by Max Monroe
“You totally do,” Nikki corrected, and Casey’s smirk turned wicked, knowing far too much information.
“I do not,” I denied anyway.
“Girl,” she started, dragging out the word with an exaggerated tone. “I’ve been watching you acting weird for the last two flights. Constantly checking your phone, getting giddy as hell over text messages, switching cabins with me for no reason. Something is up with you,” she said and flipped my hair. “But don’t worry, we’ll give you a little space until you’re ready to tell us all about him.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Are you sure about that?” Casey asked, and I kind of wanted to strangle him.
But luckily, Nikki hadn’t caught on, still completely out of the Quinn Bailey loop.
“I expect to hear all of the details from both you by our next flight to Birmingham,” she demanded with a smirk. “Lord knows, after being married to the same man for thirty years with grown-ass kids who are currently in college, I need to experience some sort of excitement, even if it’s through your lives.”
“Oh, I bet Mr. Miller knows how to bring it, sista,” Casey teased, and Nikki laughed in response.
Praise Marty Miller and his thirty-year power of distraction.
“The only time Mr. Miller stays up late and brings it is when the Yankees are playing. Other than that, dinner is at seven, and he’s in bed by eight.”
“Oh, honey.” Casey smacked his lips together. “We need to get you out during our next layover in Birmingham.”
“Count me in,” she agreed as the plane came to a stop and the seat belt light went out. “Now, let’s get these people off this plane so I can go home and take a nap.”
“Let’s do it!” Casey cheered and snapped his fingers in the air three times. “You girls say bye to everyone with Billy, and I’ll finish cleaning up the galley.”
“I can clean up the galley,” I offered, but he wasn’t having it.
He gave me a look and then pointedly glanced directly toward first class, seat 3A, to be specific. “Honey, the passengers would much rather see your pretty face standing up at the front than mine.”
By passengers, he meant Quinn.
I knew, without a doubt, Casey would be watching me like a rabid dog when Mr. Quarterback himself walked toward the exit.
The little Mariah Carey-loving traitor.
Awkwardly, I stood near the exit doors and waited. There weren’t but eight people seated in front of him, all already up and exiting the plane, but Quinn took his time pulling down his carry-on from the overhead bin and walking toward me. With the people in front of him all cleared out, I had an unobstructed view.
My fingers tapped nervously against my hip, and my brain raced with a million thoughts at once.
Oh God. Is he going to say something?
Is this going to get weird?
Am I going to blurt out something inappropriate?
My lungs constricted from the anxiety of it all.
“Great flight,” he said with a gentlemanly smile. “Thanks for everything.” His eyes held mine for an extra second, but to my surprise, he didn’t offer anything else before walking off the plane and out of my life.
Well, shit, that had gone a lot better than I’d thought.
Or worse, my mind taunted. Maybe he isn’t interested in me.
My stomach might as well have hit the tops of my heels. I didn’t like that thought. Not one fucking bit. And I wasn’t sure what that said about me.
Was I already too hopeful about the whole Quinn Bailey situation?
I barely knew the guy, and I’d thought I’d kept any flighty musings about kismet and love under control. Clearly, the calibration of my self-awareness was a little off. Too bad resetting it was a little more complicated than the figure eight motion the compass on my iPhone required.
God, I need to get it together.
After a long, deep breath, I forced my focus to the tasks at hand—cleaning up the plane and getting the hell home.
Ten minutes later, I watched Casey and Nikki walk off the plane, bags in hands and smiles on their faces, and five minutes after that, I followed their lead.
At the end of the gate ramp, my heels skidded to a stop.
Quinn Bailey.
He stood, tall and confident and beautiful as ever, just outside of our gate and looking straight in my direction. All the while, he quickly signed some autographs for fans standing around him.
I wasn’t sure seeing him sign autographs and being fawned over by complete strangers was something I could ever get used to.
But did anyone really get used to that? I silently wondered. Even the celebrities themselves?
I didn’t know the answer to those questions. Growing up in the suburbs of Cincinnati with a middle-class family, I’d never been faced with celebrity or fame.
Quinn’s gaze moved toward mine, and once our eyes locked, he smiled.
As I forced my feet to move toward him, he signed one last autograph, took one last selfie, and politely excused himself from the small crowd, saying goodbye to his fans.
It took a minute for his path to clear and people to leave him on his own, but once it did, he met me halfway.
“You waited for me?” I blurted out, and immediately, I wanted to slap a hand over my mouth.
But he didn’t falter at my question, his full lips turning up at the corners and his blue eyes brightening by two shades. “I did,” he answered and slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Rocking back and forth on his feet, he asked, “Want to get lunch?”
“I can’t,” I blurted out…again. But this time, it was with a lie.
Ever so slightly, the corners of his lips dropped.
Instantly, I felt like an asshole. “I have to get home,” I added lamely in an attempt to soften the blow I’d just delivered.
Good Lord, I sucked at this.
I had no idea why I’d lied, or why I’d avoided him on the plane like a toddler, but both just felt necessary in the moment. Like, self-preservation had taken over or something. I wasn’t too fond of the hopefulness I’d been feeling about the possibility of some sort of relationship with Quinn. It all felt a little too fast for comfort.
And, if I was being honest, I was still a little overwhelmed by the fact that he was some uberfamous football player.
It was a complete one-eighty from the type of life I’d imagined he led when I’d first spotted him on that initial flight. I’d just thought he was a normal, everyday kind of guy. Well, a really amazing-looking, normal, everyday kind of guy. But that was neither here nor there.
He is just a guy, Cat. One who appears pretty damn determined to spend more time with you.
Quinn assessed my face for a quiet moment, his eyes inquisitively taking in my features until he quirked a brow. “Boyfriend?”
“No.” I shook my head, an amused smile playing at my lips. The fact that he was inquiring about my relationship status made me want to laugh like a lunatic. I dismissed the reaction with force.
“Husband?”
“Definitely not.” A quiet laugh escaped my lips. Not a whole giggle; just a little squeak of crazy. “My work schedule is too insane for that. The closest thing I’ve got to a husband or boyfriend is my ficus. But he does need regular maintenance.”
“I’m also unattached,” he offered with a soft, knowing smile. “I can relate to the crazy work schedule sentiment.”
Unattached? I found it hard to believe he didn’t have someone in his life. Or many someones, for that matter.
“Yeah, but you’re probably seeing someone on like Fridays, Saturdays…”
“I’m a single guy, Cat,” he responded with charm oozing from his voice. “Obviously, I find the time to enjoy female companionship, but I can tell you once preseason training starts, I generally only find time for football.”
“When does preseason start?”
“It started in May.”
It was July…
My
eyes went wide with surprise. For a man who only found time for football during the season, he sure appeared to have a lot of free time to track me down today.
“Walk out with me?” he asked with a little nod toward the exit.
“Okay.”
He grabbed my carry-on out of my hands and led us away from our gate and toward the terminal exit.
For a few quiet moments, we walked side by side, sneaking glances at one another, and occasionally, when our eyes would meet, sharing smiles.
God, I loved that smile of his.
“Since you’re refusing to have lunch with me,” he said once we reached baggage claim, “and you were noticeably absent during the flight…” I blushed at the way he said that like he knew it wasn’t a coincidence. “I’m demanding you share a cab ride home with me.”
Considering that RoyalAir provided all of its NYC metro area flight attendants a free shuttle service home, I never took cab rides from the airport.
But I didn’t want to tell Quinn that. I’d already reached my lie quota for the day.
Hell, I was starting to regret declining his lunch offer so quickly.
“So, you’re demanding that I share a cab with you?” I asked in a teasing tone.
“I just want to spend some time with you.” He shrugged and ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair. “Pretty please?”
He held out his hand, and I took it. The warmth of his palm and the way his big hand engulfed mine only solidified my decision. Being in his presence just made me feel so fucking good.
Next thing I knew, we stood in front of the taxi line, still hand in hand, and I was letting our driver know the address to my house. Quinn hadn’t offered an address of his own, but he hadn’t seemed inconvenienced either. Maybe he lives in Hoboken too?
I started to ask, but the feel of Quinn’s hand on my hip, pulling me gently to the side robbed me of any and all speech capability.
He offered a wink as he swung open the door and helped me inside the cab while our driver filled the trunk with our luggage.
Not even a minute later, we were off, heading in the direction of my place. A million questions fought for supremacy in my mind, but in the end, only one came out victorious.
“So,” I started and flicked my gaze toward him, “you’re the quarterback for the Mavericks?”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “I guess I’ve been caught, huh?”
Incredulous, a small burst of giggles fell from my lips. “Uh… You didn’t think that was something you should’ve maybe mentioned?”
He shrugged. “You said you weren’t interested in sports.”
I looked out the taxi window as fondness threatened to make me do something foolish.
Wasn’t interested in sports?
The times…they were about to be changing.
Cat’s knuckles wrinkled as she squeezed the worn leather of the taxi seat. She was nervous, I could see that—I’d have to be an idiot not to be able to see it—but it wasn’t quite so obvious why.
Was she upset with the way she’d found out who I was?
It didn’t feel that way. When she’d broached the question, she’d seemed amused and entertained by my response.
Or was she thinking she’d made a mistake, getting in a cab with a virtual stranger and actually fearing for her safety?
God, I hope not.
I scooted a little farther away, just in case, and cleared my throat, trying to come up with some small talk that might put her mind at ease.
“So,” I muttered, “have you always had a green thumb?”
Her gaze swung from the window to me, and her eyebrows were drawn together. A little jagged line ran from her hairline to the top of her nose—a tiny, almost imperceptible hint of an old scar.
“A green thumb?”
I smiled at her confusion. “You know…the ficus. You said he requires regular maintenance. I can’t keep bamboo alive, and all you have to do is stick it in water.”
Surprise over the change in topic of conversation made her answer sound robotic. “I, uh, keep a watering schedule.”
“Like in iCalendar?”
“Google.”
“Oh, groovy,” I said easily. “Does that mean you’re an Android user?”
She shook her head, still trying to follow the direction of our conversation, but her fingernails had stopped digging into the leather.
That’s it, kitten. Just relax.
“No, I have an iPhone. Google calendar still syncs.”
“I’m terrible at keeping a schedule,” I admitted after a nod. “My assistant, Jilly—Jillian—she keeps all that shit organized. Otherwise, I’d be missing games and practices and all kinds of shit, and she wouldn’t get a paycheck.”
“Your assistant…Jillian,” she murmured, and I had to laugh. I could see the direction she was going, and yeah…the idea of romance with Jillian was hilarious.
“I see what you’re thinking, but Jilly would rather, uh…cut off that appendage than play with it.”
The cab driver cleared his throat, obviously listening in on our conversation, and Cat blushed.
“I drive her crazy. She’s in charge of things like making sure I don’t run out of shampoo, have clean clothes for practice, de-smelling my gym bag…” I made a face that said how terrible a job that really was. “Hard to believe, but apparently, all that sucked all the romance out of good ol’ Quinn Bailey for her, Cat.”
Just a hint of a smile curved the corner of her mouth, and white-hot victory surged in my chest.
“Hard to believe, indeed,” she murmured.
“So, I guess you don’t have any manservants…pool boys…that kind of thing?”
She barked a surprised giggle. “Manservants? No, that’d be a negative.”
I held my expression serious and thoughtfully pursed my lips. “That’s good. I mean, I’m not the excessively jealous type, but thinking about you getting, like, fanned and bathed by some other guy—”
Her eyes widened. “Bathed by someone?”
“Well, you know. Whatever it is manservants do. I’m no expert because I’ve never had one, but I imagine if I were yours, I’d try to be accommodating.”
“Accommodating…” she muttered.
Starting to sound a little creepy, Quinn, I warned. Dial it back.
I cleared my throat and shifted uneasily in my seat. Somehow, I’d become the one who was uncomfortable.
“I, uh…” I rambled. “Sure, sure. Did you say you had a roommate or—”
“We’re here,” the cab driver announced, pulling to the curb in front of a brick-faced apartment building.
Wow. This maybe wasn’t the note I’d wanted to end on.
I looked over at Cat to see her digging in her purse for some money to pay for the cab, so I reached over quickly to stop her with one hand and dug into my pocket with the other.
“No way, Cat. I got it.”
She smiled and shook her head, so I just nodded mine. “Go on, get out. And don’t even think about grabbing your own bag.”
“Or what?” she asked through a laugh, her face finally fully relaxed, smiling, and goddamn beautiful.
“Or…” I thought quickly, trying to come up with something, but I had nothing. I sighed. “Geez, kitten, you’re just supposed to take the threat at face value.”
“So sorry,” she murmured cheekily, sliding out the door gracefully.
I looked forward to the driver, my intention to ask him to wait so that I could say goodbye before we headed to my place, but he was already turned all the way around in his seat, watching us and grinning.
“Quinn Bailey, huh?” he asked.
I tried not to grimace. “Please, wait here while I say goodbye and save any commentary until she goes inside, and I’ll give you as many pictures and autographs as you want. I’ll even get you a fucking game ball,” I pleaded.
“Fuck yes. Consider your game uninterrupted, dude,” he agreed, turning back to the front and putting both his hands on the wheel o
bediently.
I rolled my eyes even as I celebrated internally and climbed out of the car.
The trunk popped as if on my command, and I pulled Cat’s bag out and left my own.
As I set it by her feet, I asked, “Can I carry it upstairs for you?”
She smiled but shook her head. “I’m on the first floor.”
“Yeah, well,” I said with a laugh. “I guess that means you’re all set, huh?”
She tucked her hair behind her ear and then reached out a hand, her eyes frantically looking anywhere but directly into my own. I went with it, moving my head around in chase until I caught them.
Her face melted into a cute crinkle, astonished wonder making her deep brown eyes shine.
I took her extended hand in mine and gave it a squeeze. “Thanks for sharing a cab with me, Cat.”
“Thanks for paying for it, Quinn.”
I wanted to touch her. Pull her body to mine, smell her hair—breathe her in. But a woman who extends a hand, gets a hand back. The last thing in the world I’d ever want to do was barrel through one of her boundaries without permission.
I gave her one last smile and waited to get one in return before turning back to the cab and climbing inside. When I settled into the seat, the door to her apartment building was closing behind her.
“Where’m I headed, boss?” the cab driver asked. I stared at the closed door, wondering if even a small part of her had wanted to linger, to stay and talk some more—to get to know me.
“Mr. Bailey?” the cab driver questioned again when my thoughts kept me silent.
I turned back to him then and settled into the seat, letting the overanalyzing die. I could question myself until my brain bled, but Cat still wouldn’t be around to give me any of the answers.
“Far Hills.”
He whistled. “A little out of your way, huh?”
A wealthy New Jersey town in relatively close proximity to the Mavericks stadium, Far Hills was south and west of Cat’s Hoboken neighborhood by just under an hour and home to several of my teammates. New York was short on space, and since stadiums tended to take up a lot of it, the Mavericks stadium was actually located in New Jersey. It always confused people that a New York athlete actually spent all of his time in New Jersey, but it was the way of our world.
