by Liz Lincoln
These two weeks she was shadowing Matt couldn’t be over soon enough. When Matt first told him about it, Quinn had assumed it meant a few extra hours of her hanging around. And he’d figured he could easily find somewhere else to be. He hadn’t realized it would be Natalie in their lives 24/7, only going home to sleep. Two weeks could fly by when he wanted it to last, but he knew this particular fourteen-day span would last approximately nine months.
“O’m’god,” Natalie said with a half-chewed mouthful of food. “That is amazing, Matt.” She swallowed before continuing. “I’m terrible at cooking chicken. I’m so paranoid about undercooking it and getting salmonella that I overcook it. So it tastes like a lightly seasoned hockey puck.”
Quinn couldn’t hold back a laugh. That was a perfect description of the chicken she’d cooked him a few times. “Haven’t improved any since college?” he asked.
Shit. Why was he talking about college? They didn’t discuss the past. But ever since he’d let her sleep curled against his shoulder, he found himself missing smaller moments like that, when they’d been that perfect overlapping of friends and lovers, when they hung out and did nice things for each other and laughed.
They’d laughed so much. The person she’d been in college had brought out so much of the best in the person he’d been. Too bad neither of them were those people anymore. That Natalie never would have betrayed him with that article.
And just like that, his thawing feelings snapped back to glacier. He couldn’t afford to soften toward Natalie at all.
“My readers are gonna love to hear that you’re not only an MVP-caliber player and candidate for Dad of the Year, but you’re a great cook too. You may end up with more than a few dates after this.”
Matt’s expression shut down. “I’m not interested in dating.” Unlike Quinn, a rude, dismissive tone from Matt was rare.
For all of five seconds, Quinn debated whether or not to say something to Natalie. But who was he kidding? Of course he would do whatever it took to scrub that sad, startled look off her face.
“Sore subject,” he muttered, loud enough for Natalie but not Matt to hear. He shook his head slightly. “He’s not even close to ready yet.”
“I’m sorry. That was a dumb thing to say.” Natalie responded so Matt could hear, but she looked at Quinn as she spoke, giving a subtle nod and smile. She mouthed Thanks.
“And we’re ready for kickoff.” The disembodied announcer’s voice interrupted their tension and Quinn was grateful for the distraction. “The Giants have won the toss and will defer.”
Matt set his plate on an end table and rose. “I gotta let the dog in.” He stalked toward the porch door.
Oh yeah, Booker. Funny how the mutt could disappear for twenty minutes and Quinn hadn’t even noticed. Then again, it had only been two days. He wasn’t used to the fuzzy guy’s presence yet.
“Should be a great game,” Natalie said. “No, down.” Booker had jumped onto the couch between the two of them.
At her command, he lay down on his belly and reached for Natalie with one paw.
Quinn pushed him gently toward the edge. “Off,” he said sternly. He had never had a pet, but he thought he remembered you needed to be stern and firm to get them to obey.
Booker jumped down, raced away, did a lap through the dining area, around the kitchen, and back, then stopped at Natalie’s feet and looked up at her with the sweetest, most expectant expression.
Natalie laughed.
Quinn’s chest tightened. He loved the sound of her laugh.
He was so screwed.
* * *
—
Natalie knew a lot about football. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have a job.
But there was nothing more humbling than watching a game with men who actually played the sport. It was a good reminder she only thought she knew a lot about football. But players would always see things she never did.
They’d finished dinner and settled in to watch the game. Mounted on the wall was a TV approximately 786 inches wide.
Approximately.
The TV was so huge, the resolution so fine, it almost felt like being there. To someone who’d never been on the sidelines, it probably did feel like a live game.
But they knew differently. And even after so many years, the sense of how truly lucky she was hadn’t gone away. She loved her job. Sure, she had some frustrations. She hated the gossipy stuff Ellen wanted. She’d been joking about writing about Matt’s cooking. Maybe she’d include a sentence or two in her final article, but she certainly wouldn’t dwell on it.
Or not. If she did, Ellen would probably want a full story just about Chef Matt Baxter. She could keep that on reserve for when she needed an idea.
Natalie was still working out the angle she wanted to take with the profile. Ellen had emailed yesterday saying she’d like it more about Matt the man outside football rather than him as a player. “People already know that,” the email said.
And it was true. Plenty had been written about him as a player. But Natalie was also sure her readers didn’t want paragraphs about him cooking pesto chicken. A mention, to give the article some personal flavor—no pun intended—but as a backdrop to a deeper look at who he was as a player. As a teammate, as a student of the game. She was set up for a few hours of talking with quarterbacks coach Luke Boudin next week, and she was going to talk with Crosby on Sunday evening after the game.
She wanted his life outside the stadium to be a backdrop. Not a focus. She just hadn’t figured out how to tell Ellen that. Maybe she’d just write the article and submit it and let Ellen deal with it then. Once it was written, her boss wouldn’t make her start over completely to redirect the perspective.
At least she didn’t think so.
“Oh, look. A penalty.” Matt’s sarcasm cut into Natalie’s wandering thoughts.
It was barely into the first quarter, and between them, New York and Dallas had racked up eleven penalties. Many were questionable. And to watch a game with Matt Baxter was to get a detailed, vehement critique of every call the refs made.
“How the hell is that OPI?” Quinn agreed. “What’s he supposed to do, levitate?”
“Failure to defy the laws of physics,” Matt said in a stern voice. “Offense, number eighty-five. Ten-yard penalty, automatic first down.”
Quinn laughed. “Exactly.”
Natalie grinned at the exchange and reached for her pen. She scribbled it down in her notebook. This was the sort of off-the-field stuff she wanted to include. Because it still related to football. What a wild, wacky idea.
“What’s with that notebook of yours. Is it like your security blanket?” Matt jerked his chin at her journal as the game went to commercial. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you without it.”
It wasn’t a mature response, but she was feeling silly. So she stuck her tongue out at him.
Matt sagged back in his chair, head tossed back in laughter. Even Quinn chuckled, though it was a rough, tense sound.
“I’m a reporter. Of course I have a notebook with me.” Sometimes she relied on her phone’s note-taking app, but she much preferred paper and pen. Besides, her journal was more than just her story notes. It was her brain extension. It had her calendar, all her medical information, lists of everything from books she wanted to read to places she wanted to visit to her favorite easy-to-cook meals—none of which involved baking chicken breasts. A few years ago, Annie had introduced her to a system called the Bullet Journal and she loved it. It was everything she needed all in one place.
Plus every week she set aside an hour to plan out her coming week, and she decorated the calendar pages with stickers and washi tape and doodles. Her favorite pen was a royal blue one, but she kept several other colors in her bag and color-coded different things. Red was anything health or medical related. Green was meals or food. Purp
le were long-term goals or tasks. Other colors meant other things. She had a key at the beginning of the notebook.
“But you have so much shit in there. You can barely close it. How does that possibly keep you organized?”
He was right, the attached elastic band barely stretched around it. She also stapled in things she needed to keep, plus it was full of sticky notes.
She resisted the urge to stick out her tongue again. Twice was bordering on unprofessional. “It works for me. I don’t need anyone else to be able to understand it.” In fact, she didn’t want anyone else looking at her journal. It didn’t contain actual diary entries. She didn’t keep a diary anymore, hadn’t since high school. But it was still deeply personal.
“I bet we could decipher your secret codes,” Quinn said, amusement tingeing his words.
Natalie glanced over to see if he was serious. Instead, he looked as if he were surprised he’d said it.
Trying to keep the mood light, she raised her eyebrows. “As if I’d ever let you look.” Was that challenge in her voice? She couldn’t possibly be daring him to try to take it, could she?
A scenario flashed through her head, of him lunging over to her end of the couch and pressing his chest against her in an attempt to reach the notebook. She held it out, arching away from him, but it only served to press her more tightly to him. They struggled against each other, legs tangling, bodies sliding against each other, until finally his long arm stretched far enough that he could wrap his hand around her wrist and pull her arm back in.
Natalie shook the images from her head, staring intently at the TV to reset her brain. The fantasy had kicked up her pulse and left her body wanting to twist toward Quinn. Instead she snapped the notebook shut, pulled the overstretched elastic around it, and tucked it under her thigh. Chewing on the end of her pen, she watched as the Cowboys’ punter booted the ball downfield to the Giants’ waiting returner.
Ten seconds later, he was tackled down at the twenty-seven-yard line. At the same time, three yellow flags dotted the screen.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“What the shit? What now?”
Booker chose that moment to wander into the area. He paused in front of the TV, looked up at it, then bolted out of the room.
“He’s got the right idea. This game is shit,” Matt said.
Natalie wasn’t going to comment on the quality of the game—though it was ridiculously high in penalties—but she did think Booker was on to something, getting out of the living room. So she got her water glass and followed the dog. She needed a few minutes of space away from Quinn.
She needed to figure out how to stop fantasizing about her ex.
Chapter 9
Quinn threw his wrench into his toolbox with way more force than was necessary. But dammit, he was frustrated. When he’d bought the 1955 Ford Thunderbird, the seller had claimed the engine was in perfect working condition. Most of the work it needed was cosmetic, the man said. And Quinn had deliberately picked a car that would be less work since he had so little free time during the season. But he still needed his outlet. Especially after a week of Natalie hanging around his roommate during what felt like every waking moment.
He’d smoothed every dent and repaired every scratch in the powder blue paint. Applied new rims, polished the bumpers, and reupholstered the white leather seats to match the original. He’d even updated the radio and replaced the broken speedometer. She looked beautiful, gleaming in the bright work lights he’d installed in the garage.
Then he’d tried to start her.
She chugged, sputtered, and died. Which had to be a mistake, because she’d worked just fine when she was delivered. He wouldn’t have accepted delivery if she didn’t.
So what the fuck was wrong now?
He’d spent the better part of an hour under the hood, but everything appeared in working order to him. But he didn’t know fifties engines as well as he knew the ones from about ’65 and later.
The antsy feeling started creeping in, the restlessness. He paced back and forth, running his hand over Sweetness’s hood to remind himself how good he was at restoring cars. It wasn’t a reflection on him or his worth that he couldn’t figure out this particular engine. Getting upset about this would be like getting upset about not being able to easily play linebacker. It simply wasn’t his area of expertise.
But he knew someone whose it was. Fuck. He didn’t want to call her.
Except he did.
It would be a terrible idea to ask her to come over. She probably wasn’t even around. She was young and single and pretty; surely she had a date or was out with friends, the way most people were on Friday nights. The Dragons played at home this week, so she wouldn’t have an early flight tomorrow.
Even if she were free, he couldn’t invite her over. He needed the buffer other people provided, and Matt was out at Bubble. He’d invited Quinn, but Quinn wasn’t feeling social. Plus, he was edgy enough lately, he needed to avoid temptation. He refused to fall off the wagon just because he wanted to fit in. That’s what had started him down his booze-paved path in the first place. He hadn’t been able to stop when everyone else did.
Natalie was a whole different temptation. As much as his brain might still resent her for what she’d done, his body and his subconscious were really damn attracted to her. She was on his mind constantly. He found himself zoning out during team meetings, thinking about the way her hair would fall over one shoulder like a golden waterfall. Or how the water in Jamaica when he’d gone a few years ago had reminded him of her eyes. Mentally waxing poetic during film review was just pathetic.
No, he couldn’t ask Natalie to come over and help.
He spent the next half hour searching the Internet, doing a deep dive into some message boards to try to find answers to what might be wrong with the old engine. But once he’d exhausted the resources he could find there, he was no closer to knowing how to fix it than he’d been when he started.
Fuck it. He could at least text her.
Quinn: Hey, I’ve got a question about a 55 ford t-bird engine.
While he waited for an answer, he went inside to get a drink. As he filled his water bottle, his phone chimed with a new message.
Natalie: Sure, what’s the question?
Quinn: It worked fine Monday when I last started it up. Now I’ve got nothing. Won’t even catch. But I can’t figure out what’s wrong. I’m better with later models.
Natalie: There are so many things it could be. I’m not sure I can help without looking at it.
Shit. He’d been foolish to think he could do this by text, but he’d hoped. It was a bad idea to invite her over. Definitely not smart.
Quinn: Are you busy tonight? Could you come take a look?
He was rarely accused of being a smart man.
* * *
—
Natalie wiped her hands on a towel and grinned at Quinn around the hood of the gorgeous Thunderbird he’d restored. After her truck, a fifties T-Bird was the car she most wanted to fix up and drive. “Start her up. See what she can do.”
He returned the smile, the skin around his eyes crinkling. Her heart sputtered the way the engine had when she arrived at his house an hour ago. She had always been a sucker for both Quinn’s smile and for men with smile lines. Smile lines on Quinn were downright lethal.
He turned the key in the engine. It sputtered for a moment and she dragged her attention away from him so she could watch the mechanics and see if something wasn’t where it belonged. After a hesitation, the engine caught and turned over. The car purred to life.
Leaving it running, Quinn jumped out of the car, and in two long strides was at her side. He wrapped her in his arms and lifted her off the ground, her feet swinging into the air behind her. They were both laughing, and she let her arms go around his back to return the embrace.
It felt so good to be in Quinn Lowry’s arms after so much time. She…wanted more than just this one hug.
Danger zone! Warning, abort. Abort.
As soon as her feet hit the ground, she started to pull back. Except with his arms still looped around her waist, she didn’t get very far. And her hands didn’t seem to want to leave the solid muscles of his back.
He made a soft sound, like a sigh, and she looked up.
And stopped breathing.
His eyes were fire. His expression was hungry and hot and delicious and dangerous. Like he wanted to kiss her. Devour her. Mark her and claim her and all those other predatory things.
It was the way he used to look at her. Right before he fucked her brains out.
“I—” Her mouth hung open, no more words escaping.
His gaze dropped to it and his nostrils flared. He took a long look at her lips, then finally returned to her eyes. Did her expression show the same need as his?
She couldn’t breathe. She needed air. She needed Quinn.
No, she needed air. And space. And to step away from him now.
Somehow she managed to pull away and step back. “So.” Her voice was too loud and bright in the silent garage. “That should do it.”
He gave her an odd look, like he didn’t understand what she said. It seemed like maybe he was breathing a little too fast, but she couldn’t look at him closely enough to tell. If she did, she’d probably throw herself at him and beg him to kiss her. Or worse, to fuck her so hard neither one of them remembered why it was a horrible idea.
“I’m gonna…I need…water.” With that brilliant pronouncement, she hurried to the door leading into the house.
She headed for the kitchen table, sat down, and pulled her Bullet Journal out of her bag, needing a moment to breathe. She flipped open to the current week’s agenda and scanned the list of tasks she had to do. Focused on deadlines, reviewed appointments.
Unfortunately, her reprieve was short-lived. Quinn filled two glasses of water and brought them to the table. He slid one over to her as he sat down next to her.