As the jet prepared to land at Orly, Alana woke with a start. She’d been dreaming. Again. And Matt Darrington had figured in all of them. Again. And so deliciously. He was hot, really hot, and try as she might, she couldn’t keep her mind off him, not even when she slept.
She’d looked him up on the Internet as she’d waited to board in San Francisco. Maybe that was why he was a big hit in her dreams. The stats and photos told her he was a star shortstop for the Giants, but though she’d considered his alluring qualities long and hard before she fell asleep, she’d decided it was best to keep Mr. Matt Darrington in the fantasy realm where he belonged. He had a kid—albeit a most charming and wonderful kid—and he was a ballplayer. Two strikes in the definitely not column.
Her cousin Alex played for the Giants, the team Matt played for. She knew enough about the lives of pro athletes to know she didn’t want to be dragged into everything that came with such a life. Women who married players married the game. If they didn’t have something to keep their own focus, the game took over their lives. There were exceptions, of course there were. Alex’s wife Jackie was a world-class marine mammal vet. She’d kept at her work and hadn’t seemed bothered by his crazy schedule and crazier life.
But those arrangements were rare.
More common were the women who supported players, gave their lives stability, tended to houses and kids and schools, and kept everything going. She wasn’t cut out for that.
She snugged her seat belt tight and pulled her seatback up. Just the fact that she was thinking about marriage, even in the abstract, told her she was off her game.
She stared out the window, refusing to think any more about Matt.
When the pilot turned off the fasten seat belt sign, she reached up to grab her carry-on. Maybe Marcel would cement her resolve and get her back on track, help her forget the feelings Matt had stirred. With his sensual élan and great sense of humor, Marcel was an antidote to any trouble.