Tempting the Player by J. Lynn Read Free Book Online Page B

Bridget liked to call plump. In reality, the cat was about the size of a wiener dog and probably outweighed one. One would think the cat wouldn’t be so damn fast, but the thing was a ninja when it came to trying to escape.
    Cradling Pepsi in one arm and the newspaper in the other, she headed into her small kitchen. Putting them both down on the table, she punched the coffee machine on and then opened up a can of kitty chow.
    Bridget’s mom would’ve shit a brick if she knew she let Pepsi on the kitchen table, but it wasn’t like anyone other than Bridget was eating off it. Her last serious boyfriend had a huge problem with it, too.
    Her ex had problems with a lot of things.
    Taking her cup of coffee, which was more sugar than anything else, and the bowl of food back to the small round table, she sat down and eyed the cat. “Hungry?”
    Pepsi sat back on his haunches and very slowly lifted a paw, as if to say, Hand it over, lady, you’re working for me.
    She sighed and leaned over, putting the dish in front of the feline. Sipping her coffee, she cracked open the newspaper and scanned the headlines. It was the same as it was every day—economy in the crapper, presidential candidates promising the world, and some poor soul murdered the night before. Was it any wonder she skipped to the gossips?
    She really shouldn’t look, especially after Friday, but her fingers had a mind of their own, flipping past the finance and sports sections.
    Bridget gasped and nearly dropped her cup. With a shaky hand, she put the cup down.
    Star Pitcher Gamble Goes for a Triple Play and Scores!
    The headline alone was bad enough, but the picture—dear God, there was a picture?—caused an irrational surge of hot jealousy.
    In true black-and-white grainy glory, in the middle of three very scantily clad women sprawled across a bed, was one Chad Gamble, grinning like he’d just hit the jackpot of half-naked chicks.
    “Holy crap.” Bridget grabbed the paper and lifted it closer to her face. None of the women were Stella, the model who apparently wanted a repeat of last weekend, but any one of them could easily pose for lingerie, which they were for the entire world in a bed with Chad.
    A blonde had her hand on his chest. Another had her leg thrown over his. The third had her hands in his fabulously messy hair.
    The article really didn’t say much other than the “wild Nationals playboy strikes again.” The picture was taken at a Hyatt in New York City within the pass week.
    Bridget had no idea how long she stared at that picture, but the elated faces of the women blurred. Chad, well, he also looked pretty damn happy grinning from ear to ear. What man wouldn’t be?
    She closed her eyes and his cerulean blue eyes appeared, heated and consuming. Had he looked at those women like that? Of course he had. If she thought any differently, then she was truly an idiot. And why did she even care? She barely knew him, and it wasn’t like she hadn’t known his reputation.
    But damn…that ugly feeling inside her was more than just jealousy. Possibly even a little bit of disappointment, because even though she knew that whatever had happened between them was a one-time thing, there had been moments where her imagination got the best of her. When she fantasized that he was going to show up at her door unexpectedly, having searched her out because he couldn’t go on without her.
    Idiot.
    Thank God she didn’t have sex with him and end up as another notch on a belt the size of Texas.
    Bridget stood up and hurried into the kitchen. With a disgusted sigh, she tossed the newspaper into the trashcan.
    God, she hated Sundays.
    …
    “Are you fucking kidding me?” Chad demanded.
    From the chair beside him, Miss Stick-Up-Her-Ass shot him a nasty look. “I see language is another thing we’re going to have to work on.”
    Chad breathed in slowly and— Screw this . “This is ridiculous. I don’t need a babysitter.”
    “Miss Gore is not a babysitter,”