by Caitie Quinn
"Nope. I went to school on scholarship, which meant getting random tests. Then, by the time we got out, I'd already seen what any type of drug could do."
"Okay."
"Keep going. This is actually kind of fun." He picked up that whiskey he was nursing.
Those must be the smallest sips ever. I was used to people drinking their drinks. But maybe he felt the same way about alcohol he felt about drugs.
"Or, maybe I should play this game too." He set the glass down and studied me like there might be some answers written right there on my forehead. "Your bio says you're from New England. Here?"
"Vermont."
"Really?" As if no one was actually from Vermont.
"Yes. I'm saving my lies for something bigger. Things that if I tell you, you’ll have to disappear forever with the knowledge.”
I was shocked when he laughed a true, deep laughter that had other people looking our way.
"I hadn't realized you were funny. I mean, your books are supposed to be funny and you say some odd stuff. But, purposefully funny I wasn't expecting."
"I'll try not to do it again." I kept my voice dry and made a strong attempt to not roll my eyes as he laughed again.
"Connor." An older man stood at the edge of our table, his smile more welcoming than I’d expected. "I didn't know you were coming in tonight."
"Mr. Antonelli." Connor slid out of the booth and wrapped an arm around the man. "Last minute plans. I thought it was time I showed Hailey where the good food is." He motioned to me and I wondered if I was supposed to slide out too, but Mr. Antonelli waved me down.
"This Hailey, she's the first girl you've bothered to introduce me to. She must be the reason you haven't been coming around with all those salad-eating-skinny girls lately.”
My college roommate was Italian. That was the only reason I knew I'd just been complimented instead of being called fat.
"She's definitely keeping me on my toes."
I watched them chat, Connor steering the conversation away from any outright lies.
"Where is Sheila seating you? Did you ask to sit outside? It's a nice night, not too breezy. We have those nice heat lamps, keep things snug. You might enjoy it."
I could see Connor struggling, trying to figure out what the right thing was and I realized something. I already knew he was smart enough to make the right call. Sure, we were going to argue more than any two humans should over the next few weeks, but we had the same endgame: Survive, get the right PR, and not kill each other—Or, per Connor's suggestion, enjoy each other's friendship.
"I think we'll sit inside this week. We're still...flying under the radar." He glanced my direction with one of those smiles that made you feel like you were in on a secret with him.
But, of course, I was.
It really was absurd.
We were still flying under the radar because we hadn't existed before this week. And, we didn't want insta-fame as a couple because that would be nuts.
Plus, I'd realized there were a few more people I needed to bring into the secret web of conspiracy to make this work.
"I understand.” Mr. Antonelli nodded as if this were very sage and he was in complete agreement. “Let me show you to a table then."
I slid to the edge of the booth and looked up to find Connor there, hand outstretched, to help me out.
Obviously if the fame, money, and good looks stopped getting him women, his charm could.
Mr. Antonelli showed us to a comfortable table in the corner where we'd be away from the hustle of the front door and the kitchen, but not shoved in a small alcove.
"I'll send Margo over to take your order. You know how she loves to see you." He put his hand over his heart as if he were sharing a secret of the love they all had.
"You just want the latest gossip,” Connor accused. “And, look at you willing to send your wife to do the dirty work."
It was funny seeing him laid back and joking with a restaurant owner. It wasn't something I expected. I kept waiting to see the slick side of him the media showed. The I'm-too-sexy-for-my…well, everything. He shook the man’s hand once more before sitting down and giving me his full attention.
But, at the same time there was still something guarded about him. It took me a moment to realize that while he seemed to genuinely enjoy the people he was introducing me to, he also was a little standoffish. His wall was just one of overwhelming friendliness.
"So, where were we?" He snapped his fingers, pulling me back from my study. "Oh, yes. I remember. Any pets?"
“Not since Franklin.” I regretted the words as soon as I said them. That wasn’t somewhere I wanted to go.
"And Franklin was..."
"A rescue beagle I brought home and hid from my landlord for four years."
"I didn't see any doggie stuff around."
I shouldn't have brought him up. It had been off the cuff—there was no delete button.
"No. He..." I really wanted that delete button. "He got away from his walker last spring and was hit by a car. They told me it was really fast. The poor kid couldn't have missed him if she'd been psychic. When I got there she couldn't stop crying."
And I hadn't been able to either. Not for days.
"And you went over and told her it was okay. That it wasn't her fault. That you understood even though you wanted to sit on the sidewalk and bawl?"
The cop who showed up had called me a soft-hearted idiot when he’d seen me trying to help the girl.
"Well, what was I supposed to do?” I focused on the sconce over his head and blink-blink-blinked the almost tears away. A year isn’t that long to be missing your dog. And, when it happened, it wasn’t like I was going to scream at the girl. There was a little blanket laid out over Franklin and she couldn’t stop staring at it and sobbing. “Anyone would have said that no matter how upset they were."
"Hailey, you have no idea how nice you are. You're just one of those girls. Let me guess, everyone's best friend in high school. You didn't date much, but always had guys around you. If something went wrong, everyone knew to call you because you'd bail them out. Straight As with the occasional B, but you didn't work too hard at it—just hard enough. Your teachers liked you except the ones who were trying too hard to be cool. Them you annoyed because they didn't know what to do with someone who actually liked books and words and learning. Your parents trusted you so much that if there was a video of a bank robbery with you on it, they’d still believe you when you told them you didn't do it. You've been in like twenty weddings—at least a third of them as the maid of honor. You date nice guys who are a little dull, but you never have to worry about them. You'd never blame someone who was at fault for hitting your pet because they already have to live with it."
I wasn't quite sure what to say. He was close—too close—on too much of that. And I was still trying to figure him out.
"How'd I do?"
I wanted to lie, to tell him not even close. But there was too much truth there.
"I didn't have a ton of guy friends, but you're right about the ones I did have. I am still close with a lot of my girlfriends. The weddings might be a slight exaggeration. My parents would still believe me if they were at the bank. So, I guess all-in-all...not bad."
He grinned a new grin. I hate to say almost…boyish. Obviously he was more than pleased with himself.
He threw his arm around the back of his chair, stretched out, looking just a tad too arrogant… even for him. "You know you want to."
"Want to what?"
"You know you want to try. But you’re going to be wrong or find out I'm not the guy you thought I was. Or,” he leaned toward me, lowering his voice, “maybe I’m a good liar."
Okay, now he was just pushing my buttons. The guessing was one thing. The reading my mind was a whole other level of intrusion.
"How do I know you'll be honest?"
"I'll make you a deal—if you're up for it." He leaned forward again in what probably looked like an intimate conversati
on to others.
"What's the deal?" And exactly how worried I should be?
"For the next three weeks we'll be completely honest with each other knowing the other one will never tell anyone. That includes friends, family, tabloids, anonymous blogs...” He paused, giving me a look that would make an angry fan back down. “Putting things in books."
Oh. Ouch.
"I'm not sure I can promise that last one. I put everything in books. I don't even realize I'm doing it sometimes. You just hear stuff and it's so good it gets worked around in your head and some version of it comes out on the page."
"No wonder your parents wouldn't believe the surveillance tapes." He shook his head as if this were something to pity. “You’re way too honest for your own good. Even before we decided on our deal.”
"I mean, I can try. But that's not always how it works."
"Could you promise to not overtly and knowingly use specifics from our deal?"
I could do that. Anything that specific—or overt—would be obvious. I'd pick it up on my read-thru if I didn't notice it while writing.
"Okay. Deal. But, you have to know everything is research to me.”
“Fine."
It was my turn to lean forward, watching him closely for a tell, for anything that would help read him like he'd read me. "You were raised in a strict but loving home. Your mom stayed home, but she did stuff on the side. Lots of volunteering, maybe some part-time work. Your brother was your best friend after he was done being your biggest enemy. You had plenty of girlfriends through high school, but somewhere around a year before college you settled on one. Together, you guys were voted pretty much everything. Most popular, best looking, homecoming king and queen. You broke it off when you went to college where you immediately fell in with the jocks and cheerleaders. You annoyed the heck out of your professors and tutors because they all realized how smart you were but you stayed focused on baseball. Not that you didn't do well. Bs were good enough for you. The occasional C wouldn't kill you. You've never been in a serious relationship. That isn't just because of the playboy thing. It's mostly because you know you're not in a place in your career and life to settle down so you don't want to get into something and blow it because that would be too much like losing—instead you get into lots of little things and then ease out of them. Politely.”
I have no idea how I was suddenly sure about the last bit. Maybe it was because since we’d started tonight, I'd watched him treat everyone—no matter their job—with respect. Everyone who wasn’t forcing him into a deal he hadn’t made got nothing but consideration and respect. Maybe it was because I wanted to believe he was a nicer guy than the tabloids made him out to be. Whatever it was, I was pretty sure the playboy thing was a side benefit because he wasn't ready to settle down and not the reason he wasn't settling down.
Or, at least I’d come to like him just enough to hope that was true.
Connor took a long drink from his ice water before putting it down.
"Not even close."
"What?" The table closest to us looked my way. I'd been so sure I was on to something with some of my things. "That can't be true. I have to be close on some of it."
"Okay, the family stuff was pretty right on. In high school I was...I grew four inches senior year and was still shorter than the average shortstop. I grew another five from freshman year of college into sophomore."
I did some quick reverse math and came up with the only thing I could: Connor had been a runt.
"College I was red shirted as a freshman—so I sat out the whole year. They were hoping I'd keep growing. Some of the coaches had no clue how I'd ended up on the team at my size. But my batting average...well, that college record still hasn't been broken. And I was great at fielding, quicker than I looked."
Not at all what I expected. But I could see it. He'd talked about the scholarship and the drugs already. I could see him being a kid who went to college to go into business and accidentally grew into stardom. It seemed to almost make sense he'd accidentally become a baseball god.
"And the rest?" I asked.
He may have been open about his family and his ball playing, but he shut down as soon as I asked about the relationships.
"Not everyone is built for the picket fence, Hailey."
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means people assume that young, successful athletes that date around are trying to fill a void. Being single is somehow the equivalent of filling up the hole in your heart with drugs or booze or some other adrenaline rush. But the thing is,” he leaned in, lowering his voice and I realized he was telling me exactly the truth as he saw it. “The thing is that some people are just happy. They’re not lonely being single. They’re not feeling the loss of a soul mate or that their house isn’t a home because they live in it alone. I like my life. I have a great life with lots of opportunities to do things I couldn’t do if I were married. Travel, sports, not worrying about getting traded. When this is done I’ll do things like rock climb and jump out of planes and other things I’d feel nervous about if someone was counting on me.”
He took a long drink of his water, studying me over it. Probably to ensure I was taking in what he was saying.
“Okay,” I said, because it seemed like what I should say.
“I’m not saying,” he rushed on. “That marriage is bad. I just can’t imagine that being married to anyone, to be with someone forever, would make me happier than I am now.”
I started running through all the reasons that could be. Horrible childhood, tragic love dying in his youth, the—
“Hailey.” He interrupted my thought process. “You’re doing it again. Let it go. Just, believe me. I know me. I’m not looking for someone to fill a void. There’s no void, so…”
He trailed off and shrugged, as if that said it all.
I guess for him, it did.
And that was obviously all I was getting on that.
I still wanted there to be something else. The romance writer in me couldn’t believe that some people were just happy with their lives without that One Person.
When I thought about it, that wasn't a lie. Not everyone was built for the picket fence.
But was Connor?
Who knew...and, really, who cared?
When this was over, he could go back to all the non-picket-fencing he wanted to.
He'd promised to be honest and play fair, and that was all a girl could really expect from a pro-player...I mean, pro baseball player anyway.
SEVEN
Our meal continued with lots of light chatter and relaxed laughter. Connor was easy to be around and I found myself telling him funny stories about Jenna, Kasey, and Kasey’s friend Jayne who we’d all basically adopted. He wanted to hear more about Franklin and wove us around danger zones that would make me sad.
He told me about his brother Gavin moving out here and getting a house a few blocks from him while claiming it was to keep him under control. Connor said it was probably so Gavin could live it up with him.
I suspected it had more to do with them being inseparable for so long that living five states apart didn't really work...and he just plain missed his brother.
I was trying to convince myself to say no to dessert when a squeaky voice behind me interrupted my chocolate-focused concentration.
"Mr. Ryan, my mom said it wasn't you but my dad said I could come ask if it was. And I knew it was you." The boy gave Connor a smile that screamed hero worship. "I was wondering if you'd sign my menu. I asked the waitress if that would be okay."
"Sure." Connor borrowed my ever-present pen and turned back to the boy. "What's your name?"
"Jeremy." The little boy breathed his name out like it was a prayer, a crazed hope that this was real.
I'd seen it before. The magic of meeting your hero. My friend Jenna had a huge following and I watched again and again as girls came up to hug her and take pictures. They talked about her character Chloe as if she were a friend they'd
grown up with.
"So, Jeremy, do you play baseball?"
"Yes. On my town team. We got to play a team from one town over for the first time last week."
"Wow. You’re already playing other towns? What position do you play?" Connor hadn't even picked up the menu he was supposed to be signing yet. It was as though he was having the most important conversation in the world and couldn't have any of his focus split.
"Catcher."
"Catcher?” Shock and awe. “They always amaze me. How do you keep your balance down there all the time?"
The boy giggled, but I guess it was a good question because he went on to explain his squat to Connor, the boy talking, the man nodding.
"Well, let me sign this for you. I don't want to keep you from your meal.”
He picked up the menu and spent some time over it before handing it off to Jeremy. While he was writing, a man wandered over.
"Jeremy, I said there and back. I'm sure they'd like to get back to their meal."
I laughed at the accidental echo, both used to politely send a child in the right direction. Amazing how some adults didn't realize hero worship always outranked lasagna.
"It's not a problem.” Connor stood and offered his hand to Jeremy’s dad. “Jeremy was telling us about the difficulties of being a catcher. Lots of balance needed for that."
The father looked grateful as Connor handed over the menu—and a little surprised.
I'd never thought about what that playboy image might do to his relationship with his younger fans. Obviously, it was something Connor took care to work against.
The dad smiled then, with a quick glance over toward his wife, he lowered his voice and asked, "Do you think we could get a picture? I'm sure Jeremy would love it and the guys at work would get a kick out of it. We're all huge fans. We were even rooting for you when that thing went down with Ackerman's girlfriend a few..."
Jeremy’s dad glanced my way, suddenly realizing it probably wasn't the best topic of conversation.