Romancing the Running Back (12 page)

“This?” Josiah rolled his eyes and leaned against the elevator wall. “We sat in a conference room for two hours, talking about strategy. Then we spent another hour walking through plays. We barely moved.”

“Yeah, but the travel and the hassle and being away from home . . .” Trey trailed off, looking toward the closed door. “I don’t know, man. It’s different now. I’m getting older, yeah, but that’s not it. It’s hard thinking about leaving Cassie behind.”

“She could travel with the team. Other wives do it,” Josiah pointed out.

“They don’t work, or if they do, their job is more flexible. She’s a nine-to-five girl. And she loves her job. I’m not asking her to drop that and use up vacation days to follow me around.” He blinked. “Holy shit, is this what being an adult feels like?”

“I know. It’s surreal.”

“Killian has Aileen holed up in a room, but Stephen and I are suffering. You’re lucky,” Trey said as the elevator stopped on their floor. “The missing part sucks worse than I could have imagined.”

“Yeah,” Josiah said slowly, following his friend, then turning left as Trey turned right to head to his own room. Maybe the missing was worse when there was a face to put to the emotion, but that didn’t mean he didn’t realize he was missing out on . . . something. That the pain of missing the person you loved back home might just be better than the hollow feeling of not knowing the pain at all.

That, he realized as he entered his room, was just obnoxious. He had a good life. No, a
great
life. He wasn’t missing a damn thing.

Which didn’t explain, at all, why when his iPad rang with an incoming FaceTime text, he lunged for it like a dog after a bone.

*   *   *

I shouldn’t be doing this. I should totally not be doing this. This is irresponsible, and pointless, and futile, and—

“Hey,” Josiah answered her FaceTime call.

“Hey,” Anya squeaked out. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”

He raised one brow. “So why’d you ring? Not like you can leave a voice mail.”

Right. Uh . . . “I wanted to show you a few more things for the co-party.”

“Okay.” He smiled, as if he wanted to call her on her bullshit but didn’t need to bother.

And now she had to actually hold something up. Scrambling, she grabbed the plastic bag she’d picked up on the way home. “These are the makeup bags I’m giving the girls as party favors.” She held one up, showing off the monogramed name on the front. “I’m sorry they’re not made out of koala farts, but those were out of my price range.”

“Do the guys get one, too?” he asked with a grin.

“Oh, shut up. No, you said you were taking care of that.”

“And I am.” He stayed frustratingly mum about it, though, just as he had been when she’d asked him the last three times. Frankly, she doubted the gifts were amazing. He just got a thrill out of torturing her.

“T-minus three weeks and counting before the big party,” he said. She could tell from the angle he was leaning against his headboard. She was on her own bed, doing the same thing. It felt oddly intimate, despite the fact he was in New York and she was in New Mexico. “Getting ready?”

“Please. I’m more concerned about my things in Atlanta.”

He tilted his head questioningly.

“My mom is boxing them up. God knows what that woman is capable of. She’d probably pack the contents of my refrigerator and mail it.”

He laughed.

“You laugh, but seriously, she’s capable. I love my mom, but she’s a total ditz. Luckily, my stepmom will be with her. She’s a little more on the ball. She’s helping my mom figure stuff out, including selling my car there and getting rid of my furniture.”

“Not going back?”

He sounded oddly interested in the answer. “For visits, sure. Not to live. Atlanta’s an old chapter.”

Josiah was quiet for a moment, nodding along. Then he took off his ball cap and set it to the side. “Anything else you needed to talk about?”

Scrambling, Anya mentally ran through her list of potential topics. Nothing came up as pressing enough to have called him late at night. “Do you have a roommate?”

That seemed to take him by surprise. Then he swiveled the iPad around so she had a three-sixty view of the room. Two beds—one with his luggage on it—the television and desk, requisite armchair, and then back to him again. Nothing fancy, which surprised her. He wasn’t exactly a nobody on the team. She would have figured he rated a suite or something.

“No roommate. I haven’t had one since my second year here. Some make you stick with a roommate until maybe third or fourth year. Luckily, that’s not the case for me.” He lowered his voice, though there was no reason to. “Some of the guys snore like foghorns.”

She snickered. “Let me guess, Trey gets the best suite.”

“Nope. Same room as the rest of us. I’m sure he didn’t have to share as a rookie, but past that, we’re pretty well living the normal life. Well, normal as it could be, with fifty guys my size or bigger, plus twice that many support staff. We sort of take over the place.”

She was so not into sports, or jocks. But just now, it sounded like the most fascinating experience ever. She levered herself down onto her side, angling her phone to keep her in the camera’s view. “You’re not coming back between games, right?”

“Straight on to Florida, then back for a home game.” He grinned. “Then bye week shenanigans.”

“Sounds good.”

They simply sat for a moment, watching each other.

“You gonna watch the game with Cassie?”

She hadn’t planned on it, but she suddenly felt a strange pull to say yes. “Maybe.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

He coughed a little. “Just, you know, good old fun. America’s pastime, and all that.”

“That’s baseball.”

“Says who?

She thought for a moment. “Not sure.”

“Then we’ll call it a wash. Watch the game,” he added, his voice turned serious. “Who else would flay me alive for all my mistakes?”

Her heart jumped a little, but she fought to keep her voice level. “I’m pretty sure they pay the coaching staff to rake you guys over the coals for all your mistakes on the field.”

“They don’t look nearly as good doing it.”

Stay cool. Stay calm. He’s just teasing. Playing the southern gentleman card.
To a man like Josiah Walker, flirting was likely a default. Nothing to get excited about. “Good to know. Next time I’m giving you a deserved put-down, I’ll make sure to flip my hair or something.”

“Hmm” was all he said.

After another few moments of silence, she said, “I should let you go. I’m sure you’ve got a lot going on tomorrow.”

“That’s a given. Thanks for the call, though.”

She smiled a little. “I live to annoy.”

“It was nice,” he said quietly, then hung up.

It was nice?
Nice
was what you told your eighty-six-year-old grandmother when she gave you a hand-knit sweater with kitten heads on it.
Nice
?

He was truly a confusing, infuriating man.

And she was tangling herself into knots for nothing.

Anya danced into Cynthia’s the next afternoon, nearly floating on adrenaline and good vibes. “Cynthia? You’ll never believe where I’ve been.”

The other woman held up one manicured finger to indicate she needed another moment as she wrote in a ledger. Cynthia believed firmly in backing up her records in plain ink and paper. Computers were wonderful, she said, until they weren’t. After another moment, the older woman looked up and took her glasses off, letting them hang from their jeweled rope against her chest. “Well, are you going to tell me? Or is this a new version of charades we’re playing?”

“Huh? Oh! Right.” Sitting down, Anya smiled smugly. “I’ve spoken to three principals today. Three. All three have agreed to a trial run with Chance to Dance for this year’s proms. And one asked if we could do a trial run for their senior ball, which is in mid-December.” Anya clapped. “It’s the start!”

“Yes, it is.”

Anya, sensing the mood shift, settled back in her chair and shoved her happy mood under the seat for a moment. “Is something the matter?”

“I’ve been looking over the records for the nonprofit. It leaves a little to be desired,” she added, scowling down at the ledger book.

Anya winced. She wasn’t formally trained in bookkeeping and records management. She barely was able to keep up with her own business. “I’m still learning. Did I mess something up?”

“No, not exactly. It’s just not concise. You come in one day next week and I’ll show you a few things to make it easier, make the work flow better. Helps your numbers line up. As of now, they all add up properly, you’re simply working harder, not smarter.”

Anya blew out a breath of relief. She hadn’t screwed up. Yet. “Thank you.” Could she have gotten any luckier on finding this woman to mentor her?

“But that’s not the point I was aiming at. The point is, in order to make it for this December dance, you’re several dresses—and more than a few dollars—short. The dresses will come, or they won’t. That’s not a large problem. The problem is the lack of money. None to buy a trailer, or put gas in a truck to pull that trailer to make it to these high schools. If you want to do this properly, you’ll need rolling racks and folding screens and more.” Cynthia’s pen tapped on the book for a moment. “I assume you’re not hiding a million-dollar net worth from me, hmm?”

That made Anya snort. “Hardly. I, uh . . . I could probably afford some of that stuff.” She’d be getting some money from the sale of her old car, the few items her mother was selling for her in Atlanta. But . . . “It won’t be enough. How do we raise the funds?”

“You’ve received nonprofit status, so that’s no problem. Women love donating to causes that involve other women.
But I’m sorry to say, I won’t be asking my customers for donations. It’s too . . . crass,” the older woman decided on. Anya grimaced. “I know,” Cynthia continued, “but at the end of the day, I run a business. I am thrilled to help you with this endeavor, but I still have a family to feed.”

“I understand.” Anya blew out a breath. “Donations from stores, maybe? A sponsorship? I don’t know.”

“How about a fund-raiser?”

A fund-raiser sounded so . . . big. So out there. So risky.

She wouldn’t be able to hide her involvement any longer. She’d have to admit the project to her friends. And they would all know if her idea sank or swam.

She’d rather chew off her arm.

“I’ll think about it,” she said after a minute. “For the trial run with the senior ball, I’m sure I can make do with a borrowed SUV and a friend. It’s a smaller affair than prom, more cocktail than black tie, and a smaller number of girls. But for prom . . .” There was no escaping it. “Yes, all right. I’ll think about a fund-raiser.”

“Good. Now, I spoke with Beppy Swift yesterday.”

Anya blinked at that. “Who?”

“Beppy Swift.” Looking exasperated that Anya didn’t know who that was, Cynthia went on, “Santa Fe socialite? You apparently helped her pick out clothing for her daughter-in-law last week?”

“Oh!” Anya settled back. “The plum wedding. She never gave me her name.”

“She said you texted her daughter-in-law photos of the dresses so she could choose, and ended up buying them both anyway because she wanted them. Well done,” Anya’s mentor said with a satisfied smile. “An exceptional, out-of-the-box way to handle the situation. Beppy was delighted with you. She dresses herself, of course, with the help of her own personal shopper, who has been working with her for over two decades. You won’t find a client in that one.”

“I wasn’t looking for a client,” Anya said honestly. “I was just helping out.”

“Yes, and thank you, by the way. That was unnecessary, but welcome. Not the point. The point is, Beppy seems to have misplaced your card, and called asking for your information. Her daughter and daughter-in-law both loved the outfits you chose, and they’d each like to schedule some time with you to help. The daughter, to look for honeymoon attire, and the daughter-in-law, to refresh her fall wardrobe.” Cynthia’s eyes turned calculating. “You understand, of course, both of these women will be following in Beppy’s designer footsteps and slowly becoming matriarchs of the area themselves.”

“Wow,” Anya breathed. This wasn’t a one-off virtual client who wanted advice on skinny jeans versus boot cut to flatter her figure. This was . . . wow.

“Yes, well, I gave her your information again, but also took down the two ladies’ information for you, just in case.” She ripped a piece of paper off a notepad to her left and held it out. “Well done, you.”

Anya just stared at it.

Cynthia waved it gently. “Off you go. Scoot. I have work to do.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Anya stood and slowly pinched the piece of paper between two fingers. It was just a simple sheet of yellow, lined paper, with black ink. But it felt more important than that. More like the beginning of her new life. The true start. The turning point.

Like this was really, truly going to work.

*   *   *

“But why can’t we come for just a little while?” Mellie asked, for the hundredth time, from the backseat. “We’ll behave.”

Irene Jordan snorted from her seat in the front of Anya’s car. “That’s not the point, idiot. They’re going to be drinking and doing other adult stuff. They don’t want kids there cramping their style. Even though
some
of us are basically adults now.”

Anya debated, very seriously, the idea of pulling the car over and letting Cassie’s two half sisters walk the rest of the way to their father’s house. It was only a few blocks. A few blocks wouldn’t kill them, right?

Deep breath, calm voice, no murder.

“Irene is right in that this is not the kind of party someone underage should be attending. But there’s the bridal shower, which I’m going to be using both of you to help plan. And I promise that all the bridesmaids and Cassie will get together and do a girls’ day before the wedding.”

“We’re bridesmaids. We should be invited to
all
the parties.” Sounding completely put out, Mellie crossed her arms in the backseat. “This isn’t fair.”

“Life’s not fair,” Irene sang, as if to specifically annoy her sister. The young lady was sounding much more chipper than she had when Anya had picked them up for their initial dress fitting. Anya suspected that was because Irene had gotten her way on choosing the top for her dress. The dresses all matched in color, but each girl had chosen their own neckline. Even Tabitha—the girls’ mother and soon-to-be ex-wife of Cassie’s father—had finally given the okay for the dresses, via text. Because nobody actually wanted the woman at the boutique dress shop while they tried dresses on.

“Captain Buzz Kill” was the woman’s middle name.

Mellie, unfortunately, had hated all options and pouted through most of it. Very unlike her normally sunny, optimistic personality. It was understandable, Anya supposed, given her rapidly shifting life with the impending divorce, plus the addition of typical teenage hormones, that the girl couldn’t be pleasant to be around all the time. But still . . .

“How long are you going to live at Dad’s?” Irene asked suddenly.

“Well, I’m not really living at your father’s house, you know. Just the pool house out back. And I pay rent,” she added, feeling stupidly defensive with a seventeen-year-old.

Irene simply shrugged, as if the distinction didn’t matter.

“And I don’t know. It probably depends on how things go around here.”

“That’s noncommittal,” Irene pointed out.

Ah, yes. Cassie had mentioned something about therapy for the girls.

“Are you going to start dating our dad?” Irene asked, so suddenly that Anya’s foot jerked on the brake. She glanced around, thankful they were nowhere near another car.

“Am I
what?
” Feeling a little crazed, she looked to Irene’s calm face, then back to Mellie’s wide-eyed shock, and back again to the older sister. “Are you insane?”

“Dad moved you into the house,” she said simply, as if that answered everything. “And a lot of men go through phases when they’re getting a divorce. Dad’s still a good-looking guy.”

“Ew,” Mellie whispered from the backseat.

Anya agreed, though Cassie’s father was a good-looking man from a technical, objective standpoint . . . ew. “Again, I’m in the pool house, not the main house. And he’s my best friend’s father.”

“It’s not unheard of.”

“I’m sorry, do you
want
me to date your father?” Even the suggestion had Anya shuddering.

“No, just checking.” When Anya just stared at her with narrowed eyes, she sighed. “Fine, Mom wanted to know.”

Anya’s hands clutched at the wheel. Of course. “Tabitha wanted to know if I was sleeping with your dad. Seriously.”

“Seriously.”

Mellie sat back in her seat, looking disappointed there was nothing more interesting going on than her mother’s latent craziness.

All of this insanity once again made Anya thank the good Lord her own father had married a wonderful, patient woman who got along with her mom and didn’t have a crazy bone in her body.

“Let me just be very clear,” Anya said in a stiff voice, moving back into the lane to drive home. “I am not dating your father. I have no desire to date your father. I am paying rent for the pool house. I am not a live-in anything to anyone. I barely know the man, and all I feel for him is gratitude that he let me rent the pool house for a reasonable price while I figure out my life. That. Is. All.”

“You locked your door,” Mellie grumbled.

“That’s what you took away from my speech?” Anya asked, aghast.

“Cassie never locked her door. She didn’t care if we came in to hang out.”

“I don’t mind hanging out with you guys”—
much
—“but I also like my privacy. And I’ve heard you two have a reputation for
borrowing
clothes.”

“It’s not a crime,” Mellie muttered.

“She’s in a pissy mood,” Irene observed.

“Shut up!”

“You shut up.”

“Shut up!”

“You.”

Ah, sisters. So this was what Anya had missed out on. She approached the Jordans’ private driveway, paused to open the gate, and noticed a car that looked distinctly like Josiah’s SUV sitting beside the curb. Couldn’t be. She hadn’t heard from him since her ill-planned FaceTime call two weeks ago. He’d been on the road since then, and probably busy as crap, so she didn’t hold it against him.

Hold
what
against him? He didn’t owe her phone calls. They weren’t dating. That was insanity.

“Daddy’s not home,” Mellie said as she pulled up to pause beside the big house. Anya assumed she knew that because his car wasn’t parked out back where he often left it. “Must be at work still.”

“Do I need to wait with you guys?” Anya asked.

Irene simply gave her a look that said,
Are you serious?
“We’re teenagers. We can stay by ourselves for a few hours.” She slid out of the car, then paused before closing the door. “Thank you for the ride to the store. The dresses rock.”

“You both look amazing in them, and you’re welcome. Have a good night!”

Irene shut the door and followed her sister—who was already storming up the stairs to the back door—into the house.

It was then that she looked in her rearview mirror and realized the SUV she’d spotted in the street had followed her through the privacy gates. She grabbed her cell phone to call the security company number Coach Jordan had given her when she saw a hand stick out of the window. Josiah’s hand. He motioned for her to keep driving, so she pulled around to the back by the pool house. He parked behind her, blocking her in again.

Was that a metaphor for how he kept getting in her way in life? Or just some weird coincidence?

She grabbed her purse and slid out of the car. “Surprise. What are you doing here?”

“I came over to finalize plans for the party.” He watched her as he walked up to the door, without that usual easy swagger, without the friendly smile she’d come to expect. Something was up. “Game on Sunday, then it’s bye week. I figured if we had the party planned out before then, we could just slide into it and not waste a lot of the downtime with details.”

“Oh, right. Of course.” She fought with the lock for a moment, then managed to get it open. He raised a brow at the locked door.

“Expect a lot of company back here, with the privacy gate and all?”

“Actually, yes. I’ve been warned there is a very small gang that runs tame around here, entering unsuspecting females’ homes.”

His brows shot up. “No way. Seriously? A gang in this neighborhood?”

“A small one,” she reminded him. “It’s a gang of two, and they break in to ‘borrow’ clothing.”

His face cleared immediately. “The sisters.”

“Bingo.” She let her purse fall to the floor, then slid onto the sofa with a groan. Her flats were comfortable, but she kicked them off anyway. “It’s a moment like this where I really need a coffee table to prop my feet up on. God, those girls are exhausting. I shouldn’t have offered to drive them. They bicker like cats and dogs.”

“Siblings. My brother and I are the same way. Or we were as kids. We get along better now.” He stood with his hands in his pockets, as if unsure of what to do. She patted the seat beside her on the sofa.