“Red,” I say in that low drawl as I let my gaze travel up from her strong calves, past her tremendous hips, along her womanly waist. I have to make an effort not to let my hungry gaze linger on those luscious tits, and when I flick my eyes up to her face, she gasps and looks away.
“Sorry, what?” she says, reaching up and touching her hair.
“Red,” I say again. “My favorite color. That was your question, wasn’t it? Are we done now?”
She swallows hard, blinking and tightening her jaw like she’s reaching for something inside her. Clearly she finds it, because those baby browns of hers look directly into my cold blue eyes, and this time she doesn’t look away.
“No,” she says softly, her voice trembling even as she shakes her head firmly. “We’re just getting started, Grant Gunner. We’re just getting started.”
I shake my head and smile at this strange mix of opposites in this curvy goddess dressed all in blue, standing in a cloud of white steam that’s swirling from the showers in the background. For a moment I lose myself in the vision, and then I gasp when the image combines with an old memory, a memory that was tucked away twenty years ago, a memory that I’d dismissed as the childish rants of a little girl on her deathbed.
“No,” I whisper under my breath as a chill rips through me and I almost black out. “It can’t be. You’re losing your shit, Gun. Losing your fucking mind. No way it’s her. No fucking way. Don’t start believing that shit, Gun. You’re not some head-in-the-clouds schoolgirl. You start believing that fairy-tale crap, and you might as well retire right fucking now. This is just your cock talking. Wake up, you dumb meathead! Wake the fuck up!”
2
GALE
Wake up, Gale, I tell myself as I blink and reach behind my back so I can pinch my big bottom. It hurts, and I wince and shake my head. I can’t believe myself. I really can’t. No, I don’t watch football, but I obviously knew which one of these men was Grant Gunner. In fact I’ve always known. Known that face before I knew the name. Known those eyes before I even knew how to ride a bicycle. Maybe that’s why I was so nervous that I totally pretended like I was some clueless chick living in the backwoods or something. Did he notice I was lying? But I wasn’t really lying, was I? I mean, yeah, I was lying, but I didn’t mean to lie, did I? It just came out. It just—
“Gale,” he says in that slow, deep drawl that makes my toes curl in my uncomfortably tight heels. Why are my shoes so tight?! Did my feet get fatter in the six months since I’ve actually had to wear these instruments of torture? How do your feet get fatter? Am I retaining water? Ohmygod, is my face all puffy and bloated? Why did I wear this dress?! I probably look like a blue whale! Wait, why does he know my name?! What’s happening?!
“Nametag,” I blurt out, exhaling so hard I almost collapse. I touch the lanyard hanging around my neck. Security at the gate told me to wear it at all times so they know I’m authorized to be back here or something. I exhale again, even though I don’t remember inhaling. Is that even possible? Oh shit, am I gonna faint? If I faint, will he give me mouth-to-mouth or will he call in someone else to do it? Maybe he’ll just sit there and watch me die. OK stop, Gale. You’re losing your shit. Your anxiety is coming back, and you just need to calm down and breathe. Just breathe, Gale. Just. Breathe.
“Breathe,” he says, raising an eyebrow and frowning at me. “You look a little blue in the face, Gale. Breathe. It’s easy. In. Out. In. Out. Come on. You can do it.”
“Yes, I know how to breathe,” I say quickly, a flash of anger going through me but only because I know I’m making a fool out of myself. Why didn’t I just leave the room when they said this wasn’t a good time?! I’m not ready for this! I should never have taken the job! What if I screw it up?! What if I—
“Do you have anxiety issues or are you just happy to see me?” he asks.
I just stare at him and blink. “Um, did you just ask me if I have issues?”
“We all have issues,” he says with a shrug, his massive chest and shoulders moving in a way that makes my knees weak, makes my butt tighten, makes me clamp my thighs together as I try not to stare.
But it’s hard not to stare at this mountain of tattooed muscle, this beast of a man who’s so casual and confident, relaxed and at ease even though his lip is bleeding and I can see bruises all over his hard body, black and blue mixing in with the tattoos like his body itself is a quilt, a patchwork of memories, a record of the past, perhaps visions of the future. For a moment I lose myself in the artwork all over this man, and when I come to my senses I realize to my astonishment that I’m breathing slow and deep, a calmness oozing through my body like Grant Gunner’s deep voice oozing through the air between us.
“Clearly you don’t have issues with needles,” I say, taking a step toward him and squinting at an old, faded tattoo that seems to have pride of place on his chest. It’s a woman’s name, and a wave of jealousy rips through me with such force I immediately take a step back and blink. Jealousy? What the hell? Grow up, Gale.
He follows my gaze and looks down at the tattoo on his torso that’s positioned just right so he can see it without having to look into a mirror. This tattoo is for him, I realize as he looks up at me and smiles.
But this smile isn’t that cocky grin, and I see his blue eyes mist over with a warmth that makes my toes curl up again. “My kid sister,” he says quietly, touching the name like it’s precious, personal, private. “She died twenty years ago, when I was a teenager. I privately dedicate every game to her.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, touching my chest as I feel my heart jump. I don’t know this man, and I certainly didn’t know his sister. But I feel his private pain in a way that makes no sense. I see the hurt in those cold blue eyes. I want to take the hurt away with a yearning that almost hurts me! What’s going on here? Why am I so turned around in this man’s presence? It can’t just be from that silly, childish moment all those years ago, can it? Maybe I’m just star-struck. Is this what happens to dumb teenage girls when they find themselves face-to-face with Justin Bieber or something? Is Justin Bieber still a thing or is he like forty years old now? Shit, I really should turn on my TV more often. Wait, is TV still a thing?
“Thank you,” he says, that voice cutting through the air and bringing me back from the brink of hysteria. But it’s a different sort of hysteria—not the panicky kind that made my teenage years a living hell of embarrassment and anxiety. There’s something about this man that relaxes me as much as it makes me nervous. Something about his voice that calms me as much as it excites me. Something about his cold blue eyes that warms me even as it makes me shiver in my heels. “I’ve never told anyone that,” he adds, blinking and cocking his head like he’s surprised or something.
“Told anyone what?” I say absentmindedly as I try to come to terms with the rush of emotion, anxiety, and . . . and . . .
“Wait, I just told you something I’ve never told a living soul and you weren’t listening?” he says, leaning forward on the bench and narrowing his eyes even though there’s a smile teasing the corners of his bruised lips. “Fuck, that hurts.”
I wince at the language even as I giggle at the comment. “I was listening! I just got carried away with my thoughts.” I swallow hard and smile. “I have a very rich inner life, Mr. Gunner.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Oh, so I’m Mister Gunner now? What happened to addressing me by my full name like this is an interrogation room in Guantanamo Bay?”
“OK, I admit that was weird,” I say with a quick shake of my head to get the hair away from my face. “So what would you like me to call you?”
“Gun,” he says firmly. “Call me Gun.”
“Gun?” I say with a frown. “Absolutely not. I don’t condone violence.”
“Oh fucking hell,” he says with a groan, shaking his head and chuckling. “Are you fucking—”
“Also,
can we not use that sort of language, please?” I say, blinking as I wince again. Now I remember why I don’t watch TV. “It’s an issue for me.”
“You seem to have a lot of fucking issues,” he grunts, still shaking his head. Then he sits up straight and holds his arms out and widens his eyes. “I mean, you seem to have a lot of flipping issues. How’s that?”
“Better,” I say, wondering how in the world I had the guts to tell Grant Gunner, millionaire quarterback of the Philadelphia Firestorm, to watch his language. Yeah, I clearly have issues. More than I thought I did, perhaps. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, a twinkle in those devilish blue eyes. “Now it’s your turn.”
I freeze, not sure what he means. “My turn for what?”
“To tell me something you’ve never told another living soul,” he says. “Fair is fair. Tit for tat.”
He glances at my breasts as he says that, and I feel a tingle go through me as my nipples perk up just from his gaze. But he doesn’t linger with the look, and in fact I think he’s embarrassed that he let himself do that. It seems at odds with his don’t-give-a-damn demeanor—not to mention his reputation. Yes, of course I did a little research on Grant Gunner before coming here. I know he’s never been married, doesn’t have kids, is completely open about his non-monogamous, no-strings-attached relationships with consenting women. I read an interview where he said he doesn’t lie to women, and if they can’t handle sharing him, then he respects that and understands if they choose to walk away. I don’t know how I felt about that. On one hand it seemed cocky and sexist, a powerful man taking advantage of his position. But on the other hand he was completely open about it, and the truth is that even after fifteen years as a single male celebrity, there isn’t a whisper from a woman in his past accusing him of things that are so commonly associated with men in positions of wealth and power. It made me curious as much as it made me mad. It also made me very certain that I needed to keep my distance. I’m very much a one-and-only-one type woman, and I’m certainly not joining some tattooed bad-boy’s harem. I’ll wait for my true love, thank you very much. I’ll wait, just like I’ve been waiting my entire life. Waiting for . . .
“I’m waiting,” he says, leaning his head back and looking up at me. The yellow floodlights catch the contours of his cheekbones, and I have to blink to stop myself from noticing how brutally handsome this man really is. I don’t want to notice it. I don’t want to acknowledge that I’m attracted to him. Wait, am I attracted to him?!
“Sorry, what?” I say, my eyes going wide when I realize I’ve totally lost track of the conversation. That’s what happens when you spend so much time alone that the conversations in your own head are more real than the ones out there. “Oh, right. Well, let’s see . . .” I blink and look up at the ceiling, not sure why I’m even humoring him. I certainly have no intention of telling this man any of my secrets. Besides, I’m supposed to be interviewing him, not the other way around. I’ve been hired to take snippets from this man’s life and career, record his milestones in a patchwork quilt that’s going to hang on a wall for thousands of people to see. When did this turn into a conversation about me?!
“No,” I say suddenly, blinking and looking him directly in the eye. Panic whips through me, but it passes and leaves me breathless. “No,” I say again, firmly and clearly. “I’m not telling you anything. This meeting is about you, not me.”
Grant leans forward again, his eyebrows raised, that smile dancing on his broken lips. “OK, now I’m curious. This sounds like you really do have something to hide, Little Miss Quilter.” He breaks into a grin and shakes his head slowly, keeping those blue eyes focused on me in a way that makes my heart pound but not from anxiety. “You just made this all about you, Little Miss Quilter. You want to ask me questions? All right. But it’s gonna be one for one. Back and forth. You and me.”
I feel my heart pounding again, but this is excitement. I try to figure out if he’s serious, if he’s really interested in knowing anything about me. Is he just a player who’s making his play? Is this how he adds women to his carousel—by making them feel special when he’s with them? You’re out of your league here, Gale. You don’t have the experience to know when a man is playing games. Oh wait, men are always playing games. Especially rich and famous bachelors with tattoos all over their rock-hard, chiseled bodies. Be careful, Gale. Be very, very careful. You haven’t waited for your true love this long to throw it all away because some rich player made your heart beat faster, made your nipples perk up, made your panties feel uncomfortably tight, frustratingly wet.
No, you haven’t waited this long to throw it all away . . .
. . . even if this is the man you’ve been waiting for.
I close my eyes tight and push away that memory that brought me here, reminding myself that I was a head-in-the-clouds little girl, an only child with nothing but my imagination to keep me company. The memory does get forced back to its hiding place, but I can’t calm down because I realize I’m still aroused in a way that I’ve never been. In fact I’ve never been a particularly sexual person, never really indulged in fantasies that weren’t childishly innocent, despite my “rich inner life.” Maybe my anxiety issues had something to do with it. Maybe it was because I never felt like I was particularly attractive. Or maybe I was waiting for my true love to awaken that part of me. Waiting for my blue-eyed prince to awaken the sleeping princess inside me.
I smile and shake my head at that last thought. Life isn’t a Disney movie, honey, I remind myself. Besides, if that last part is true, then logically speaking this man is your true love because he’s awakening that part of you. And obviously he’s not your true love. I mean, he can’t be your true love. It’s just not—
“Only child?” comes his voice through my mental rant.
“What?” I say. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re in a room with another person but clearly having a conversation with yourself. That’s what only children do. I did it too after I lost my sister.” He snorts and shakes his head. “Almost lost my mind too. But I managed to pull it together and finish high school, make it to college. And the rest is history.”
“History,” I say earnestly, my eyes lighting up as I’m pulled back to reality. “Exactly! That’s what I’m here for, Mr. Gunner. To understand your personal and professional history.”
But Gun just shakes his head slowly, that lazy confidence oozing from him once more through his casual smile “Nah, Little Miss Quilter,” he says softly. “That’s not what you’re here for. Ten minutes on my fucking Wikipedia page and you’d get everything you needed about my personal and professional milestones. You walk in here asking me what my favorite fucking colors are? Give me a fucking break. The team colors are red and yellow, and you know your fucking quilt is going to have to be red and yellow.”
A strange embarrassment whips through me as I feel the sickening truth of his words, a truth I can’t accept, won’t accept, refuse to accept. “Do you really need to use the f-word four times in three sentences?” I ask, crossing my arms beneath my chest and tightening my jaw as I try to ignore what he just said to me, how he exposed a part of me that I think I was hiding from myself. Why did I come here? Yes, the Wilburs offered me access to Grant Gunner, but they certainly didn’t require that I meet with him. So why am I here? I read everything I could about him online, didn’t I? I’m not writing his freakin’ biography. I just need like ten snippets about his life and career that I can work into a quilt. A few photographs that can be printed on fabric. His high-school numbers. So on and so forth. I don’t need to interview him for that. And he’s right about the colors too: Red and yellow are the Firestorm’s colors, and the Wilburs made it clear that’s what they wanted for the quilt. So why did I come here? What did I expect? What did I want? What do I want?
You want him, comes the whisper from that little girl inside me, and I tak
e a step back as I wonder if I’ve finally snapped, if staying a virgin until I’m almost thirty has done something to my already messed up head.
“You’ve never used the f-word?” he says with a grin.
“No,” I say firmly, thankful to be talking and not thinking. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to look inside myself.
“Have you ever done the f-word?” he says, his voice dropping to a low whisper that’s almost a growl.
I gasp at the question, and I swear I feel my panties get soaked as I stand there like a fool in blue. “What?” I whisper. “How dare you ask me that? That’s none of your business!”
“This is my fucking locker room, and everything’s my business in here,” he replies without missing a beat. “Including you, Little Miss Quilter.”
“I think I should leave,” I say, my voice trembling as I touch my hair and try to turn away from him. I’m fighting back that sickening realization of why I came here, of what I thought about when I got the call from the Wilburs, when I realized that fate was about to do what I thought was impossible. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? I couldn’t turn away from this, even though it terrified me.
“You aren’t gonna leave without getting what you came for,” says Gun softly. “But first you gotta admit it, Little Miss Quilter. You’re not what you seem, but in a way you are exactly what you seem.”
“I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whisper, touching my neck. Is it hot in here? It feels hot. Why am I hot? Oh, right, it’s a sweaty, steamy locker room in a football stadium. That’s probably why I’m hot. No other reason. None at all.
Slowly he stands up, and I gasp when I see how tall he is, how his broad shoulders cast a shadow over me as he looms before me like a muscled beast. I take another step back even though a part of me wants to take a step forward, and I touch my neck again as I try not to think about what he said.
Curvy for HIm: The Quilter and the QB Page 2
