Intercepted

by Alexa Martin

  “Umm . . . sorry, Mr. Pope, here are your keys,” the valet attendant says. He doesn’t look either of us in the eye as he opens the truck door and thanks Gavin for—I’m assuming—a very generous tip.

  Once we’re both in the truck, Gavin focuses on the road, as the silence settles around us.

  “Damn. I was not expecting that,” Gavin says, finally breaking the silence.

  “You weren’t expecting what?” I ask, confused.

  “That kiss,” he says matter-of-factly.

  He didn’t expect the kiss he asked for? What?

  “You said you wanted me to kiss you!”

  “No I didn’t. I mean, I wanted you to kiss me, of course. But I didn’t ask you to.” The cab of his truck is too dark, and his face is only lit by the lights of his dashboard, so I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

  “You did! You said, ‘Where’s this kiss?’ and I kissed you.” I might be drunk, but I’m not crazy.

  “I said, ‘Where’s this kid?’ I was looking for the valet!” He starts laughing.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  Kill me now.

  “Please tell me you’re joking.” I close my eyes, thankful for the darkness hiding the furious blush that’s taken over my entire body.

  “I can’t tell you that.” He reaches his hand across the center console and squeezes my knee. “But if it makes you feel better, I thought you taking charge was really fucking hot.”

  “It helps a little.” I pout beside him, but kind of revel in him calling my kiss hot.

  “Really, you kissing me was hot. You want embarrassing? When I was a college freshman, my mom surprised me for a visit and ended up walking in on me with a girl,” he says.

  “You’re lying to me.”

  “I wish. I thought it was my roommate fucking with me and answered the door butt naked only to find my mom on the other side holding a tin of homemade cookies.” The sun has long since set, but even so, I can see his cheeks heat as he tells me. “And instead of turning and leaving, she came inside and questioned me and the girl on our relationship status and whether or not we were practicing safe sex.”

  “No she did not! I love your mom!” I hear it after I say it. “I mean, obviously I don’t know your mom so I can’t love her, but I love—no. Like. Stop saying love, Marlee. I like the story about your mom. There. Was that too weird?” Holy hell.

  Oh dear god. Why, tequila? We’ve always been such great friends, I treated you well. Why would you turn on me like this?

  “You’re my favorite drunk person.” We’re at a red light, and even though there’s laughter in his voice, all I hear is I’m his favorite person ever. Most people just lose their filter when they’re drunk, I guess I lose my hearing too.

  “You’re my favorite person too.” The full weight of the alcohol is starting to settle. Between the soft R&B coming through the speakers and the gentle bouncing of the truck, my eyelids are becoming heavier and heavier. “Why do you have to be a football player? I hate football players.”

  “You don’t hate football players. You hate Alexander, but everybody hates him.”

  “He’s the worst. He cheated on me. Like a lot a lot a lot. And stupid me had noooooo idea. Well, maybe I knew, but pretended not to.” My eyes won’t open, and my mouth won’t close. In the back of my mind, I know I’m going to regret this in the morning, but it still doesn’t prevent me from saying what I’m going to say next. “But he didn’t know I slept with you, or that I thought about my night with you almost every time I slept with him since. So joke’s on him.”

  “You got that right, babe,” Gavin whispers. “Joke’s definitely on him.”

  And thankfully, before I can say anything else, I fall asleep in the passenger’s seat of Gavin Pope’s truck.

  Fingers crossed I didn’t snore . . . or drool.

  Fourteen

  I’m not sure what wakes me up.

  It could be the way my head pounds with so much force, it feels like somebody is punching me. It might be my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth because it’s so dry. Or the sun beaming so brightly through the giant window next to my bed, my entire body is sweating.

  Never mind. I know.

  It’s number three.

  My tiny shoebox apartment doesn’t have a window this big and that realization is definitely the one to get me up.

  I spring out of the bed like a jack-in-the-box and instantly regret it. My eyes slam shut, and I slowly lay back down, hoping the banging in my head will slow down too. And after a few minutes, it does. Not all the way, but enough so I can crack open one of my eyes again.

  Big mistake.

  The source of the sunlight is a huge floor-to-ceiling window lacking any form of window treatment. The football memorabilia that outed Gavin as a football player years ago is scattered around the room. Framed jerseys, pictures of him throughout his entire career—spanning from high school until now—are littered on the dresser and hung haphazardly on the aqua walls. It’s undeniable that I’m in Gavin Pope’s house.

  But I’m not in his bedroom. At least, I don’t think. There’s a soft lace comforter and the furniture is white and carved with floral designs. If I had to guess, it’s an older woman’s guest room, maybe his mom decorated it for herself.

  But as I calm down, memories from the night before rush into my mind. Going to the fashion show. Chris with Ava. Courtney openly hating me. Gavin sticking up for me . . . the kiss. Holy moly. The kiss that was so good, just thinking about it makes my toes curl. But, he’d asked for the valet, not a kiss, and then the more embarrassing moments start to flow. Like me telling him I hate football players and how much Chris cheated on me. How I passed out in the front seat of his truck holding an open bottle of wine.

  I’m still cringing when there’s a quiet knock at the door. I look around the room again searching for an escape route. Maybe I could wiggle through the ceiling vents? Shimmy down a drainpipe? No, those would never work in last night’s dress and this morning’s tequila bloat. Out of realistic, non-superhero options, I call for him to come in.

  “You’re awake.” He smiles, walking through the doorway. “I thought for sure you were going to be sleeping for a long time after last night.”

  I wish.

  “My head feels like it might explode, and your giant window was trying to roast me, otherwise I would be.” I regret my snarkiness because, from what I can remember, he was amazing to me, but I don’t know what to say. I wanted to be over him, I wanted to be over Chris, but if these past few weeks have proven anything, it’s that I have a long way to go.

  I’m still pissed about our night all those years ago. I’m mad at Chris for saying he wanted a break and space instead of just ending it. I’m mad Gavin lied to me about who he was and how he wasn’t there in the morning to tell me the truth. I’m pissed as hell he just showed up here, tossing a necklace when the last thing I need is to try and figure out anybody besides myself.

  I try to let my emotions simmer. “How do you not have curtains or anything? These windows are gigantic. Fans are going to park their creepy butts outside and watch you walk around.”

  “They’re like one-way mirrors. You can see outside, but people can’t see in. Half the reason I bought this place was for the windows. Why would I cover them?” He walks over and sits at the foot of the bed.

  “Makes sense, even though it does get super freaking hot. You have the bed perfectly in line with the morning sun.”

  He smiles a sly grin. “I know. My mom claimed this room as hers, and I needed a way that wasn’t too obvious to keep her from getting too comfortable.”

  “I don’t know if I think you’re a horrible son or an evil genius. How long did it take you to figure out the exact location the bed needs to be in for maximum discomfort?”

  If he was a real g
enius, he would’ve moved into a shoebox like mine and there would be no room for visitors. But then again, I don’t make a bazillion dollars, and my mom has never expected anything other than eating dinner with me at least once a month. I hate cooking and if I wasn’t pretending so hard to be an adult, I’d go over there every night.

  “I slept in here for a week getting it just right. Now when she comes she’s always saying how the elevation makes it seem so much hotter.” His smile never changes when he talks about his mom. He obviously really loves her . . . even if he’s a terrible son.

  “Your mom is amazing.” The second the words fall out of my mouth, I’m there with a spoon trying to shovel them back in. I flash back to talking about loving her. “You know, as amazing as a person I’ve never met could be. Not that I want to know her or anything because I barely know you and that would be creepy.”

  Smooth.

  “Marlee, I got it.” He rests his hand on my leg beneath the comforter, a very effective stop to the onslaught of rambling coming out of my mouth. “I was coming to drop off some Advil and give you water for later.” He takes a bottle of water out of his pants’ pocket with the same finesse as a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat.

  “Oh. Thanks.” Why is he thoughtful? There should be a limit on the charm one could possess. Like Chris, for example. He’s hot, but a giant douchelord, so the balance of the world is in check. Gavin, however, is unbelievably handsome, a gentleman, kind, a fantastic kisser and those skills do not diminish in bed, and he’s one of the highest-paid quarterbacks in the NFL. What the hell, universe?

  I lean forward to grab the water from his hands, but as I do, the down comforter (which is so amazing I’m trying to figure out how to smuggle it in my clutch) falls from my shoulders. The ridiculously low cut, metallic gold dress Naomi and Brynn forced me into is barely in place. Good news for me though, my nipples decided to remain in hiding. Gavin’s face followed the blanket, and his gaze hasn’t moved since.

  “Hey now, Pope. Eyes up here,” I call to him at the same time I pull the blanket up.

  “Face. Yeah. My bad.” He looks at me and shocks me when his olive skin flushes scarlet.

  Add adorable to his list of charming traits.

  Dammit.

  “So . . . can I have the water?” I ask.

  “No.” The blush was fading, but at his answer, it returns full force.

  “No?” My eyebrows rise. What’s going on with him?

  “I mean, of course you can. It’s just that . . . since you’re . . .” He stops himself and takes a deep breath. “Sorry. Since you’re awake, do you wanna grab breakfast?”

  Do I want to eat breakfast with this perfect specimen? Short answer? YES! Long answer? Oh my god! A million times YES!

  “I’m not sure. I have a deadline coming up for a client I’m working with and I still have a ton to do.” Way to play it cool, Marlee. And it’s not a complete lie, I do have a lot of work to do, but the deadline isn’t for couple of weeks. It’s just Gavin seems to disarm me more and more every second I’m around him. I know after today I probably won’t see him anymore, and I don’t need to find anything else to add to my list of reasons I want to love him forever. I wonder if this is the struggle all of Chris’s girls felt? The struggle is real.

  “I almost forgot you have two jobs. I’ll get my keys and take you home then.” The disappointed smile on his face weakens my resolve. It’s not every day I wake up in Gavin Pope’s house. Shouldn’t I make it last?

  “Maybe coffee?” I almost scream at him.

  “Coffee sounds good.” His lips curve up and pull my heartstrings along with them. I swear to god, him looking at me and smiling like that? I feel it in my chest. “There’s a great little place a few blocks over. I’ll go find my keys.”

  “We can walk. Let me wash my face first.” I climb out of bed, checking to make sure all my goodies are still tucked away, which makes me think of one thing. “Oh! Do you have sweatshirt I can borrow?”

  He was almost out of the room and when he turns back to me, he lets his gaze slowly travel from my pedicured toes all the way to what I’m sure is a mascara smudged, hair-resembles-a-bird’s-nest head. “Yeah, I think I can find you something,” he says like he’s in on some joke I’m not aware of. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Thanks.” I walk as fast as I can without it looking like I’m running. I open the door to what I’m praying is the bathroom and for once it seems like G-O-D is listening to me. Well . . . until I look in the mirror, then I think He’s apologizing.

  Rough is an understatement. I took on tequila last night and it’s obvious it kicked my ass. Because if the memories weren’t enough to taunt me, now I have a physical reminder.

  Booze: 1. Marlee: 0.

  I wash my face the best I can with hot water and a washcloth. It does a fine job at removing the mascara, but leaves red, irritated skin in its wake. I try my hardest to wrangle my wild hair into a bun and when I look at the finished product, I finally understand what Churchill meant when he said, “Sometimes your best isn’t good enough.”

  After Gavin yells that he found a sweatshirt and a pair of flip-flops his mom left behind, I take one last glance in the mirror and the sound of a train’s horn blares in my head.

  All aboard, ladies and gentlemen.

  #HotMessExpress

  Fifteen

  Even though I don’t have sunglasses on and the sun is close to burning a hole through my retinas, I can’t stop staring up at Gavin’s sick freaking condo.

  “I can’t believe you live here.” I slap Gavin’s arm.

  “Why are you hitting me?” he asks even though he sounds more amused than curious.

  “I love these places! They’re waaaay out of my price range, but so effing cool. If I would’ve known I was in one, I would’ve paid more attention.”

  When Gavin said he lived downtown, I figured he meant one of the swanky high-rises in the heart of downtown. I pictured him sharing an elevator with the old lady who wore excessive amounts of jewelry and always had her yappy dog on either a bedazzled leash or in a dog stroller. I never thought he’d live in one of the newly built, glass-front condos I’ve walked by dozens of times.

  Which, thinking about it, means I’m going to have to find a new route. I can’t walk past his house now that I know he lives there. Sucks, but can you say stalker?

  “I’ll have to give you an official tour sometime.”

  “I’d love that.” In all fairness, I’d love a tour of the sewer if he was the one giving it.

  “Me too.” He slides his hand around mine and gives it a gentle squeeze.

  Two words, five letters, one million butterflies. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to prevent my smile from overtaking my entire face. He turns me into the giddy little girl I was in high school, before I fell for the hot football player who led me down a road of lies and betrayal. Dammit, do I never learn?

  We walk the rest of the way to Fresh—the organic-only coffee shop—in total silence, and for the first time in a very long time, I don’t hate it. Actually, the opposite—I love it. Once I force Chris out of my head, I’m able to appreciate the simple moment. The clean, brisk air against my face in contrast to the warmth of Gavin’s hand encasing mine; constant chatter of businessmen and women on their phones before they start their nine-hour work shift; the hum of the light rail as it passes and the bored faces looking out of the windows.

  Walking into the coffee shop, the strong smell of coffee is equal parts repulsing and enticing. I order my usual, a vanilla latte, Gavin gets a caffè Americano, and we both choose the huge, flaky croissants.

  “If you want, we can eat at my place, it’s only a couple of blocks over. Or we can eat here, whatever you like.” The effort I put forth for the question to come out casually is a massive fail.

  “Your place sounds great.”

&nbs
p; “Yeah?” Shit. I wanted him to say yes, but I thought he’d say no. Now that he agreed, I’m trying to remember what state I left my apartment in after Brynn wreaked havoc on it with her onslaught of beauty products.

  He takes our food and coffees from the barista and gestures toward the door. “You lead the way.”

  The walk is more of the same from before, minus the hand-holding. I think that’s only because his hands are already filled with caffeine and carbs, and I’d never endanger either of those things.

  We make it back to my place in under ten minutes. The smell of coffee was enough to put a little extra pep in my step . . . and so was the idea of Gavin in my space.

  Because yum.

  Obviously.

  “I just moved in, and yesterday was a little insane, so you’ll have to excuse the mess,” I warn him before I open the door.

  “I’m sure it’s fine.”

  I walk in, flip on the light switch, and as luck would have it, he’s right. It’s not as bad as I feared, still not good . . . but it for sure could’ve been worse.

  “Home sweet home.” I gesture with open arms and for some reason do jazz hands.

  I shouldn’t be allowed around attractive humans of the opposite sex. Someone please kill me now.

  “This place is really great, Marlee,” he says, looking around the room.

  He sounds genuine, and I have to admit, I’m surprised. Chris would’ve hated this place. It’s too small. The furniture is cheap. The neighborhood is awful. The list would never end. I was expecting Gavin to have the same reaction and give me something to not like about him.

  “Thanks. It’s small, but I love it so far.” I grab the coffees from him and bring them to the tiny, two-person Ikea table I (fine! My dad) put together the other day. It’s the perfect size for me, but now, with Gavin on the other side, I feel like I bought dollhouse furniture and Gavin’s a giant about to crush it all.

  “It’s perfect,” he tells me after he’s situated on the tiny stool.

  We sit across from each other, eating our croissants and drinking our coffee. Where we were okay with the silence as we walked, it doesn’t reappear here.