vodka went into my mouth. Not bad.

  Vodka went up my nose. Not great.

  Vodka went in my eye. That freaking sucked. “Ow!”

  I grabbed the guy around the midsection and tried to find my feet. My eyes were closed against the blinding, stinging liquid. Damn it. It was a dirty martin
i. Olive juice on top of vodka really was a bad combination. In my eye, anyway. I licked it off my lips.

  “Are you okay?”

  I couldn’t see shit, eyes watering viciously and still primarily closed, but I managed to right myself to a standing position. “I think so.”

  Except for the fact that a giant manhand was on my face, attempting to wipe away the spilled drink. It almost made me lose my balance all over again.

  I took a step back to escape the swiping.

  “Dakota?”

  The man knew my name. Thank God. That would be way less embarrassing than running into a total stranger. Unless it was the landlord because I owed him two hundred bucks. I wasn’t sure I was ever going to know because my eyes were still stinging and I had zero visibility. But I used my knuckle and dried my tears.

  My words died when I realized who this guy was.

  It was him.

  Brandon.

  The man who had helped me escape my surprise wedding and taken me ice-skating at Rockefeller Center.

  Standing there in a navy button-up shirt over tight black jeans that showed off his muscular build. Looking big and broad and sexy as hell. His eyes were wide in recognition.

  “Dakota,” he murmured again, this time without question.

  His tone was so pleased, so sensual, so intimate, like we had shared something more than one hot kiss under the mistletoe, that I nearly had an orgasm listening to him.

  “It’s you,” I said, because I’ve always wanted to say that. They do it in movies all the time, and never, ever, in real life is there an opportunity to say something as dramatic as “it’s you.” But this was my chance and I took it.

  I had been absolutely sure I would never see this man again and yet, here he was standing in front of me. This was definitely an improvement over angry anti-V day drinkers.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Brandon asked again. He touched my chin briefly, a tender, sensual stroke. “I think I clipped you with my elbow.”

  My chin was actually throbbing. My eyes were still watery and my nose was running. “I’m totally fine,” I said, still stunned. “I was, uh, going down the stairs and I fell.”

  “I’m glad I was able to break your fall.” Brandon’s eyes drifted over me. “You’re wearing the same dress.”

  Outfit repeater. Yikes. How did I explain? “I was just, you know, trying to have a good night. Defy the notion that if I’m single I should stay at home in leggings and eat ice cream on Valentine’s Day.”

  “So you’re single? No working things out with Dante?”

  That made me roll my eyes involuntarily. “Are you kidding? No. You saw those horrible texts he sent to me. Nope. That was done that night.”

  “Good for you,” he said. The corner of his mouth turned up in a very sexy smile. “Good for me.”

  Yes, yes, and yes. Then I remembered my friend Felicia thought Brandon was not available based on some song lyrics he had quoted. I had to clear that up immediately because this time, I wasn’t letting this man disappear again.

  “Are you married?” I asked, straight to the point.

  His eyebrows rose. “No. I’ve been divorced for eighteen months. What makes you think I’m married?”

  “That song. The piña coladas and getting caught in the rain. That song is about a cheater.”

  He shook his head. “What? Damn. No, I was not dropping a hint I was married. It was just you said you like sushi and dancing and that popped into my head. I was trying to volley with you. Not well, apparently.” He grinned. “My game is rusty.”

  That changed everything. I could care less about rusty flirtation skills. He was single. “Oh, I see. Feel free to practice your game on me anytime, then.”

  He reached out and wiped my face again with his sleeve. “Sorry, you just had black stuff running down your cheeks.”

  Wonderful. It suddenly occurred to me I could not be looking my best at the moment and I had a lot of nerve suggesting he practice flirting with me. “I should go deal with this,” I said, pointing to my face. “And then I owe you a drink.”

  He tipped his empty glass back and forth. “No, you don’t. It was my fault.”

  “How was that your fault?” I asked, incredulous and amused. “I slid down the banister like a ten-year-old and nailed you.”

  “You slid down the banister? Why would you do that?” he asked. “I thought you tripped.”

  I can’t tell a lie. It’s not in my nature. “I wanted to make an entrance.”

  Brandon’s eyebrows rose. “That was an entrance for sure.”

  “Are you okay?” Elijah asked me, finally appearing by my side. “Oh my God, your makeup. You look like an eighties horror movie.”

  That was reassuring. “I’m fine,” I told him. “I’ll be right back.” Then I smiled at Brandon, conscious of the fact that I was a train wreck in a repeat outfit. But the key to success is confidence. “I’ll meet you at the bar, Hater,” I told him.

  The night we had met I had teased him for his dislike of parties by calling him Hater. I wanted to remind him of that connection we’d shared.

  It worked.

  The corner of his mouth turned up and he cupped my cheek with his large hand, under the clear pretense of wiping another smudge. “It’s good to see you again, Dakota.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Brandon,” I said. “Order me a glass of champagne, please. I feel like celebrating.”

  I had exactly zero reasons to celebrate. I hadn’t gotten a job in months, my bank account was laughable, girls’ nights had turned into me babysitting for my friends while they went out with their husbands, and Dante had trashed me on social media. In short, everything was both on a downslide and dull. Life had gotten routine. Wake up, try to find an audition to go to so I could not get the job, work out, watch reality TV. Wash, rinse, repeat.

  Not a bad life, because it could always be worse. But not exciting.

  This? Running into my carriage rescue man? This was exciting.

  And I wasn’t letting him out of my sight until I’d at the very least gotten his number.

  Better yet, seen him naked.

  I left Elijah stymied and Brandon heading for the bar, and went to the restroom.

  A glance in the mirror showed I had a lot of fucking nerve thinking I was getting anything from Brandon.

  Eighties horror movie was no exaggeration.

  I undid the clasp on my tiny purse and prayed I had packed enough manpower in there to fix my face. I didn’t. In the end I washed my face off entirely and shrugged. Brandon was getting a preview of morning me.

  The last time I had used the clutch was months back, and while there wasn’t enough makeup for face repair, I found a condom tucked into the zipper portion.

  I took it as a sign and shoved open the restroom door.

  Chapter Two

  My night, which I had assumed was going to be a torturous evening of small talk with mostly strangers, had just improved dramatically. As I had told Dakota back before Christmas, I don’t like parties.

  I much prefer one on one.

  I ordered a replacement martini and a glass of champagne for Dakota and tried not to grin. This was a hell of a stroke of good luck. I hadn’t thought I would ever see her again and for a couple of months I’d been kicking myself for not getting her number. That had been a fucking rookie move.

  Of course, I’d found out later that I had helped her escape from her wedding to my defensive lineman. It had been an honest mistake. I was new to the franchise, the wedding wasn’t billed as a wedding, and I had no clue who Dante Marksman’s girlfriend was at the time. Hell, half his teammates hadn’t seemed to know who the bride was supposed to be. So when she’d shoved me on the elevator and told me she was trying to break up with her boyfriend and he wasn’t handling it well, I’d done the right thing and helped her get the hell out of there.

  I’d kept my mouth shut to the guys on the team at the time when I found out. Then when Dante had been traded pos
tseason, and without any way to get in touch with Dakota, it had all seemed like a closed chapter.

  But now that I knew she hadn’t spoken to him, and I was no longer his head coach, there was nothing in the way of me getting to know her better. A lot better. Naked better. Damn, she was fucking hot.

  I watched her walking toward me, tall, confident, toned body, full tits. Even with mascara and tears running down her face, she’d been gorgeous. As she got closer, I saw she had washed her face free of the martini and the makeup. She had beautiful rich brown eyes and high cheekbones. Her blond hair looked like silk. She didn’t have the waves in it she’d had the first night we met, but both styles were equally sexy.

  And that dress. It showed off her waist, and those incredibly long legs. That slit was a total tease. One false move and I would get to see everything she had and then some. I wanted to unzip that dress and watch it fall to my bedroom floor.

  Except that my daughters were at home with their nanny.

  That was a problem.

  But I was getting ahead of myself anyway. I held out the glass of champagne for her. “Is everything okay? No permanent damage?”

  “I think I’m in the clear. I did a quick eye wash in the restroom. My eyes are mildly irritated but I think most of the drink went up my nose and in my mouth.”

  I studied her. Her eyes were definitely bloodshot but otherwise she didn’t look too worse for the wear. “Well. I guess it could have been worse. Maybe. I’m glad you’re okay.”

  She paused with the glass halfway to her mouth. She looked at me from under her long lashes. “What do you think would be the worst drink to get thrown in your face?” she mused.

  “A dirty martini,” I said wryly. “That olive juice was probably no joke.”

  “I would think anything citrus would be worse. That would really sting. Beer would be sticky.”