“You’re, like, a foot shorter than me. Nothing you own is going to fit me.” I stepped into the foyer, and she took my coat and hung it up on a rack.
“Never doubt my closet game. My bedroom is this way. Malik! We need a few minutes!”
“All good, baby,” he responded from another room. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
I had only a second to take in all the luxurious surroundings before she had hustled me into her custom closet, which was obviously a shrine to the patron saint of designer fashion and accessories. It was probably the same size as my entire condo. She was right. I shouldn’t have doubted her closet game.
She started pulling short, sparkly, clubbing-type dresses off her racks, piling them on a bench in the middle.
“Aren’t those more male-centric outfits? I thought I was supposed to dress up for the girls.”
“We are. Don’t you watch Real Housewives?”
“Not if I can help it,” I joked, but she shot me a brief, withering look in between pulling dresses.
“This is how women like this dress up for each other. You’re supposed to blend in. And you’ll stand out in that raggedy broken-down-librarian outfit. No offense.”
“Total offense.” Not really, but I felt like I should probably stand up for my fashion choices.
She then began holding the dresses up against me and discarded them in a pile on either my right or left based on what she saw. When she had finished, she picked up the smaller pile and handed it to me. “I think any of these would work. Pick the one you like best. Join us in the living room when you’re ready.”
Before I could protest that I was afraid I might get lost trying to retrace my steps, she’d left. I took off my skirt and blouse and started trying on dresses. As I’d feared, most of them became super-microdresses on me. So, so short.
My mom always said the right length for a skirt was at least two inches below your cellulite. Finally, I found one that met her criteria. I put on the silver spangly one that actually reached midthigh. My shoes matched well enough, and I even managed to find Malik and Nia in the kitchen. They were grinning at each other, whispering. He had his arms wrapped around her and was nuzzling her nose.
And even though I was always surrounded by overly affectionate couples in my own family, for some reason this hit me funny. Made my heart twinge. Some part of me whispered, I want that.
I cleared my throat, hoping it would clear my head at the same time. “I’m ready.”
“Let’s get going!” Nia gave her husband a quick kiss, and I followed behind them to their four-car garage. We piled into a white SUV, and to my delight, Malik had the local sports station on the radio.
“There’s Evan’s house,” Nia commented as we drove down their street. It was another mansion on the waterfront surrounded by large trees. “Lots of the guys from the team live in this neighborhood.”
If things went the way I hoped they would, Evan wouldn’t be in that house for much longer.
On our way into the city, we stopped by an apartment complex to pick up Reggie. He said a brief “what’s up” to me when he got in the back seat.
He was a handsome guy, but I was on a mission. And it wasn’t to date a man who’d probably be kicked off the team in a year due to injury since the coaches would use him as a tackling dummy for the starters.
Apparently the disinterest was mutual, since he spent the entire car ride on his phone. He didn’t say anything to me for the rest of the evening.
Sadly enough, still not my worst date ever.
Tinsley was hosting the celebration/Jumping Jacks kickoff party at her penthouse in one of the swankiest buildings in downtown Portland. The doorman let us up after making sure that our names were on a list. Turns out the paparazzi yelling Malik’s name and taking his picture didn’t work as a valid form of identification, and Malik showed the doorman his driver’s license. Now satisfied, the doorman pointed out which elevator we should use. The elevator went right inside the penthouse. No hallways or anything.
Even though I feared for my ability to sit down in this dress, I quickly saw that Nia was right. Every woman at the party was dressed in a similar fashion, and I would have been out of place in my other “Amish girl during Rumspringa” outfit.
Two of the defensive linemen called Malik and Reggie over, leaving me with Nia. She took a compact out of her purse and checked her lipstick. “Let me make the rounds, and I’ll come back later to introduce you to Tinsley, okay? Find a quiet corner, and don’t talk to anyone yet.”
“Okay.” Because that wouldn’t be awkward. Showing up at a party and avoiding every person there. Totally normal behavior, right?
I went over and grabbed myself a drink just to give my hands something to do. Even though I knew it was only my imagination, it felt like everyone in the room was staring at me. I recognized all of the players and even some of their significant others. I wanted to talk to the team about plays and strategies for their upcoming game that Sunday but didn’t want to incur Nia’s wrath.
“Did ya know I’ve got a weakness for redheads?” I turned to see the Scottish kicker, Finn MacNeil, standing just behind me. I could see why Rory had a thing for him—light-brown hair and dark-green eyes, a devilish smile, fantastic athletic build, and a burr on his Rs that could fluster a girl.
Not that I was flustered. Much. I focused on the drink in his hand, remembering his near-DUI conviction that had been dismissed by a judge. Brenda had run a story about it, questioning favoritism for professional athletes, but it hadn’t gotten her the ratings buzz she’d hoped for. Finn was definitely trouble, and not why I was here.
“Yeah, I hear you’ve got a weakness for whiskey, too. I wouldn’t recommend either,” I said, quickly excusing myself since I wasn’t following Nia’s instructions.
My phone buzzed. Hoping it was Nia telling me to find her, I was disappointed to see that it was just a text from Aubrey.
I sighed. She was not going to make this easy.
Wanting a distraction, I took myself on an uninvited tour of the penthouse. I smiled at groups of people as I walked by them but didn’t slow down to start any conversations. I found a room with a door slightly ajar and decided that meant I could go in.
Given the brown leather couches, the framed jerseys, and the massive TV that could have moonlighted as a movie theater screen, I guessed this was Jamie’s man cave. The Cleveland game was paused on the TV. I hadn’t had the chance to see the beginning of it yet and figured this would be the perfect way to do what Nia wanted. The remote sat on the coffee table, and I rewound the game to the initial kickoff, settling onto the couch.
I started narrating the game out loud. “The Cleveland Browns won the coin toss and have elected to receive. Number 42, alcoholic and womanizer Finn MacNeil, lines up his kick. And it’s a beautiful one, straight and strong to the Browns’ ten-yard line. Where it’s picked up by”—I didn’t know the names of the Browns players off the top of my head—“the return specialist, Number 14.”
It was a bad habit I had whenever I watched any type of sporting event. I couldn’t help but do the play-by-play. At our family get-togethers, they made me do it in my head. If I ever forgot, I was pelted with couch cushions. But I was alone now, so it didn’t matter.
The Jacks defense held the Browns at the line of scrimmage and quickly got the ball back. The Jacks offense came out onto the field. Evan Dawson threw the ball to the team’s best wide receiver, Ian Sommers. Sommers had magic hands and a vertical leap that would make a frog jealous. He hardly ever missed a throw. But Dawson had hurled it wide, and no one on the planet could have caught it.
“Bad throw. You’re killing me, Dawson!”
“If it makes you feel any better, we win.”
Someone had entered the room behind me, and the sound of his voice scared me, causing my heart to slam hard against my chest. I put my hand up, as if I could calm it down.
But my fear turned to dread when I realized I recognized that voice
. It had been a long time since I’d heard it, but there was no mistaking it.
I turned slowly, hoping it was all my imagination. Or that someone had spiked my drink. Or that I was lying in a coma somewhere, and this wasn’t actually happening.
But it was happening. In reality, and vivid Technicolor.
It was Evan Dawson.
CHAPTER THREE
He stood there in a charcoal-gray suit tailored to fit him perfectly, showing off his broad shoulders and strong arms. He didn’t wear a tie and had left his collar open. His blue eyes sparkled, and the light in the room gleamed on both his soft hair and perfect teeth. Although I knew what he looked like, I had forgotten how much more breathtaking he was in person. Like the camera couldn’t capture all the pretty.
And I hated the fact that even though he was my mortal enemy, I was still attracted to him. I figured that said something not great about me.
I’d known going into this evening that running into him was a possibility; I’d just hoped that fate would be kind and not force me to talk to him.
Apparently not.
“Sorry if I startled you.”
I got to my feet, not liking how his standing gave him a height advantage over me. Even then he still had a good four inches on me. I wondered how badly I’d just embarrassed myself.
“How long have you been lurking?” Creep, I mentally added but refrained from saying out loud. It probably wouldn’t help my cause if I verbally abused him right off the bat. Even if he deserved it. I needed this group to accept me, not to have its most powerful member ban me from all of its extracurricular events.
He gave me a self-deprecating smile, and I told my knees to hold freaking still. “It wasn’t lurking. Just observing. And it was however long doesn’t make it weird.”
Too late, I mentally retorted. Sometimes I worried that I thought things so hard and so loudly that my thoughts would turn into speech bubbles like in a comic book. I refrained from looking around to see if it had finally happened.
“You look like you’re thinking mean things about me.”
Maybe the speech-bubble worry was legitimate, and he really could see them. “You’re a psychic? A mind reader?”
“What’s with all the hostility? You’re that upset over one failed pass? One mistake?”
Not just one mistake. A series of them. But he meant the Browns game. It was then that it dawned on me he didn’t know who I was. He didn’t recognize me.
Which was like him just tossing handfuls of salt and dumping pitchers of lemon juice into my wounds.
He’d practically ruined my teenage life, but I hadn’t been significant enough to merit even a single memory.
“You seem familiar,” he said, still behaving like he could practically read my mind. He scanned me, tapping his forefinger against his mouth, as if thinking deeply. “I saw you earlier today on Instagram.”
What was it Nia had said about Instagram? That athletes used it as a dating app? Why had Evan Dawson been scrolling through his feed looking at chicks if he was still so pure and untouched? And of the thousands of pictures he must have had access to, given all his connections, was I really supposed to believe he saw my recently uploaded pics and actually remembered them? Maybe it was just a line.
Then he added, “You’re friends with Nia Owens, right?”
So, the Instagram thing wasn’t just a line? He knew Nia followed me there?
Or else he’d seen me arrive with her.
One of his abilities that had rendered him so “Awesome” was his keen observational skills on the field—the way he could take in everything around him and make the right play, taking his time to get everything just right before he passed the ball.
Apparently it applied to his regular life, too.
“Instagram?” I finally managed, keeping some of my anger in check. “Trolling for possible hookups?”
That charming, teasing grin I remembered so well popped up on his stupid, handsome face. “Haven’t you heard? I don’t do that.”
“I have heard it but don’t much believe it.”
Now he just looked amused. “Really? Why not?”
The man already had an ego so big that the mansion down in Lake Oswego was probably a necessity, just to have enough room for the both of them. I wasn’t about to add to it. Instead, I just made an indistinct gesture with my hand as my answer. “I think you know.”
Another grin, this time at my expense. “So . . . do you always narrate games while you watch them?”
“Yes.” It wasn’t weird. It was what I wanted to do as a career, and I wasn’t going to let him make me feel dumb about it. “The announcers are who make the games entertaining.”
“Oh. Not the football players? The men out on the field doing the actual work?”
I did not want to banter with this guy. He seemed to think we were having some kind of adorable rom-com moment, and I was considering how far I could get after I hit him upside the head with that autographed Mickey Mantle baseball bat in the corner before the police showed up to arrest me.
“I stand by my statement.”
“If Bob Costas came in this room . . .” Evan walked around the couch, keeping his left hand out of sight behind his back. What was that about? “You’d what?”
Jump up and down and scream like a total fangirl? Start crying hysterically? Lose my ability to speak? They were all distinct possibilities. “I would . . . be excited. And there might even be some fainting involved.”
“And I’m not faint-worthy?”
Once upon a time, maybe. Now? Not even a little. I didn’t say anything, but my expression must have conveyed my thoughts as he began to laugh.
I heard the sound of ice hitting a glass, and I saw a glimpse of something pink near his hand. Possibly an umbrella. My curiosity usually got the better of me, and I couldn’t help but ask, “What are you drinking?” I knew that after he got out of high school Evan had stopped drinking. Another thing he was famous for in the media. Which made some sense, given that his parents had been killed by a drunk driver when he was fourteen.
If he’d started up again, that would definitely be newsworthy.
And given the embarrassed look on Evan’s face, my suspicion might not have been too far off. “Nothing.”
It was not nothing. “Let me see it.”
“No.”
Like I was a kid again and back home with my two sisters while we played Keep Away, I made a grab for the drink behind his back, but he easily kept it out of my reach. Frustrated, I made another lunge, but he switched hands and moved the drink around to his front, holding me at bay.
“You do realize the Jacks pay me a lot of money to keep things in my hands. Big hulking men have to tackle me in order to get things away from me.”
His words were hot against my neck, and I realized then just how close I’d gotten to him. How good he smelled, how broad and strong he was. I looked up at him, and those piercing blue eyes that danced with amusement were the only things that snapped me out of the spell he’d put me under.
What was wrong with me? Seriously? I hated Evan Dawson. I was working to ruin his reputation and get him publicly humiliated and then fired. Why hadn’t my body gotten the memo that we were not allowed to be attracted to him?
I stepped back, letting out a deep breath that I hadn’t realized I’d been holding in. “Fine. I don’t really care.”
And even though it was unintentional, my reverse psychology worked. He showed me his drink, which was, in fact, pink and had an umbrella. “It’s nonalcoholic, if you’d like to try it.” He held the drink out to me, and it gave me weird, traitorous little shivers to think about putting my lips on something his lips had been on. “I haven’t tasted it yet. I’d never live it down if the guys saw me with this.”
“Then why carry it around?”
He shrugged. “The bartender called it an Awesome Dawson. What was I supposed to do?”
“Try ‘no thanks.’ Like what you supposedly say to all women
.”
“There’s no ‘supposedly’ about it.” He placed the drink down on the table. Then he undid the buttons on his suit jacket and sat on the couch, lounging on it like he owned the place. “I do say no a lot.”
So, so cocky and arrogant. I added it to the mental list of reasons I couldn’t stand Evan Dawson.
“Why so interested in that part of my life?” he asked, and I momentarily panicked. I was making all kinds of digs about his supposed virginity. Way to tip your hand, moron.
“No reason.” Yeah, that was real smooth and definitely threw him off the scent. I wanted to slap myself in the forehead.
“Is your boyfriend not measuring up?”
Why did that make me so indignant? “I don’t have a boyfriend.” And if I did, our private life would have been just fine, thanks. I couldn’t say that, though. I needed to get the spotlight off me and back on him. Maybe I could get him to admit to something. “What about you?” What if he had a secret girlfriend who would spill all his secrets?
The jerk actually winked at me. “I don’t have a boyfriend, either.”
“Usually or just now?” I asked.
“I’m into women. And before you ask the question I know you’re dying to ask, no girlfriend, either,” he added, popping my hopeful balloon. “But the night is still young.”
The boyfriend thing could have taken this story in a whole new direction. Too bad.
Nonexistent relationships aside, it dawned on me that Evan Dawson was flirting with me. I wanted to go outside and key his car, and he was hitting on me. Like I was some football groupie excited just to be in the same room with him.
The thirteen-year-old former fan inside of me was giddy.
But my logical adult side told her to shut up. I was in control of our hormones now. We would not be responding to his teasing.
Before I could tell him he was barking up the wrong tree, he said, “Now that we know we’re both single, I should probably ask if you’re here with anyone.” Like there was some unbreakable team code? I didn’t belong to anybody. If I wanted to ditch my “date” and hook up with someone else, it was none of Evan’s business.
#Awestruck (A #Lovestruck Novel) Page 3
