The Perfect Catch: A Sports Romance (The Darcy Brothers) Read online

  The Perfect Catch

  Alix Nichols

  Contents

  Books by Alix Nichols

  Book Description

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  Author’s Note

  THE DEVIL’S OWN CHLOE

  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

  About the Author

  Books by Alix Nichols

  Books by Alix Nichols

  The Darcy Brothers

  The Devil’s Own Chloe (prequel)

  Find You in Paris

  Raphael’s Fling

  The Perfect Catch

  La Bohème

  Winter’s Gift

  What If It’s Love?

  Falling for Emma

  Under My Skin

  Amanda’s Guide to Love

  Copyright © 2017 Alix Nichols

  SAYN PRESS

  All Rights Reserved.

  Editing provided by Write Divas

  Cover design: Madison Silver

  Get your free novella!

  Details can be found at the end of the book.

  Book Description

  NOAH

  As a goalkeeper, I am trained to catch the ball, not a spirited bombshell called Sophie.

  This year is about righting an old wrong.

  It’s also about proving my worth to Coach and helping my team win gold at the French Water Polo Championship.

  With an unruly mutt for company and a part-time gig to pay rent, I’m one hundred percent focused on my objectives.

  That is, until I catch an intruder poking around my kitchen.

  Sophie Bander turns my world upside down.

  My new landlord’s daughter isn’t just the hottest woman alive—she’s the stuff of dreams, the object of my deepest, wildest fantasies. But no matter. Nothing—not even Sophie—can make me abandon my goals.

  Except… I want her to distraction.

  And that’s the understatement of the century.

  SOPHIE

  As a realtor, my job is to let properties to tenants, not let one into my heart.

  This year is about proving to Dad I can be a first-class realtor and a worthy associate.

  That’s why I’m in Paris, learning the ropes at a large agency. When I’m done, I’ll go back to Key West, join the family business, and then marry the man of Dad’s dreams.

  I don’t need to be attracted to the guy—I’m incapable of sexual attraction, anyway.

  That is, until a hunk of a tenant mistakes me for a thief and presses me against the wall in his kitchen.

  Noah Masson turns my life into a mess.

  He makes me blush and laugh, and fantasize about him all the damn time. He awakens my body. And yet, not even dreamboat Noah can get me sidetracked from my goals.

  Or can he?

  THE PERFECT CATCH is a standalone contemporary sports romance filled with humor and heat. Guaranteed HEA, no cliffhanger, intended for adult audiences.

  ONE

  Noah

  I miss Oscar.

  The realization occurs to me as I walk across the lobby to the exit of the indoor swimming pool where we train. This morning’s practice was focused on sprints, weightlifting, and shooting—in my case, stopping penalty shots. Our coach, Lucas, believes that if I perfect that, it could give the club an edge this season.

  I agree with him.

  This is why I spent the last hour blocking with every part of my body that happened to be closest to the ball, including my head. A broken nose is a price I’m prepared to pay if it helps my team win.

  I step out of the building into the sticky midsummer heat of Paris.

  Ugh.

  If only I could go back and spend the rest of the day in the pool! Or, better still, I wish the pool would turn into a river flowing from here to the 19th arrondissement.

  Wouldn’t it be great to just swim home?

  Letting out a resigned sigh, I head to my old Yamaha parked on the corner. While I plod there, I picture Oscar bounding up to me and wagging his tail.

  After a hard day that starts with practice, then four hours of deliveries, followed by another grueling workout, Oscar is my best sedative.

  It’ll be hard to unwind when I get home tonight.

  And it won’t be easier in the morning when I wake up to an eerily quiet apartment. On the other hand, no one will jump on my bed, trail a wet tongue all over my face, and bark until I take him for a walk.

  The past two mornings have been the laziest I’ve had in a year, ever since Oscar turned my bachelor’s life upside down. I might have even enjoyed them if it weren’t for that stupid plumbing issue in the kitchen.

  My sink drain is clogged beyond DIY fixing.

  I halt in front of the cafe a few blocks down the street. Ten minutes in an air-conditioned room with a Perrier, an espresso, and a jambon-beurre sandwich are just the thing before I jump on my scooter and head to the pizzeria for my shift. That a pro water polo player needs a job on the side is something both the French Swimming Federation and the European Aquatics League must be ashamed of. It’s also one of the reasons our national team hasn’t won any Olympic medals since 1928.

  1928!

  Perhaps I should’ve gone to Italy or Montenegro when I returned to Europe. Or Hungary, for that matter, where water polo is the national sport.

  The barista hands me my coffee, sparkling water and sandwich while I try to convince my body it doesn’t need more to recover from being pushed to its limits at this morning’s practice.

  To say I’m zonked would be an understatement.

  Chewing the last bite of the jambon-beurre, I pull out my phone and type a brief message to my new landlord. His family name, by the way, sounds hilarious in French. Luckily for him, he’s American—probably of German descent with that name—so it doesn’t matter.

  Dear Mr. Bander,

  Could you please send a plumber to fix the clogged drain, or confirm that it’s OK if I call one myself? I informed the previous owners about the problem three weeks ago, just before they sold the apartment. Madame Florent didn’t have time to take care of it, but she promised she’d let you know.

  Many thanks,

  Noah Masson

  This is my second missive to him on the subject. If he doesn’t reply by Friday, I’ll go ahead and call a plumber. I know tenants aren’t supposed to take initiative like that without the landlord’s prior approval. But how can he give it if he doesn’t read his emails?

  Still, it would be unwise to antagonize the man. He just purchased the apartment with my lease and has the power to kick me out as soon as it expires.

  But
I do need my kitchen faucet, dammit.

  The one in the bathroom is so short I can’t fit the kettle under it. No faucet and no Oscar make me cranky, which might affect my performance. We can’t have that. Especially not now, when the team is in its best shape ever and getting ready for the French National Championship and the LEN Cup.

  To lift my spirits, I remind myself that Oscar is having a great time now, running free in the Derzians’ garden. Lucky bastard. While other dogs—and humans—suffer the heat in Paris, Oscar can breathe. He’s spending the whole month at my neighbors’ summer house in Brittany with his lady friend, the Derzians’ genteel poodle Cannelle.

  Oscar isn’t genteel, though.

  It’s anyone’s guess what canine mésalliance produced the wild combination of traits that is my dog.

  He doesn’t know any tricks, either.

  In short, Oscar is a perfectly untrained brown-spotted mongrel—or a love child, if you prefer—who obeys my orders only when they align with his own desires.

  Boy, I miss him.

  When I enter my apartment, half-conscious with fatigue after the shift at the pizzeria and the second workout, my plan for the evening is simple. A cold beer, a bit of TV, and beddy-bye.

  Only, there’s someone in the kitchen.

  Seeing as my landlord is currently stateside and no one else has a key to this place, it can only be a burglar. And with all the noise he’s making, a crappy one, too.

  I rush into the kitchen.

  Oh.

  My bad burglar is a woman.

  She turns around to stare at me, her right arm still reaching up to open the cabinet where I keep my extra cash.

  I make a lunge at her, pull her away from her prize, spin her around, and press her face into the wall. She doesn’t offer any resistance, clearly taken by surprise. I shackle her wrists above her head and lean into her to keep her in place.

  She mutters something and begins to wriggle. “Let go of me!”

  “Not a chance.”

  She squirms and kicks my shins.

  “Stand still until I figure out what to do with you,” I say.

  She jerks her arms, trying to free her hands.

  Good luck with that, chérie. You’re up against a guy who spends several hours each day training to improve his grip on a wet ball. And whose single hand is as big as both of yours.

  Her next move is to push back.

  My response is to press her harder against the wall.

  Her ass is out of this world… not that one would normally notice that when restraining an intruder.

  It’s high.

  Round.

  Firm.

  Perched on top of endless slender legs that I’m sort of squeezing between mine.

  As she writhes and pants and I hold her down, a few unusual things occur. My lids grow heavy and my head drops closer to her ash-brown hair that springs in fluffy coils all around her head like a full, soft, warm halo.

  The delicious scent coming off it enthralls me. A perfume? Nah, perfumes smell different. Can it be her shampoo, or conditioner, or another beauty product women use to style their hair?

  She steps on my foot, hard, breaking me from my trance.

  “Ouch,” I say, my voice perfectly flat to show her I’m not impressed.

  “Let go of me, you stupid man!”

  She has a slight accent. American maybe?

  “Now, why would I do that?” I tighten my grip around her wrists. “So you can leg it with whatever you’ve already stuffed into your bag?”

  She twists her head to look me in the eye. “I’m not a burglar. I’m your landlady.”

  “Of course.” I study her lovely profile. “Pleased to meet you, Madame. I’m Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.”

  Did I mention her eyelashes are to die for?

  Or that she has the lushest, most kissable lips in the universe, topped off by the most beautiful skin I’ve ever seen. It’s smooth, luminous, and the color of coffee with a generous dash of milk.

  A light bulb goes off in my head.

  This woman isn’t real.

  She’s a fantasy come to life. And not just any fantasy. She’s the fantasy I’ve had ever since I hit puberty, come to life.

  My free hand twitches as I fight the urge to touch her face.

  What the hell.

  Feeling this way about this woman is wrong. Not just because I don’t know her, or because my mind should be free of any desires unrelated to winning gold in the upcoming season, but because Uma will be arriving in France any day now.

  I hope.

  “Please, Monsieur Masson,” she says. “I can explain everything if you’d just stop hurting me.”

  I flinch. Hurting her is the last thing I want to do regardless of who she is and what she was doing in my apartment.

  Gingerly, I release her delicate wrists and draw back a notch, planting my hands on the wall on either side of her.

  Incidentally, I have a hard-on.

  But then again, who wouldn’t after a solid minute against a booty like that?

  She turns around, jostling within the small space between my arms and chest, and glares.

  I narrow my eyes. “So. Let’s hear it. Who are you and what are you doing in my kitchen?”

  “My name is Sophie Bander,” she says, her black eyes boring into mine. “As I said, I’m your new landlady.”

  Bander.

  If she’s a thief, how does she know my landlord’s ridiculous name? Is it possible she’s telling the truth?

  “The new owner of this apartment is, indeed, named Bander,” I say. “But it’s a Mister Bander.”

  She nods. “Mr. Ludwig Bander. I’m his daughter, and I am the official owner of this apartment.”

  Riiiiight.

  I swallow and take a step back.

  She jerks her chin up triumphantly.

  First my ears and then my whole face flame with embarrassment.

  I just manhandled my new landlady.

  “I’m very sorry about this misunderstanding,” I say. “Can we start over?”

  Her expression softens. “Go ahead.”

  I nod a thank-you. “Hello. My name is Noah Masson. I live here.”

  “Hi,” she says. “I’m Sophie Bander. I own this apartment.”

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  “The pleasure is mine.”

  We stare at each other.

  I rack my brain for something to say and blurt, “My passion is water polo.”

  “You play professionally?” she asks with a polite smile.

  “Yes,” I say. “Except, pro water polo isn’t like pro football or tennis. Most athletes need a second job.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The level of pay is much lower.”

  “So what’s your second job?” She twists her fingers in her hair. “I bet it’s as cool as water polo.”

  “I deliver pizzas.”

  “Oh.” Surprise flashes in her eyes. “Well, I hope to become a professional, too, one day—in real estate.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  She studies her feet for a moment and then looks up. “Monsieur Masson, I think I owe you an apology, too.”

  “Please, call me Noah,” I say.

  She nods. “Letting myself in like I did wasn’t very professional of me… I should’ve waited until you replied to Dad’s email. Or called me.”

  I frown. “I don’t have your number… And what email are you talking about?”

  “My father wrote you that I’d stop by this afternoon to discuss the plumbing problem. Didn’t you get his reply?”

  I shake my head.

  She lets out a sigh. “I bet it’s in your spam. Could you do me a favor and check?”

  I fetch my phone and open the spam folder.

  Smack in the middle of the first page is an unread email from Mr. Bander. So, he did reply to my first email. Only, his letter was sorted with the request to send me a million dollars from Nigeria and an
offer for a penis enlargement pill with free shipping.

  The subject line of Mr. Bander’s note is, unimaginatively, “From Mr. Bander.”

  I show her the email.

  Sophie points an elegant finger at it and shakes her head. “No wonder it went to spam. I have warned Dad not to put his name in the subject line when he emails people in France. Guess he forgot.”

  “Did you tell him why?”

  She gives me a hard stare. “No.”

  I nod in sympathy. In her place, I’d have a hard time breaking it to a parent that his name means “to have an erection” in colloquial French.

  “How come your French is so good?” I ask.

  “My mom is French.”

  “Ah, that explains it.”

  Given that Sophie is a mixed-race chick and her dad sounds Germanic, I assume her French mom is black, maybe of West African or Antilles ancestry.

  “I’ve always lived in the States,” she says.

  And that explains the accent.

  “New York?” I ask. For some reason, she strikes me as a New Yorker.

  She smiles. “Key West, Florida. Have you been there?”

  I shake my head. Maman and Papa often took me to the US when I was a kid. We visited New York and San Francisco several times. But I have no recollection of traveling to Florida.

  My gaze flicks to her lips and lingers there.

  She clears her throat. “So, about your drain problem. I was looking for the shutoff valve, so I can give the plumber its location. Do you know where it is?”

  “You were close,” I say, opening the cabinet next to the one she was about to explore when I came in.

  “Great, thank you. I talked to a plumber who can come by tomorrow morning at ten. Will that work for you?”

  “That’s perfect. I can stop in between my practice and work.”

  “Is the phone number in your lease contract still good?”

  “Yep.”

  She gives me a business card. “Feel free to email or call if you need something else. I’m here to help.”