The Catching Kind

by Caitie Quinn

  Connor stepped over my miniature coffee table and came to hover over me. His gaze slid over my face before coming back to my eyes. He winked, giving me that trademark smile I’d seen on every website hit I’d pulled up last night. "There's not a lot of sleeping involved when I stay over my girlfriend’s house."

  I could feel the heat rushing up my neck—part embarrassment, part annoyed.

  "Oh. I'm so glad to hear that." I forced a grin as he started in surprise. "Because I can't guarantee the couch is very comfortable."

  "I am not sleeping on the couch."

  "Then it's the floor, because you're not sleeping with me." I crossed my arms, so flustered I feared my hands were shaking. "I don't know you. I'm not dating you. If you're sleeping in this apartment, it's on the couch. Or the floor. Although, as you've pointed out, the leather chair is really comfortable."

  "Hailey, we're both adults.” He turned on the charm for this attempt. “There's no reason we can't share a bed."

  "I understand you don't know me. So, I'll say this once. I'm not a prude, but my values around sex and relationships obviously aren't as lax as yours. I don't go sharing my bed—for sex or sleep—with random guys I'm trapped in fake relationships with. If you stay, you know your options."

  I pushed past him before he could respond. This wasn't an argument. An argument meant he might have a chance of persuading me. This was a non-negotiable and he better get that quickly if this whole thing was going to work.

  I threw the door open, annoyed with myself when it banged into the wall behind it.

  "So, we can go to dinner and you can decide if you want to stay here—on the couch—later. Or we can call it off. If you forfeit, you make it very clear to Dex that it’s on you. I have a proposal going out the door in a few weeks and I don't need their little agent mafia bad-mouthing Catherine when I need every negotiating super power working in my favor."

  "Forfeit?" His voice had dropped to a new low and I realized my mistake immediately. "Sweetheart, I don't lose. And I certainly don't forfeit. But get one thing straight. I also don't sleep on couches."

  "Then I guess you'll be going home tonight."

  I stepped into the hall, forcing his hand.

  "Fine.” He pulled the door shut behind us. “Let's go to dinner."

  Worst. Start. To a date. Ever.

  I tromped down the stairs, annoyed at Connor. Annoyed to be breaking in more new shoes. Annoyed I could have stayed in and gotten pages written and maybe watched an old episode of Buffy.

  When I reached for the front door, a dark sleeve shot past me, pulled it open, and held it as I attempted to sail through as graceful as a swan. I’m sure I looked more like a waddling penguin. But, hey. At least my hair looked good.

  On the sidewalk, Connor stepped forward to flag down a cab.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Il Giardino." He named a restaurant fairly nearby that was busy enough we'd blend in without the paparazzi of his typical set, but we'd definitely be spotted out together.

  "That's only four blocks from here."

  Connor nodded, obviously not seeing my point.

  "Why don't we just walk?" Did the man not realize how much cabs were?

  "You want to walk?" The way he asked it had me wondering why it was such a confusing idea.

  "Sure. Why not?"

  "Aren't you afraid you'll get..." He waved a hand in my general direction. "Mussed? I mean, don't you want the moment where you get out of the cab and everyone glances?"

  "Not really.” And, did people really do that? Make cab entrances? That sounded stressful. “One more reason to just walk."

  He kept looking at me and I had no idea if I was supposed to add something to this.

  "You really don't care, do you?"

  "Should I?" Honestly, this was getting way too confusing between the bag and the whiskey and the cabs. I was going to have to make myself pre-date flashcards at this rate.

  "I don't know." He looked like he really didn't. Like he was thinking it through and trying to come to some conclusion.

  "Do you?" I asked, trying to figure out if I’d messed up again.

  "I don't think so." He shook his head, a surprised look raising his eyebrows. "No. Nope, I don't care. Let's walk."

  We headed east. The only sound between us the clicking of our shoes. I was focused on not falling or getting the pointy heels stuck in a crack or grate when a heavy arm fell across my shoulder.

  "What are you doing?" I tried to step away, but his hand tightened where it cupped my shoulder.

  "There's no way I'd walk down the street without having an arm around my girlfriend. If we're not making an entrance showing up in a cab, then we'll have to look the part this way."

  He was right.

  It kind of grated.

  So far, he’d been right fairly often and I was beginning to realize I’d underestimated him. Which could be a problem if I was going to make sure I stayed safely away from any dating danger zones.

  We walked on, both pretending this wasn’t the least bit awkward. Okay, I was pretending I didn't feel awkward. Who knows what Connor was thinking? We were a block from the restaurant when he glanced at his watch.

  "We're really early for our reservation."

  I don't think I'd ever gone out with a guy who bothered to make reservations. Or maybe Connor didn't. Someone who made as much money as he did must have lackeys. The whole thing was suspicious. He probably made reservations and then tipped off the papers himself. I'd heard about the Hollywood wars over actresses doing that to get coverage. Like those just-coming-out-of-the-gym photos where the person looks really surprised to be caught. Not to mention, completely not sweaty.

  Because that happens in the real world.

  "Why did you make a reservation?" I tried to keep the suspicion out of my voice, but when he shot me an odd look I guessed I'd failed.

  "So we wouldn't have to wait. Also, I have a few favorite restaurants where I've gotten to know the owners. Not letting them know I'd be there was just rude if there's a chance we might have an audience." The tone of his voice was not all warm and fuzzy on that last word. "I waited till the last minute though so we could stay low key. I was afraid Dex had called the papers." He steered me across the street at the crosswalk. "He seems to know where I am no matter what. I've tried texting, calling, having my brother call. It's like Dex has LoJack on my phone. Would you believe I actually left it at home for a few days to test the theory?"

  No. I wouldn't have, but after seeing Dex in action maybe I should rethink that.

  "So, you think he calls the papers on you?” I asked. “You think that's how you have so much coverage?"

  He shook his head, not even bothering to look down at me.

  "Sweetheart, I was born for this coverage. I have it because I'm the best at what I do, I make a lot of money, I’ll help get the Nighthawks to the pennant, and I date some of the most beautiful women in the world. If I wasn't me, I'd probably be buying those dumb rags just to check me out too."

  As statements went, that one was an excellent reality check. His social karma moves would only get him so far.

  Connor pulled the front door open and allowed me to pass by him into the restaurant. One thing was for sure. He had excellent manners…when he didn’t have horrible ones.

  Dex had probably sent him to some etiquette school to get him house broken.

  "Mr. Ryan!" The girl behind the hostess stand sounded as if she'd just run the four blocks from my house. "We weren't expecting you for half-an-hour."

  "Not a problem, Sheila. Hailey and I can just grab a drink in the lounge." He flashed a smile so smooth, so charming I thought she was going to drop to her knees and thank him for knowing her name.

  Which, I’ll admit, I was impressed by.

  I jumped when Connor's hand landed on my lower back. All this touching was nerve-wracking. But, let's be honest. He's so used to dating five-foot-eleven girls, he was probably aiming for my butt.

  I
n the bar, we found a low table in a dim corner. The booth was a circular, plush-covered deal and as I slid in, Connor moved in behind me. He was better at playing this game out than I was.

  "Okay," I said, trying to get my game back under control. I leaned against him in what would hopefully look like a comfy cuddle, but was really just to discuss our plan without being overheard. "Tonight we're out in public enough to be seen. We've known each other several weeks. This isn't a first date. It's the date where we just stop caring if we get caught since we've both started to take this a little seriously."

  He dropped his arm behind me, cupping my shoulder again. His smile was somewhere between condescending and humoring. I made a note to self: Look those up to see how different they are.

  "I'm sure you can manage to chill and enjoy yourself." His hand ran down my arm and then back up, slow, soothing movements with just the tips of his fingers that had me relaxing against him. "Will it really be so bad having a few nice meals with me?"

  I tried to shake my head, but had to consider it first. Would it be hard? I didn't know enough about him. I knew he was the bachelor of the hour and he was a big shot in the baseball world. I knew stores had started selling Mrs. Ryan t-shirts and couldn't keep them in stock. I knew he dated a lot and had a very clear image as a playboy.

  But I didn't know if he read or voted. I didn't know if he went to college and, if he attended, how he did. Did he have a pet? Where was he from? Was he close to his family beyond that brother he kept sucking into his public adventures?

  When it came right down to it, I probably knew less about him than the average girl on my block. I doubted between his money and his lifestyle that we really had many of those things in common.

  "Connor, I just—" How to put this nicely? "I just don't think we're the same kind of person. To me this is part of the job."

  His lips flattened and at the same time managed to show an almost cruel smirk. "Are you afraid I'm going to fall in love with you?"

  If sarcasm had a face, it would be the one he was looking at me with right now.

  "I have no idea how you even got that out of what I just said." Because, really.

  "So you don't think I'd be interested in you?"

  "You don’t have to be mean about it.” I couldn’t believe he was bringing this up again. “I know your type. The whole world knows your type. I'm five inches too short, two cup sizes too small, and six years too old. Which, honestly, aren’t those girls starting to feel a little young to you? So why don't you leave the sarcasm for someone it will work on."

  I pushed his arm off my shoulder and tried to slide farther down the booth.

  "Hailey." He wrapped a hand around my wrist. "Stop. Settle down and listen."

  I tried to pull away, but his loose hand had tightened on my arm.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that sarcastically. I was joking. I thought you'd see the humor in it."

  "You don't know me any more than I know you, so I don't know how you think I'd magically understand anything you'd joke about." I was afraid we’d never be speaking the same language at this rate.

  "Okay. Listen. This is what I'm thinking. We're going to—"

  "Hi, Mr. Ryan!"

  "Sorry it took me so long.” She rushed on as if we’d been waiting hours. “What can I get you guys to drink?"

  "Hi, Rachel. I'll have a Whiskey Neat." He turned toward me, forcing the attention my way. "Hailey, what did you want tonight?"

  I wanted to understand what was going, to get his intentions and be able to play along. But, in lieu of that, I’d take an adult beverage.

  So I asked, "What do you have for white wines?"

  She ran through a list and thankfully there were a couple good ones I recognized.

  We sat quietly, waiting for Rachel to bring our drinks, his hand doing that soothing up-and-down thing on my arm again.

  After we'd been beveragized and Rachel had wandered off, Connor took a sip of his whiskey then paused, waiting for something.

  "Here's what I'm thinking." He set the glass down and pulled his arm away so he could shift to face me. "Why don't we just think of this as hanging out? You know, as friends. You're obviously smart and clean up to be cute in that girl-next-door way. Maybe it will be fun. Being able to go out with someone and not have any pressure. Not to mention, the whole we're-pulling-something-over-on-everyone thing.” He gave me a very hopeful grin. I think it was dawning on him that he was the one with something to lose here. “It's kind of funny, don't you think?"

  I thought about my rapidly approaching book release, focusing on the fact that this misadventure had the power to make or break it. I pushed those worries aside because you can only handle what you can handle.

  "Sure. Why not?" I mean, what did I have to lose? It's not like I was escaping this, so I might as well go along for the ride.

  "Great." He eased back and took another sip. "I think this will be just fine."

  Yeah. So said the man used to getting everything handed to him on a silver platter.

  To be fair, it was amazing how quickly he was adjusting to the plan. I guess when you’re as goal-driven as he apparently was, you embraced the route to a win and went full throttle. Or whatever baseball players did.

  "But, I was serious.” I wanted this as clear as the short glass his whiskey glimmered in. “Do not embarrass me. No cheating on me during this or anything."

  I glared, adding weight to my words.

  "You're adorable." He grinned, ignoring the weighted words. "But, I promise. I know you seem to think I'm this womanizing jock. And, granted, I'm a jock and I like women, but that doesn't always equal the same thing."

  "You've been featured on TMZ for goodness sake!" Normal people did not end up on gossip rag TV shows.

  "And?"

  "And, it's not like you've managed to be faithful to a woman. Every week you're on a cover with at least one new girl under your arm. I especially loved the cover of you on four different dates with four different women in one week." It was my turn to casually sip my drink. I forced myself to take a moment to enjoy the forty-dollar glass before adding, "I didn't even know there were that many rich, beautiful, famous women in town. Do you have them imported?"

  I had no idea where this Hailey was coming from. I couldn’t even stand up to my own agent, but with Connor…well, I guess I was afraid if I let him get a foot in the door, I’d never gain that territory back.

  "This is your idea of relaxing and playing nice?" He leaned in, getting so close I could see the nearly silver flecks in his eyes. "I'm going to say this one more time. I do not cheat. I play fair. Every girl I go out with knows the deal and if things get even slightly serious, I treat them that way. So, if you don't mind, I'd like to be judged on my actions instead of by those supposed stories slapped together that don't represent an accurate picture of my life."

  Oh. Um. Yeah. Well...He sounded angry enough that it was kind of hard not to believe him. So, maybe I'd been a bit quick to judge.

  "Okay."

  "Okay?" he demanded.

  "Yes. I said okay, alright?"

  We stared each other down and then he laughed.

  "Hailey, I have to tell you. For a fake girlfriend, you're really high maintenance."

  "I'm high maintenance?” I tried to lower my voice back down, but outrage was making me squeak. “You date some of the most high maintenance women on the planet."

  "Maybe. But, I show up, my whiskey's waiting, they come down, they're happy to go anywhere, they’re good at small talk, and they don't badger me about the tabloids."

  "You'll have to excuse me if I have zero experience understanding what goes into a tabloid date. I'm happy hanging out with my girlfriends, meeting guys who don't come with a rule book, and writing. It may sound boring to you, but it's a good life."

  "That doesn't sound boring. It sounds nice."

  Geez. Nice. Kiss of death, if this had been a real date.

  Maybe Connor was right. Maybe we just needed to write th
is off and enjoy ourselves.

  "If we're going to pull this off,” I said, trying to play nice, “then tell me something about yourself? Like...where are you from?"

  "You don't know that from all those tabloids you buy."

  "I wouldn't buy that trash. It's horrible. Plus,” I went on, getting to what I really found offensive about those cheap rags. “I don't think any of them have hired a real copy editor in forever."

  "And yet, you just spouted off about some very specific articles and covers."

  "Oh." Oh, if only there were a way out of this. "I might have done a little research last night."

  "On me?" That grin broke into a full out smile. "You researched me?"

  "Just enough to find out if you're a serial killer or anything weird like that." And, when he'd known about my website, I'd realized I was behind the ball. If information was a commodity, then I was broke.

  "And to take a count of how many famous, beautiful women I'd gone out with in the last month. Just so you know, I've also had a lovely evening with a lawyer and a woman who runs her own boutique."

  Of course he had.

  I refocused, trying to remember to toss my tabloid thoughts out and play fair.

  "So, again," I pushed us back toward the right conversational track. "Where are you from?"

  "I grew up outside Chicago. Nice suburb. A mom, a dad, a brother. Good times."

  I tried to read between the lines, figure out what he wasn't saying. It seemed too straight forward.

  "Hailey, I can see that brain of yours trying to create something where there's nothing to worry about. I have a great family. I have another condo there so I can spend time year round in my own place. Somewhere to go home to. I did alright in school. Not amazing, but would have gone to college even without the ball scholarship. I was a business major just in case. Nothing exciting. No dark hidden secret you'll stumble upon."

  I'll admit, I was disappointed.

  Of course, that was just his family background. There was still sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll to cover.

  "Ever lived with someone before?" I asked.

  "No."

  "Drugs?"

  "No."

  "Really?" I found that hard to believe. You heard all these stories about athletes with steroids and models drugging to stay skinny and energetic. And he was at every A-list party on the East Coast. It seemed difficult to believe he hadn't indulged. "Never?"