Romancing the Running Back (7 page)

“So you’re just annoyed with me on principle. Because you don’t like my career field. Lovely.” She poked at a chickpea from her salad. “Maybe I see your job as frivolous. Ever think of that? A bunch of overpaid, sweaty men running around getting grass stains on perfectly good white pants while they try to keep ahold of an oval pigskin. Sounds very enlightening for the masses.”

“It’s not,” he said, surprising her when he agreed. “I can’t say my job, at least at the base of it, is very noble. But it does give me a decent platform to talk about what I’m passionate about. So that’s a major plus in that area.”

Anya decided to ignore him. Clearly, he was a number of contradictions wrapped up in one too-handsome package. He was elitist, but not. Picky, but humble. He thought his way was the best, and didn’t accept other opinions.

And yet, when he’d lunged for her after he’d thought she’d sliced her finger, it hadn’t been any of those contradictions leading the way. It had been real fear, concern, worry for her in his eyes, in his gentle touch when he’d examined her. And though he’d tried to hide it with frustration, he’d been a little shaky afterward.

Divorce proceedings hadn’t given her much hope for a new relationship, but it had provided her with numerous insights into the male species.

After a few minutes of silent eating, she succumbed. “How’d you find this place in the middle of nowhere?”

“They found me. The chef, Anthony—I can bring him over to introduce him if you want—saw an interview I did about the importance of eating local, and he told me about an idea he had for a restaurant.”

“Idea,” she said, catching on instantly. “You backed him.”

“Silent backer, yeah. It was a solid plan. Not just to feed people from local produce, but to teach them how to go home and do it themselves. To show them where the ingredients are,” he said, picking up the placard that sat at the unused corner of their table, proclaiming where every piece of food on their plates had come from, “and show them it’s not as difficult as people assume.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” she admitted. “I thought eating locally was all but impossible, and it had to be like a part-time job to hunt up the different spots. Just easier to head to the local chain store and grab everything you need.”

“I do that, too, when something I really need—or just want—isn’t local. I’m a conscious consumer, but I’m not a glutton for punishment. I won’t say no to sushi because it’s obviously not going to show up anywhere near here in a natural sense.”

“If you wanted fresh, local sushi, you got drafted to the wrong team,” she said with a smile.

“But this is important to me. So I make the effort when I can. Passions aren’t always convenient, but they’re always
important.”

Much as it pained her, she had to admit his convictions were impressive. He might have sounded pompous at some points expressing them, but that little speech had been inspiring, and not at all arrogant. This was a Josiah she could get to know more.

“So Anya,” he said, settling back in his seat. “What are you passionate about?”

Talk about Chance to Dance. Get his input. Do it. What do you have to lose?

A lot of face. It was still too new, too raw for her to discuss. If she screwed it up at some point, or if it fell through from events out of her control, she wanted it to implode quietly.

“Just, you know, work. Fashion.” Even to her own ears, it sounded shallow. There was more to fashion than just prettying things up. She inwardly cringed at the slip and decided a change of subject was in order. “Congrats on your first win of the season . . .”

*   *   *

It wasn’t until they were nearly to Cassie and Trey’s house that Anya remembered. “Thank you for lunch. It was . . . an experience.”

“It’s meant to be,” he said with a smile, either missing or ignoring the fact that she hadn’t actually said she enjoyed it. “Sorry you almost chopped your finger off.”

“Apparently you were right, I’m just no damn good with produce,” she said on a laugh, then stopped when he didn’t follow along on the joke. “Get it? Because you told me I was washing the lettuce wrong at the cookout? And then the cucumber incident?”

“Yeah, about that . . .” He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face while parking in the driveway of Trey’s house. “Sorry. I don’t really know what got into my head. It was . . .”

“Pompous?” she supplied.

“Not the word I was looking for,” he grumbled.

“Stuck up? Arrogant? Weird?”

“Let’s just say it was a mistake. Can we go with that?”

Anya shrugged. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t stuck her foot in her own mouth a time or two. They were never going to be besties, that much was clear. But he was Trey’s best friend, and she was Cassie’s. They were in this wedding business until the end. They could easily be friendly, if not friends. “Apology accepted.”

“Thank you.” He waited for her to say something more, then made the
well?
gesture.

“Hmm?” She bent over and grabbed her purse from the floor of the SUV.

“Aren’t you going to apologize for calling me an eco-nut?”

She made a sound that indicated she was thinking about it, then said, “Nope!” and hopped out of the car while he
growled. That made her laugh, and she wiggled her fingers in a good-bye wave. His hands gripped the steering wheel in a choking gesture, and she laughed again. For all his bluster, for all his intimidation factor, he was very easy to poke fun with.

Cassie opened the door right as Anya was about to use the key her friend had provided. “Hey! Where’s Josiah going?”

“He’s probably late for a Save-the-Whales convention,” Anya said automatically, then winced as Cassie raised a brow. “Sorry, that’s getting to be a habit. I don’t know where he’s going. Our errands are done, so he’s probably heading home. I’m sure he’s got better things to do than to chauffeur me around town on his one day off during the season.”

“There’s nothing better than driving you around,” Cassie disagreed, closing the door behind her. “How was it?”

“Decent. I went to five venues, and starred the two I think would fit what you’re looking for the most. I can rip out the page of my notebook if you want, or just text you the info so I can keep the page in there with the other wedding details.”

“Text me. But that’s not what I meant. How’d it
goooooo
,” she said again, drawing out the last word emphatically.

“Uh, fine. We didn’t use your names, and nobody recognized Josiah today, so as far as keeping the date a secret, we’re still good. The two I think best work are—”

“Oh, for cripes sake.” Cassie walked past her into the kitchen, getting out a bottle of water and setting it down on the counter before plopping on the bar stool at the island. “How was being alone with Josiah?”

That took her aback for a moment. “It was okay. He drove, I did the talking. Efficient.”

Cassie groaned and let her head bang on the counter a few times.

“I don’t understand what your problem . . . oh. No. Cassie, no.”

Cassie rolled her head to the side to stare at her with one eye.

Adopting her best stern face—which sucked on a good day—Anya stared at her best friend. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Think about what?” The innocent routine was pathetic, at best.

“Don’t even think about trying to play matchmaker. It’s not cute. We’re not in high school, and I’m not looking for a date to the prom. Plus, you sucked as a matchmaker back then, and I can’t imagine your luck would run any hotter now, if you think Josiah and I are meant to be.”

“I didn’t say ‘meant to be.’ Just, you know, maybe you would complement each other.”

“Complement each other? Ha!” Warming up now, Anya let her tote bag slam to the counter and got her own bottle of water, scowling at the cucumber staring at her from the crisper drawer. “Forget complementing each other. We can barely be civil to each other. And you want to talk about complementing . . .” She snorted. “He wants nothing to do with me. He couldn’t say something nice to me if he had a script from Nicholas Sparks at his disposal. He hates me.”

“Hate? No way.”

“Fine. He disdains me. He thinks I’m an idiot who does nothing but dream about pretty shiny things. Like . . . like . . . like some raccoon or something. And because he’s all . . . all . . .” She made a muffled shriek and waved her hands around, then slammed the bottle on the counter. “All noble and good-causey, he’s such a better person than me. He’s elevated. He’s
evolved. He’s, he’s . . . Jesus!”

Cassie blinked at that. “Wh . . . I’m sorry, what? He called himself Jesus?”

“No! Of course not. Don’t be stupid.”

“I think ‘stupid’ has a place in this conversation, and it’s not on my side of the counter,” Cassie said dryly.

“He thinks I’m shallow.”

“And I’m sure you did nothing to disabuse him of that.”

“It’s not my job to make him think about me any way.” But of course, she had to be honest, because otherwise Cassie would know, anyway. “I mean, I might have played up the helpless, stupid fashionista a little, but that was only
after
he came up with the conclusion on his own. If that’s how he thinks of me, so be it.”

“Anya,” Cassie moaned, letting her head fall into her arms. “I wasn’t trying to make your life more difficult, but really. Did you have to?”

“He was asking for it,” she replied hotly. “Judging me prematurely.”

“Like you judged him with that ‘Save the Whales’ retort earlier.”

Bull’s-eye. Face flushed red-hot from the direct hit, Anya turned and grabbed her bag on the way out. “I don’t need help with my love life.”

“You don’t
have
a love life,” Cassie called out at her from the kitchen.

“And for good reason!” Anya shouted back, tromping up the stairs.

One game, and one wedding outing with Anya down. In Josiah’s mind, they ranked about equal in energy expended.

As he walked into the weight room Tuesday morning, he bumped into Trey. “Coach Jordan is coming,” his friend muttered under his breath. “Batten down the hatches.”

It was a rare day when the head coach—and Trey’s soon-to-be father-in-law—made it down to the weight room. He reserved his time for the practice field and team meetings, normally. That was enough to put an extra hop in Josiah’s step, and he hustled into the weight room to get started on his routine. But from the corner of his eye, he caught Stephen, sitting down on an unused bench, just staring at the floor. Josiah elbowed Trey and motioned over toward their friend.

“Aw, shit,” Trey muttered. “Normally, I’d say let him work it out, but . . .”

Yeah, the “but” was important. Stephen was still early in the stages of alcoholism recovery. Where a normal guy might have a rough day and settle into a funk he would pull out of eventually, they both knew they had to keep an eagle eye on their teammate for any signs of slipping. Risking the wrath of the coaching staff, they both silently agreed and weaved their way over to his corner.

“Better get up, Stephen.” Josiah snapped his towel in his friend’s direction. “Coach Jordan’s on his way in. Sitting is not going to impress him unless you’re doing some arm curls while you’re at it.”

“Bite me.” Rather than crack a smile, Stephen let his head fall farther into his hands.

“Shit. Tell me you’re not hungover.” Josiah crouched in front, shooting Trey a worried look over Stephen’s shoulder before trying to get a good look into their teammate’s eyes. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Enough for me to break off and feed to your dog.” Josiah debated reminding his friend he didn’t have a dog, but stayed silent. “Go away. I’m not drunk, I’m not hungover, and I’m not sick. I’m just tired. Can a guy be tired after spending his weeks getting hammered by linemen?”

“Harrison!”

They all jolted a little as Coach Jordan entered the weight room and raised his voice enough to be heard over the clang of weights, grunting, and the music blaring from the sound system.

Stephen stood slowly, as if it were taking all his energy to do just that. “Yeah, Coach?”

“My office, now.” Coach Jordan did a quick circle, taking in everyone who had stopped working out to stare. “Why is nobody working? Why are you all staring? Move!”

Stephen walked—more like trudged—after the head coach. Josiah took a quick look at Trey, who nodded, and followed.

Coach Talbin stopped them both at the door. “Not for you, boys.”

“He’s ours, so it is for us,” Trey insisted.

“Come on, Talbin. Just let us go with the guy.” Josiah took his hat off and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “Can’t a teammate support his friend?”

“Back to your reps, and no cheating.” With that, the assistant coach pushed their friend out the door and closed it firmly behind him.

“Shit,” Trey muttered. “His fake relationship is catching up with him.”

Stephen’s sobriety was still tenuous enough that the coaching staff had asked him to have a live-in life coach during the first few months at home post-rehab. Stephen had insisted he already had accountability at home, in the form of a live-in girlfriend. The problem was . . . no girlfriend in sight. He’d hired his housekeeper to pose as his girlfriend to keep him on track and in the coaching staff’s good graces. And in the middle of keeping up appearances of a fake girlfriend, had gone and fallen in love with the woman.

“Love is bizarre,” Josiah said, not quite understanding it all. From his perspective, it didn’t seem all that great.

“Love is amazing,” Trey corrected, his eyes tracking over Josiah’s shoulder. “Trainers, your six o’clock. Time to get busy.”

*   *   *

Finished with the proposal for her newest client, Anya closed one email and opened another. She’d done her work, and now she got to play. The graphic artist she’d hired—a recommendation from Cassie, who she was sure had talked her BFF into a discount—had sent over a few mock-ups for the Chance to Dance nonprofit logo. When the email had first popped up in her in-box, she’d itched to open it, but had made herself behave and put paying work first.

After a moment of deep breathing, she clicked, opened the attachment, and barely bit back a squeal.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect. It was feminine without being embarrassingly girly or childish, so they could use it even after they expanded past the high school demographic. The colors were bold, but not overpowering. And most of all, the cute little dressmaker forms—a total surprise—added a whimsical touch she hadn’t thought of before.

Cassie had no clue this was what she’d requested from the graphic artist, and Anya still wasn’t quite ready to tell her yet. Saying it out loud was almost akin to putting goals in writing . . . if you blew it, the fallout was that much worse. She’d tell her soon. Very soon . . .

Her cell phone rang, and though she didn’t recognize the number, she answered with her professional voice.

“Anya, hey. Glad I caught you.”

She barely managed to bite back a groan. “Chad, what number is this?”

“Oh, just a number.”

More like he’d borrowed a cell phone from someone at work. Or maybe bought a burner phone or SIM card from online. Because harassing her had become his new, all-time favorite project. Much as she would have loved to ignore her ex, she couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. But she’d been sending his calls to voice mail with more frequent regularity.

“What do you want, Chad?” The bubble of her happiness from the mock-up developed a slow leak.

“I just wanted to hear your voice.”

The whiny, almost nasal tone of his voice grated over her remaining nerve endings where he was concerned. “Chad, I’ve told you before, if it has to do with the paperwork, you know what to do.”

“It does, but it doesn’t.”

Jesus, this man was infuriating.

Play nice, Anya. Maybe he’s about to give up and grant you the divorce you’ve been dreaming of for nearly two freaking years now.

She let out a slow breath of toxic energy. Then, in a more polite voice, asked, “Yes, Chad?”

“I’ve just been thinking about us . . .” he began in the whiny, nostalgic voice he used when he was strolling in an aggravatingly slow pace down Memory Lane. “Thinking about how good things were once. Before.”

Before he’d cheated on her—repeatedly, and with more than one woman—and then shrugged when she’d demanded he move out? Yup.
Before
. There was a word fraught with subtext.

“And you’re thinking about how much better things will be after we have closure?” she asked hopefully.

“I don’t want closure. I want my wife back.”

So much for hope. “I haven’t been your wife for two years. Probably more, depending on when you honestly started sleeping with other women, since I’m pretty sure I can’t trust your ‘memory’ when it comes to junk like that.”

So much for playing nice. Temper had won out. Might as well ride the red haze.

“Sign the damn papers, Chad.”

“I can’t. Not until I know we’ve given it everything we have.”

“I did give it everything I had. You gave everything you had to that whore receptionist,” she snapped. One step back for womankind. She’d apologize, but really . . . the receptionist had slept with a married man on purpose, then smiled at Anya every time she’d come to meet Chad for lunch. Sometimes, you just had to call a whore a whore.

“Anastasia,” he started, but she hung up.

When would she learn? The man was making her life a living hell even after she’d given up considering herself married to him. They’d been separated for two years, and in the process of legally divorcing ever since. If he’d just sign the papers, they could all go on their merry way. But no. Chad had to act like the injured party to his golfing buddies and his boss and his parents and his favorite bartender and probably his mistress and the hooker he picked up on Tuesdays and the maid and anyone else who was willing to listen to his pathetic, fictional sob story.

If she could go back in time and erase one moment of her life, it would have been the moment she’d met Chad Gillingham.

A knock sounded on the door, and she quickly wiped at her cheeks to check for evidence of angry tears. All clear. “Come in.”

“Hey.” Cassie bounced in, with Margaret not far behind at a more sedate pace. “We were downstairs and decided to see if you wanted company. I know you’re working tonight but—”

“Company sounds great.” She took quick stock of Margaret’s face, and decided the woman needed compassion more than she did. “Hey, what’s up?”

Mags shook her head, looking like she’d rather swallow nails than talk about it. Fair enough.

“Is Stephen downstairs?”

Cassie made a waving sound over Mags’ head, indicating to not go there. Mags’ eyes filled with tears.

Whoops. Anya was on a damn roll tonight.

“Executive decision,” Anya stated, standing up from the bed. “I hereby dub tonight Margarita Night.”

That brightened Cassie up. “We don’t have margarita fixings, but we do have daiquiri mix and some fresh strawberries.”

“Sold!” Wrapping an arm around Mags, she squeezed her new friend gently. “Let’s go make some slushy drinks and paint our nails.”

Mags sniffed. “Okay.”

*   *   *

Josiah sat in his hotel room in Denver, going over the last of the proofs his agent had sent him from his most recent photo shoot for one of his sponsors. This one, an underwear company that used organic cotton for its undershirts, briefs, boxers, and socks, had a philanthropic twist, donating as many products as they sold. As far as he could tell, it was a twofer for him. Responsible product developed with the environment in mind, plus helping out fellow man in the process.

It didn’t hurt his agent’s feelings that the ad featured him, wearing the boxer briefs and socks in a tongue-in-cheek billboard ad. He wasn’t a huge fan, but it got the message out.

His tablet quacked, and he glanced over to see a FaceTime call coming in from, of all people, Anya. He debated denying the call—it was after ten, local time, after all. He had two days before the game, and not a lot of sleep to look forward to after tonight. But something in him made him swipe to answer anyway. As the call was connecting, he used the case to prop it up a bit. Then her beautiful face took over his screen.

“Hey, you,” she said, smiling. Her eyes looked heavy, as if she were tired.

“Hey . . .” he said slowly. “You okay?”

“Huh?” She blinked, and he wasn’t sure if it was the connection or if her eyelids were really moving that slowly. “Yeah, I’m good. So good. Frozen-daiquiri good.”

That explained it. He bit back a chuckle. “What prompted the daiquiri challenge?”

“No challenge. But hey, there were real strawberries. I sliced ’em.” She held up both hands in front of her face and wiggled her fingers. “And no cuts.”

“Look at you go.” Amused, and entertained, he settled back in his chair. “What brings you to my iPad this late at night?”

She heaved out a heavy sigh, then said, “Mags came over, upset. And I was upset. And so we made daiquiris. And now nobody’s upset. Except Mags’ stomach.”

He grimaced. Stephen was basically a wreck, though he still wasn’t talking. “I have a feeling that is going to work itself out pretty soon.”

She blinked slowly again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I know Stephen’s made up his mind about . . . something. After we get back in town, I have a feeling he’s going to make good on that situation.”

“Well, good.” Talking now as if it were too much effort to move her lips, she flopped. He assumed it was on the bed, as she bounced a little. The screen turned sideways, then corrected itself. “What are you doing?”

He wanted to ask her the same thing. Was she annoyed with him? Or did she actually want to talk to him? “Just hanging in my room. We’ve got the game in Denver on Sunday, you know.”

“Oh, I know.” Sounding wise, in the way only a drunk person could, she nodded. “I had to liss’n to Cass sprout stats from her ears. That girl has been around you peoples too long.”

Her impaired speech made him smile. The guard was down, and he liked this Anya. No defense, no playing it safe, and no sharp teeth waiting to take a chunk out of his side. “We’re not all that bad.”

“Fu-ball, fu-ball, fu-ball,” she droned. “Do you guys ever talk about anythin’ else?”

He thought for a moment. “I just finished approving a mock-up for an ad.”

That lit her eyes from their dull, nearly passed-out patina they’d taken on. “Ad? For what?”

That had slipped out a little too fast. “Just, you know, a product.”

“Lemme see.”

“You’re several states away,” he pointed out unnecessarily.

She blew out a raspberry, which caused a strand of blond hair to get caught in her lips, and she spit at it inelegantly. The woman was the definition of a messy drunk. “Jus’ bring the photo up on your computer and show the FaceTime.”

He hesitated. It wasn’t like he was ashamed of the ad—the photo was tasteful, if not what he would have originally wanted for the concept. And she’d see the damn thing anyway on a billboard eventually. But showing her now, in his hotel room, felt a little more intimate, more raw than he would have believed. Despite the fact that she was actually not there. It felt extremely personal. “The quality won’t show up well.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, and for the oddest reason it made him want to kiss her. That little flare of humanity, of childishness.

“Fine.” He sighed and brought up the image again, blowing it up so it was the only thing on his computer screen. Then, holding his breath, he turned the iPad toward the computer screen and closed his eyes.

There was a long pause of nothing. He wanted to jerk the iPad away, claim there was a bad connection, lie and say his
laptop died. But he held it steady.

“You’re an underwear model.”

He opened his eyes to that. “What? No I’m not.”

“You’re wearing underwear.” She snickered. “It’s so not what I expected.”