Page 45 of One Kind Goal

“Ouch.”

“Definitely. I can tell that every moment he’s spent with her today has been a precious gift to him.” And the fact that he’d let Morgan be a part of that time made her feel squishy again. “I don’t believe the media has any idea he has a kid. I mean, in my cyberstalking of him after we first met, I never came across any mention of a daughter. That’s how her mother wants it, so you’re going to forget I told you about Nia, understand?”

“Got it.”

“Brooke will forget too,” Morgan warned.

“I’ll make sure of it.” Claire let out a little chuckle. “I have to say, however, I’m having a difficult time picturing you doing all that family-type stuff.”

“Well, it happened, Claire,” Morgan said, “and I fucking loved it.”

“Oh, boy. You’re getting in deep with this guy,” Claire said, “and his kid now too.”

The old Morgan would have vehemently denied this accusation. This Morgan, however, couldn’t do that. Claire was spot-on with her assessment. She was deeper than she’d ever let herself get with any other guy.

But Sawyer wasn’t just any other guy.

Nia appeared in the living room and threw herself onto the couch beside Morgan. She snuggled up to Morgan’s side and, instinctively, Morgan put her arm around the girl.

“I have to go,” she said to Claire. “It’s pizza and pajamas time.”

“My God,” Claire said. “It’s as if the voice sounds like Morgan Rayhill, but the actual words are in a foreign language. Pizza and pajamas? Let’s hope the pajamas become optional after the pipsqueak goes to bed.”

“That’s where things are headed.”

“Praise be.” Claire laughed again. “Okay, good night, Morgan.”

“Bye.” Morgan ended the call as Sawyer rounded the couch and plopped onto the last cushion. He wore a pair of sweats and a RI Anchors T-shirt, looking about as delectable as a chocolate cake. “Are those your pajamas?”

“Sure.” But the heated look in his eyes told her that he hadn’t brought any actual pajamas. “Go get yours on and we’ll spread the food out here.” He tapped the low coffee table in front of the couch with his sock-covered foot.

“Okay.” Morgan got to her feet. “Be right back.”

Sawyer brushed his hand against hers as she passed. “I hope so.”

Squishy-squish.

She entered the larger bedroom where she’d parked her suitcase. Opening it, she surveyed its contents, dismissing about ninety percent of the sexy underthings she’d brought to tantalize Sawyer. Those were definitely for after little girls were safely tucked away for the night. Instead, Morgan pulled out a pair of leggings and her own RI Anchors T-shirt. One that had Sawyer’s last name emblazoned across the shoulders. She’d bought it to wear when she watched games, but a part of her had always hoped she’d get to wear it for Sawyer in person.

Tonight that hope became a reality.

She changed, knotting the T-shirt at her waist to make it a bit more feminine. Gathering her hair, she put it in a loose ponytail, figuring if she was going to go for the girl-next-door look, she may as well go all the way. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the dresser. What stared back at her was a far cry from the New York socialite image she normally rocked. No wonder Claire had been befuddled.

When she reemerged in the living room, Sawyer paused mid-stride from the island to the coffee table, pizza box in hand. He stared at her for a solid five-count before Nia spoke and broke the spell.

“Hey, your shirt is like Daddy’s,” Nia said. “I want a shirt like that too.”

“I’ll get you one.” Sawyer’s voice was gruff as he lowered the pizza box a little and stood there with it.

It only took Morgan a moment to realize he was attempting to hide his erection. She gave him a little smirk, and his jaw clenched. His gaze, however, was playful as he walked toward the couch and sat with the pizza box resting on his lap.

“Careful. The bottom of that box might be greasy,” Morgan said with a grin. “Wouldn’t want your sweats to get all . . . slick.”

Sawyer let out a shuddery breath. “Not greasy. Everything’s fine.”

Morgan chuckled softly and opened the pizza box on the coffee table. “Oh, this is your pizza.” She pointed to the box Sawyer’s hands were clamped on. “That’s mine.” She held her hand out for him to pass her the box.

Fire blazed in his eyes, his cheeks slightly pinked. “I might want a piece of this one.” He tightened his grip, making indentations in the cardboard. Loosening his grip, he opened the box.