Romancing the Running Back

by Jeanette Murray

  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 ba
d.”

  “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.”

  “It’s a bit of an ego killer to see a guy in his underwear and laugh,” he said, turning the iPad back around. She was now holding her own device above her head. He could tell from the angle of her face, her hair, and the pillow behind her head. That mass of blond hair, escaping its braid, fanned out over the pillow. It had to be an unbelievable sight to see when it was fully loose, and she was watching a man with eyes heavy with seduction and passion, and not liquor.

  He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Thank God she couldn’t tell he had a full-on boner.

  “First, you’re wearing underwear in an ad. You’re totally an underwear model. No shame in the game,” she said, and snickered again. “That’s a stupid saying. I don’t know why I said it.”

  He smiled. “You’re drunk.”

  “Probably. You know, I’m not the drinker. That’s Cassie. We go out, and we buy our own drinks because letting guys buy us drinks is skeevy. She’s always the wild one.” There was something almost wistful in her gaze as her eyes drifted off to the side. “She was, anyway. Married life will probably tame that.”

  He doubted Cassie would be tamed. She was a force unto herself. “Second?”

  She stared at him—or rather, at her phone—with a glassy-eyed expression he knew meant she hadn’t followed his question.

  “You said ‘first’ earlier, when you said you I was wearing underwear. So what’s second?”

  Her grin came on then, slowly, and a little lopsided. “I’m supposed to laugh. Right? That’s the point of the ad. You’re wearing those socks pulled up high, and your pose . . . it’s meant to be funny. It’s cute.”

  He flushed, but doubted she’d notice. It was good she’d gotten the point of the ad—humor, not sexuality. But that she’d called it cute was almost like a compliment. Wasn’t it?

  “It’s a good cause. The company donates—”

  “Pfffffft,” she said quickly. “Of course it’s a good cause. You’re doing it, so it must be phllllanfropic.”

  “Philanthropic,” he said with a grin.

  “Yup. That.” She yawned, rolled onto her side, taking the phone with her, changing the angle again until the screen righted itself. “Don’t you ever just do something because it feels good? And not because it has some higher meaning in the universe? That’s great, don’t get me wrong. I like that. I like that you care about the planet and stuff.”

  Another compliment. She must be hammered.

  “’Cause, you know, most guysssss,” she slurred, “they don’t care about the planet. Or the people they’re with. Or, like, anything. But can’t you have any fun?”

  “I have fun.” Defensive, he bit back. “I have fun at my job. I have fun when I hang out with friends. No ulterior motives there.”

  She waved that away, unfortunately with the hand holding the phone. He was starting to feel a bit sick himself, from all the jostling. “I mean, something really indulgent. Like, going to a spa and spending up to your credit-card limit on treatments because it feels goooooood.” She moaned out the last bit, closing her eyes, and he actually had to squeeze his balls to keep the erection down. “And it doesn’t benefit anyone else but you. Don’t you ever?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ve never been to a spa.” He should hang up now. There was no point to this conversation. It had been funny, entertaining, even a bit insightful. Now it was becoming painful.

  “Don’t you ever want to?” Her eyes slitted open. “Don’t you want to be a little selfish sometimes? Think about Jossssha first?”

  He nearly had to grin at the way she bungled his name. “I think you need some sleep.”

  “I think you need some fun. Fashion is fun.” She pouted now a little, though he could tell even in her inebriated state, she was doing so mockingly. “Whash wrong with fun fashion? I make people feel good about themshelves.”

  That . . . was a point he hadn’t considered. In his mind, fashion had only been about matching colors and accessories. “Explain.”

  “Like the client I just had.” She sighed and rolled once more onto her back. She must be a restless sleeper. Maybe with another body in the bed, she’d roll around less.

  Stop that. Lock that shit down. Don’t go there, even mentally.

  “The client, she lost like, a ton of weight. But she didn’t know what to do with her new body.” Her eyes fluttered closed, and the phone dropped so all he saw was her chin for a moment. Then she jerked, as if she’d pulled herself back out of the five-second nap. “She was more depressed than when she was overweight, ’cause it felt like failure. I showed her what to do to feel good about her new body.”

  It was a new angle he hadn’t considered before.

  “You still think I’m shallow. And dumb.”

  “Never dumb,” he corrected automatically, then winced when she snorted. “And I didn’t say you were shallow. I just think there’s more there than you let people see.”

  Her eyes shifted to the side, then she closed them. “Maybe.” She said, rolling once more to the side. The phone dropped over, and all he could see were her eyes, her forehead, and the headboard of the bed. A few seconds later, he heard not-so-delicate snores coming from the phone.

  Time to hang up now. Except he didn’t. He watched another few moments, taking in those closed eyes with makeup smudges, and her forehead, lined with concentration even in a drunken sleep. What was she thinking about so hard? What had her so worried?

  Not for you to find out. Hang up.

  He hung up.

  * * *

  Anya dragged her sorry, tired, hungover ass down the stairs the next morning. “Where . . . what . . . how did that even happen?”

  Cassie, fully dressed in an unbuttoned dark blazer with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, striped shirt, skinny jeans, and dark flats, turned, coffee mug in hand. “Morning, sunshine. Or should I say, strawberry?”

  “If you have to talk, do so at a whisper.” Anya stuck her head in the fridge and took inventory. Her stomach rejected all options. She grabbed a bottle of water and closed it
again. “Point me to the nearest aspirin.”

  “Told you to take some last night. But did you listen?” With a tsking sound, Cassie walked to a far cabinet, removed a bottle, and shook out two pills. Anya’s head pounded with every rattle.

  “Jesus Christ, Cassie, stop doing that. You’re louder than a construction crew.”

  “No pity,” Cassie sang. “You’ve been cleaning up after me for years, making me feel guilty for getting a little wild and crazy the morning after. Your turn to feel the fire.”

  “Speaking of feeling the fire . . . where’s Mags?” Anya turned in a slow circle as she swallowed the pills, looking for signs of their friend. “Still upstairs?”

  “Gone, early this morning. She, unlike you, apparently knows how to wake up the morning after without feeling like hell. And she said she’d missed having cocktails since she’d been with Stephen. It was good for her.” Cassie looked worried as she stirred her coffee with a spoon. Each clang of the silverware against the ceramic rim made Anya want to kick something. “I’m worried about her.”

  “I’m not.”

  Cassie looked up, surprised. “Really? Were we at the same pity party last night? Or did you drink so many daiquiris your short-term memory is scrambled?”

  “Stephen’s got this covered.” When Cassie raised a brow, she shrugged. “I just know. Don’t ask me how. I have a feeling when the team returns home, it’ll be a different story.”

  “I hope so.” Looking doubtful, Cassie drained her mug and set it in the sink. “Come by the office later, if that’s okay. We can get lunch. Just check in with Kristen at the front desk and she’ll direct you.”

  “Office, lunch, Kristen, direct.” Anya laid her forehead down on the cool granite. “Check.”

  Cassie rubbed her back gently. It felt good, and calmed the worst of the headache at the base of her skull. “See you later.”

  “Hmm.” After Cass left—closing the door gently behind her, bless her heart—Anya straightened. How had she known Stephen was going to make things right? Where the heck had that come from?

  Stephen was a good guy, and she adored him. But that didn’t mean she had any idea what his plans were . . .