Romancing the Running Back (9 page)

She grinned and hopped in her car.

*   *   *

“I think you got turned around, darlin’.” Josiah stood beside her, staring up at the mansion in front of them. “This is the Jordan residence. As in, Coach Jordan? Cassie’s dad?”

“I know whose house it is.” She looked at it another few moments. What a cold home. Nothing about it said anything of warmth, of happiness. Oh, the lawn was manicured, the shrubs all perfectly trimmed. There were yellow flowers in happy gold and rose springing up from clay pots here and there. Keeping a lawn nice like this in the Santa Fe climate meant serious time and serious money. But the home itself . . . wasn’t a home at all. It was a house. A museum, maybe. Cassie had never been comfortable the times she had hung out with her sisters in the big house, preferring them to come to her in the tiny pool house. More cozy, she’d always said.

“So . . . where to next?” he asked. When she didn’t move, he nudged her gently. “Yoo-hoo, earth to Anya.”

“In,” she said decisively. She’d take the pool house for as long as she could have it. It wouldn’t shock her if Coach Jordan decided to sell the place and downsize, even just a little. It had to be depressing to come home from being on the road to an empty house, and add a few thousand square feet onto the average American home . . . ouch. She reached back into her car, grabbed the clicker Cassie had passed her along with the keys, and hit the button. The iron gates protecting the home from the street shrieked a little, then opened in a slow swing.

“No way,” Josiah muttered, then stopped himself. “You’re taking the pool house.”

“It pays to have friends in high places,” she sang, sliding back into her car. They drove through the gates, pausing only long enough for Anya to click them closed again, and drove around the back as instructed by Cassie, parking next to the little cottage-style building beside the fenced-in pool. Josiah pulled up behind her, although there was room enough to park beside her. Almost as if he were blocking her in. That caused her to shiver, before she could scold herself for thinking stupid thoughts. Of course he wasn’t blocking her in. She lived here, for God’s sake. You couldn’t block someone in when they didn’t intend to leave, anyway.

“I haven’t been back here, myself. Came a few times for parties thrown by Mrs. J, or the soon-to-be former,” he corrected, looking around. “Seemed pointless then. Seems even more pointless now.”

“On that, we can both agree,” she said, pulling the small bags from her front seat before stepping aside. He managed to get her front seat folded down in one fluid motion she’d yet to perfect since buying the car yesterday and pulled the first bag from the back. “This way, bellhop.”

He grumbled, but followed her to the door, where she paused to unlock and open it.

The pool house smelled faintly of cleaning products, as if the maid had disinfected everything after Cassie left. Wouldn’t
have shocked Anya to hear that was true, given Tabitha’s dislike of Cassie. The whole “evil stepmother” thing baffled her, truly, as she loved her own stepmom. Luck of the draw, she supposed.

“Where do these go?” Josiah heaved in the second bag, leaving it with the first by the front door. “Point the way and I’ll drag ’em.”

“I guess . . . back here?” Though Cassie had given her the FaceTime tour, she had never entered the pool house herself. She wandered slowly, taking in the tiny kitchen, the two-seater table and chairs. There had clearly been an armchair in the living room area, but it was gone now. The couch remained, as well as the TV. No coffee or end tables, though. When she glanced in one room, she noted it was a bedroom, though it had no furniture. Hopefully . . .

Ah, the master. If one could call such a tiny room a master. But it had the essentials, which were a bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and a closet. “Here we go.” She set her two bags on the bed while Josiah wheeled her larger ones to an unused corner. “Perfect. This will be just fine.”

“Small, but efficient,” he said approvingly. “Not bad.”

“It lacks the solar panels and high-efficiency appliances,” she said, feeling suddenly defensive, though he’d done nothing to attack her.

He simply nodded and looked around, poking his head in what she could see was the tiny bathroom. “They’re nice, but not required.”

“Thank goodness,” she said dryly.

“Why didn’t you plan on me helping you move?”

That took her by surprise as she started to unzip her first bag with toiletries and makeup. “I . . . didn’t think I’d need help.”

“It’s our off day. You knew I would be coming over today for wedding stuff. If you had to move, you could have warned me.”

“No, I didn’t.” When he looked at her with a confused expression, she sighed and set her lotion on the nightstand by the bed. “I didn’t know you were coming over for wedding stuff. I never scheduled that with you, and you didn’t ask. So I didn’t presume anything. I’m not that rude.”

“It’s our off day,” he said again, as if that explained it all.

“And I was supposed to automatically assume you would spend it with me?”

“Yes,” he said, then looked surprised by his own answer. He removed his ball cap and ran a hand through his hair. “I just thought . . . I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought. Obviously, I’m an idiot.”

“I didn’t say that,” she protested. But he was already halfway to the door, which took all of four steps for him with his long legs. “I didn’t!”

“Doesn’t matter. Glad I could help with your bags. Good luck unpacking. I’ll see you around.”

Did he sound hurt? No, that was ridiculous. He wasn’t hurt. Was he?

It hadn’t honestly occurred to her that he might be looking forward to running wedding errands with her. Frankly, she’d thought he would have enjoyed the reprieve. Between his workload for the season, and his side gigs with sponsorships, and his pet eco projects, she found it hard to believe he had the time to run her around town.

But as he climbed into his SUV and sat behind the wheel, she made a snap judgment.

“Hey!”

How many different ways could someone call himself a fool? He’d had an escape hatch, and he’d nearly blown it up. She didn’t need help. Apparently didn’t
want
help. She’d cut him loose without a second thought, and he’d stood there, arguing with her about it instead of seeing it for the relief it was.

Josiah climbed into his SUV and ran a hand down his face. What was it about this woman that tore him up and down? That ripped at his common sense and had him coming back for another round of torture?

He needed to go. Go and find something else to do with his free time. Like stare at a wall, or try to flick cards into a cup, or play in traffic.

“Hey!”

His body stiffened as he reached for the gearshift. Anya stormed out of the house, her hair flying behind her like a banner. If she’d been more athletic, it might have been a scary sight. As it was, it was mostly just arousing. Fire snapped from her eyes as she rounded his SUV and grabbed the still-open door. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Home,” he said automatically, because
I don’t know
sounded bad.

“No way, nohow, buster. I need your help.”

His body did a little happy dance at hearing those words, but his brain slammed on the brakes. “Help with what?”

“With what?” she scoffed, and he had a brief moment of watching her actually search through her brain for something to say. “With what?”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Help with what?”

Again, he watched her flip for something. Apparently she decided to stop fighting it and go with “Everything. Come on. Out.”

He climbed out slowly behind her, closing his door. “You’ll need to be more specific. If you want me to do your laundry, I’m out of here.”

That had her snorting. “Like you’d know how to wash a load of delicates anyway.”

Suddenly, images of tiny, lacy underwear being clipped on clotheslines flitted through his head.
Shut it down, shut it down.
“Just toss ’em in the pool, pour some soap in there and shake ’em around with the pool scooper.”

“Exactly.” She marched over to the lone sofa, pulled out the hummingbird notebook and thrust it at him. “Find a blank page and I’ll start dictating.”

“Dictating . . . what, exactly?” he asked mildly as he pulled the pen out from the spiral side.

She ignored him, opening the cabinets in the small kitchen. “Of course,” she muttered. “Tabitha
would
take everything. What does that woman need with a set of pots and pans from the pool house, anyway? It’s not like she’s going to use them. She has to be the most petty woman ever, and I haven’t even met her.”

“This isn’t what I’m supposed to be writing down, is it? Because if so, you’ll need to slow down.”

“Pots and pans,” she called out from inside a bottom cabinet. “Silverware, plates and bowls, cups—”

“How about I just write down ‘kitchen shit’ and call it good?”

She backed up from the next cabinet and flicked him a look that could have frozen the Abominable Snowman’s testicles. “Write down what I say. Be useful.”

“Who carried in the bags?” he grumbled as she streamed past him and into the small hallway. She poked her head in the bathroom and he heard her sigh, which echoed in the tiny space.

“Towels. I mean, seriously? She even took the guest towels, which probably match nothing she owns. This woman is vicious.”

“No kidding.”

“You knew her?” That made Anya pause as she walked to the second bedroom. “Oh, right. Parties and junk.”

“She was definitely a professional society wife. One of those who lives to sit on charity boards and stuff. Never got the impression she was enjoying her life, though.”

“Shame. Nothing from here,” Anya mused as she walked out, then into her bedroom. “Hangers. Lots and lots of hangers.”

“Maybe I should write
new closet
on here. That thing’s not gonna fit your wardrobe, darling.”

“It’s a challenge.” That made her grin, and it was a little scary. “I love a challenge.”

Ten minutes later, she was buckling herself into his passenger seat. How had it gone from him escaping with his free day to suddenly whisking her around town again, this time on personal errands?

She settled her tote bag on the floor and rubbed her hands together while reading over her list. “I hope your day is clear.”

“Why?” he asked warily, backing down the driveway.

“I’ve got plans for you.”

*   *   *

Two hours later, Anya walked through the parking lot, staring at her receipt and shaking her head in amazement. “Wal-Mart is a scary place.”

“No kidding.”

“I got ten towels for, like, twenty-five dollars.” She shook the receipt in his face while he pushed the cart. She’d tried pushing the cart herself, but the wonky wheel made it nearly impossible for her to drive in a straight line. “Twenty-five dollars. How is that possible?”

“I could tell you, but after three minutes you’d beg me to shut up.”

“I’ll just beg you now.” After a moment, she wondered out loud, “How did we end up at Wal-Mart anyway? It’s all commercial-ish and big-boxy and conglomerate-like. I figured you’d take me to a dozen boutique stores where they
specialize in weaving towels from sustainable bark and koala farts.”

He snorted. “Koala farts?”

“Whatever.”

“First off, you said cheap. Koala farts aren’t cheap.”

No kidding. She could only guess. It definitely cost to shop consciously. Which sort of sucked, now that she thought about it.

“And secondly, it would take us four months hitting each place I’d want to shop at in order to accomplish that list.” They stopped by his SUV, and he popped the back. “I’m a practical sort of guy. You wanted to get it all done now, and cheap, so it’s all done, cheaply.”

Hmm. Practical. It didn’t quite fit the image she’d been painting of him in her mind. Maybe that was her mistake. She glanced at her receipt again as he started to load the purchases in the back. “Oh, I think they double-charged me for the silverware.”

“No, remember, you got two sets of the—hey!” Before she could look up, Josiah lunged at her and pulled her hard against his chest. A car drove by at a speed way too fast for a parking lot, ruffling the edges of her skirt and her hair as it passed. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She couldn’t breathe, though. Was that panic? Belated adrenaline kicking in?

He smoothed one hand over her temple, looking into her eyes as if trying to decide if she were telling the truth. His thumb rested at the pulse in her neck, the rest of his fingers cradling the back of her head. “Jesus, what is it about you and near-death experiences on my watch?”

“Just lucky,” she wheezed out. “I can’t breathe.”

“Right. Sorry.” He released his other arm from around her waist and took a step back. “So, uh, where next?”

He looked baffled, and a little embarrassed. Why he did was a mystery, as he’d just saved her from being squished like a day-old loaf of bread falling off the back of a truck. Taking a chance, she laid a hand on his arm. “Thanks.”

“For what?” He shut the door of the cargo area and started pushing the cart toward the nearest return, then stopped. Pointed. Stared.

“What?” She looked at the car, then back at him. “You want me to get in?” He nodded. “Now?” Nod again. “Because you don’t trust me?”

Emphatic nod.

“Well . . . for God’s sake.” She huffed, but he wasn’t moving, so she climbed in the passenger seat and sat with her arms crossed. Just when she’d thought they were getting somewhere, he had to hop back on his high horse and act superior again.

“You have one or two accidents and suddenly you’re untrustworthy,” she mumbled.

“Don’t complain, fashionista. You’re alive.” He got in beside her and reversed out of the spot. “Okay, now where to?”

She debated for a moment, then decided on the spot. “I have a few more places, including the florist. So at least that’s
one wedding errand. Then there’s a place tonight . . .”

“Tonight?” He looked at her as they reached the red light to leave the parking lot. “Going to hear a DJ or something?”

“No, not quite . . .” She bit her lip, trying to contain the smile. “You’re not going to like it.”

He sighed, and simply tightened his hands on the wheel.

*   *   *

“Yellow, gray, and silver?” Josiah studied the swatches of fabric she’d pulled from her tote. “That seems a bit . . . specific.”

“Hush.” Anya laid the fabric out on the desk of the florist, who examined them, considering. “We are thinking this for the flowers, with silver ribbon for the stems, and then we’ll have gray and yellow vases at the reception area to hold them.”

“Unique choice.” The florist, a burly man with a goatee and a bald head, forearms littered with tattoos running up into the shirtsleeves he’d rolled up to his elbows, took the three fabric samples. “What else were you thinking, besides bouquets?”

“Boutonnieres, of course, for the men. There are . . .” She glanced back at Josiah, who shrugged. “Let’s say a dozen, just in case. Between the father of the bride and ushers, we’ll need more of those than the bouquets for sure.”

“Ring bearer?”

Anya nodded. “They are using his friend’s son, Charlie.”

“Really?” Josiah asked from behind her.

“Hush,” she said again, waving at him without looking. This was important, drat him. “These samples you can keep. But also, do you have any suggestions for centerpieces? And maybe a floral arrangement for an arch of some kind. The venue has an outdoor space, which is where they will be doing the ceremony, but we’ll provide the arch so we’re flexible so far.”

“Absolutely. Let’s come out here and look at some albums.” The great man stood, walking around the small desk in his office, and heading out to the back room.

Anya pushed her chair back to follow, but it suddenly slid without any effort. “Whoa.”

“Just being a gentleman,” Josiah muttered from behind her.

“Oh. Thank you.” A little shaky, she stood and walked by him, brushing gently against his arm as she did. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up in response, like the traitorous nerves dancing through her stomach. This was insane. She was here for Cassie’s wedding, not to flirt with a guy who thought her shallow.

The man in question followed closely behind her, not giving her much space. She found the owner of the small, boutique flower shop at a stainless-steel prep table in the back. Cutting instruments lined the walls behind the table, hung neatly on Peg-Boards. She had a feeling he would have known with a simple glance if any of his scissors were missing, and exactly which pair.

“Here are a few options we’ve done before,” he began, pointing one thick finger at the album. “Different colors, of course, but that’s no problem.”

Cassie leaned over and made a few sounds. Josiah came over the back of her, glancing alongside her. He smelled like
warm air. Was that even possible? Or were her hormones on overdrive?

Hormones. Surely.

“I like this one,” he said, reaching around her and stabbing the page. “It’s . . . I don’t know. Simple.”

He was right about that. Simple, yet elegant. Flowers framed the top of the arch but didn’t cover it completely. Ribbons of navy—the color choice of the example wedding, apparently—swirled and spiraled down through the ins and outs of the simple woven arch legs, with small clusters of flowers on either side in random order.

“This wedding isn’t exactly simple,” she reminded him. The sheer size of the guest list kept that from being possible.

“No, not logistically. But they are. Think about it.” He propped one hip against the table, crossed his arms, and watched her. “Ca—bride and groom,” he said, catching himself, “standing there with the officiant, and this is framing them. When they look back in ten years on their wedding, do you think they want the flowers to define their moment? Or them, with the frame complimenting it?”

Wow. “That was . . . wow. Insightful. Well done.” She patted his arm, then pleased herself by trailing her fingertips down his forearm as she removed it. He might have been infuriating sometimes, but Lord, the man was good to look at.

The florist cleared his throat. “So is that the one we want? Will it work with the arch you’re planning?”

“Let me just . . .” Anya quickly flipped through the other two pages of examples, then decided he was right. Drat him. “Yes. That’s the one we want. Same color scheme we talked about earlier, mirroring the bouquets. Now, centerpieces.” She let out a shaky breath. “We’ll need quite a few of them . . .”

*   *   *

Figuring he’d done his duty, Josiah found a chair to prop himself in while Anya went on with the florist dude about the height of arrangements. It was like listening to Goldilocks picking out party pieces. “Too small, too big, too tall, too squat . . .”

He picked up his phone and checked text messages, and smiled to himself when he saw he’d gotten a group text from Stephen, sent to himself, Trey, Michael Lambert, and Killian Reeves.

Got her back. Today fucking rocks.

A man of few words, but they were all the important ones. With a grin, he typed out a quick congratulations and wondered if he should tell Anya himself, or let Mags or Cassie do that. It was a girl thing, he supposed. But he liked watching her eyes light up when she received new information. Liked how it transformed her whole body, from tight and a bit cool to warm and loose.

As if his mind had called to her, he saw a small foot clad in an emerald green flat nudge at his own running shoe-shod foot. “Hey, stand up.”

He looked up—not too far, given her height—and raised a brow. “Ready to go?”

She snorted at that, and the owner of the shop chuckled behind her. “Hardly. I need a dummy, dummy.”

That got his attention. “Beg pardon?”

“Up.” When he didn’t move fast enough for her, she grabbed his hand and pulled until he stood. “There we go. We’re discussing the boutonnieres and he wanted to know how big. Normally,” she went on, smoothing a hand over his polo shirt, “that wouldn’t be a question. But then he asked if all the groomsmen were your size, as well as the groom. I mentioned you might be one of the smaller ones, so we’re talking big guys.” She lowered her voice fractionally. “I had to tell him that much, at least. That you are an abnormally tall, wide group of the male species.”