The Catching Kind

by Caitie Quinn

  I stared at the clock, wondering just how long it typically took him to say goodnight. “There’s something wrong with you.”

  “Right. We already established that.”

  I rolled my eyes because, well, if he already knew there was something wrong with him, my work here was done.

  “So, I’m pacing around your living room, wondering…just how serious are you about my body.”

  “Excuse me?” I didn’t glance at said body as I set my kettle on the stove to make tea and crossed to turn my computer on.

  “I’m here, saying good night—”

  “Paying a cab to wait.”

  “Right, because, you’re worth it.” He winked at me and went back to pacing, which, with his long legs was three steps one way, three steps back. “And, I have to wonder, just how long I’d be willing to humor you and those crazy wandering hands of yours while I was paying this cab.”

  I just stared at him, wondering how exactly that incredibly intelligent brain came up with this stuff. Giving him a push toward the door, I figured, there was only one answer.

  “Again,” I said, as I pushed him out the door. “There really is something wrong with you.”

  Or me, because unfortunately, I was thinking the idiot was adorable.

  TWENTY

  “Are you insane?” Catherine definitely didn’t sound like she expected a real answer to that question. “What were you thinking? You know this is fake, don’t you? This is my fault. This is definitely my fault. Hailey, I’m sorry. I should have known you couldn’t handle him. I’m fifty-two, have had three husbands and an affair with a diplomat who shall not be named, and I’m not sure I could handle Connor Ryan.”

  So much for thinking I’d get the easy call out of the way first.

  “Catherine, what are you flipping out about?” Not that I was sure I wanted to know.

  “Have you looked at Twitter? Facebook? Anything?”

  “Um, no.” Which was more on purpose than normal. As soon as I’d seen how half the girls with cameras had reacted to Connor being off the market when we’d been out and about, I knew the last thing I wanted to do was see the worst collection of candid photos of me possible and read the comments section.

  She huffed out a breath on the other end. “There’s pictures of the two of you being all cute everywhere. Cafes, parks, sidewalks, coming out of the gym.” Her voice raised to a bit of a hysterical level on the last one as if going to the gym together led to a secret betrothal forced upon us by our fathers at birth. “Hailey you have to remember. This is a game to him. That’s it. You’re just a teammate. Not even. You’re like the ball he needs to kick in the net or the bases he has to run.”

  “Beyond your slightly mixed metaphors, you’re just wrong.” I should have known this was going to be how my morning went. “We’re playing a part. Stop worrying. I can handle this. Trust me.”

  Which may have been asking for too much if I was already worried about trusting myself.

  “Sure. I totally trust you.” Catherine was typing in the background, which wasn’t uncommon. But you’d think when she was on a mission to protect my virtue she’d at least manage to do it without multi-tasking. “I just emailed you something. Why don’t you open that up and jump to about the minute and a half mark.”

  “Okay.” I downloaded the zipped file and watched as it started playing shorts of me and Connor throughout the night. Him with his arm across the back of my chair, him leaning in to tell me something, me wiping mustard off his face from the pretzel. Him leaning over and kissing my temple when he’d told me I was the best girlfriend ever.

  I looked dazed.

  I’d been dazed.

  Well, crud.

  “Are you watching this?” Catherine demanded, as if I was sitting there silently on the other end of the phone doing nothing.

  “Yes. I am. I’m not seeing a problem.” Because what I saw was a reminder.

  I was sucked in by him. Who wouldn’t be? He was fun and thoughtful and attractive…let’s be honest, everyone was wired to be attracted to him. Brad Pitt who?

  “Hailey—”

  “Catherine,” I interrupted, because I couldn’t deal with this on top of everything else right now. “I appreciate you looking out for me. I realize you feel guilty about this. And, to be honest, you should. Connor is a friend and when this is over, maybe he’ll even be someone I stay in touch with. But he’s not a guy I’m going to fall for. That’s not a life I want. And, I have a deadline my insane agent is pushing so I really don’t have time for this.”

  I waited of her response, afraid this was going to turn into an argument, but relieved when she just told me again to be careful and hung up.

  Oh, I’d be careful. I’d be so careful I’d be mistaken for a human traffic cone.

  I took a screenshot of my dazed face and saved it, forwarding it to my phone for when I needed a reminder.

  Because when you didn’t realize how deep in you were, you could only fall further.

  TWENTY-ONE

  "Wow. You look great."

  That was exactly the reaction I was going for. I'd tried not to let him see how happy his comment made me. I might have even succeeded because he was behind me when he said it. I glanced over my shoulder wondering what he was looking at back there.

  "Surprised?" I figured he must be.

  "Nope.” He gave me that cocky smile, the one that said he knew exactly where his place in the world was and it was at the top. “Just flattered you'd bring your A-game for me."

  I shook my head. Of course. Leave it to Connor Ryan to make my appearance about him.

  "Yup. I went through three hours of being plucked and blown out and made-up for you. It had nothing to do with wanting to look nice or the chance to dress up—which writers don't get very often. Or," I added, because I really wasn't looking forward to this part. "All those darn photos."

  "That's okay.” He grinned, giving me another once over. “You keep telling yourself it's for the photos."

  He looked so darn sure of himself. He looked the same way he looked when girls were flirting with him or slipping him their number.

  Grabbing my bag off the arm of the couch, I made sure my keys, ID, lipstick, cell, and a mini Moleskin were in it—which pretty much packed the tiny thing full—and grabbed my wrap. Before I could wing it out and around to cover my shoulders, Connor had taken it from me and gently—probably even elegantly—laid it over my shoulders.

  I stood, studying that face which had begun to look almost normal to me. The crinkles at the edge of his eyes from squinting into the sun, the light dusting of freckles that rode over the bridge of his nose, all the little things you couldn't see in the photos and didn't notice right away when you met him. Somehow in the last two weeks he'd become more…human. Less the ideal every woman seemed to hold him up to and more just a guy with a really different job.

  "Ready?" He was looking back at me as if I'd lost my mind.

  How long had I been staring at him? The last thing I needed him thinking was that I was interested. Because, I definitely was not interested.

  I was just—intrigued.

  It wasn't very often you found out someone was nothing like you thought they were. I had several close friends, but generally we didn't surprise each other anymore. And even those surprises weren't the types that made you stop and stare.

  But, as we stood there in my doorway, Connor dressed in a Hugo Boss suit and looking like he could take over a corporation instead of just field a grounder, my whole world shifted.

  Okay. Melodramatic much?

  But, my whole idea of Connor shifted. What if he really was what he claimed instead of how he was portrayed? It wasn't like it was his fault he was a good-looking, rich, successful celebrity athlete.

  He was just doing his job.

  And, I couldn't forget all the nasty reviews I got when I hit the USA Today bestseller list. I knew in my heart that was the best book I'd written. If I was ever going to make the Times, i
t would have been with that book. No. More than that. It should have been with that book. But, as soon as it was listed, my reviews took a nosedive.

  Every YA hater in the reading world decided to tell everyone why it was the biggest piece of trash ever written. I could never help but think if I'd just stayed under the radar, if I'd just written for those people who liked my style and genre, I'd never have read about how I must be stupid and fat and all the other words people throw around. It always confused me why people would hate a book for the sole reason that it was written for teens. As if teens didn’t deserve books and were too dumb to understand complex sentences.

  Jenna had to talk me down for two weeks straight and then threatened to child lock all my internet access points.

  Was Connor's world as toxic? How much was truth and how much was just the celebrity laid over the man—so they could sell magazines.

  "Hailey?" His curiosity was beginning to look like worry.

  "Sorry. I was thinking about my story."

  "Oh.” His shoulders dropped back to relaxed mode and a small, little smile stretched, softening his lips. “Do you want to make some notes real fast before we leave?"

  It took everything I had not to drop the bag in my hand. Only Jenna—and now Kasey that we'd trained her—knew that when an idea hit, I had to write it down. Write it or lose it. That was the way my stories worked.

  "Um. Yeah." Because, what was I going to say.

  I crossed to my desk, took out my notebook, and wrote in block letters Do Not Fall Prey To Charm.

  I should have it tattooed to the inside of my eyelids.

  Shoving the notebook back in the drawer, I took a deep breath. This was going to be a fun night. I was going to a home that cost more than my entire block. I'd never have another chance to go there or drink what was most likely three hundred dollar champagne.

  "Thanks.” I turned back to him, readjusting my inner sanity-meter. “All set."

  Connor pulled the door open and held it for me. I listened to him give me a run down again of the people who would be there.

  "It's one of the few reasons I've considered buying a house in Europe. I couldn't be expected to fly back from Europe just for this party every year."

  The idea that that idea would even cross his mind was absurd. Most people just got headaches. Connor considered foreign property.

  "But, then I realized,” he continued, “what a jackass I sound like just saying things like that out loud. What do I need with a house in Europe?"

  And there went my clever quip opportunity.

  "Skiing?" I started down the stairs, listening to his footfalls behind me.

  "I can ski here. My brother and I used to ski all the time." There was something in his voice. Something...wistful?

  "Why don't you ski anymore?"

  "Can't. It's in my contract. No skiing, parachuting, rock climbing, car racing. Nothing that puts my knees or shoulder at risk."

  That seemed excessive. I mean, no one had ever told me I can't cook because I might cut my fingers.

  Of course, I wasn't making millions a year and costing other people millions a year if I didn't come out with a book. Who would have considered celebrity to be that limiting?

  "Hey. Don't feel bad for me.” He slipped his arm around my shoulder. “I have the best life. I just have to let my brother know he needs to keep in shape because as soon as I'm retired we're hitting every extreme sport venue in the western hemisphere."

  I stepped into the cold night air and glanced around for the cab. Instead, as we stood there, a man dressed in a black suit stepped away from a Town Car and opened the back door. Connor steered me toward it, his hand finding its spot on my lower back.

  "Thanks, Mac."

  "No problem, Con. Miss." The driver winked at me as I slid in, trying not to let my high-slit skirt ride up too much in front of the two men.

  Once we were all settled, Mac pulled the car away from the curb.

  "So, Mac,” Connor called as he let his hand fall over mine and wrap around it. “Did you end up driving that rock star guy while he was here?"

  "Yep.” He adjusted his rearview mirror so he could see us. “Be glad you hadn't rented the car the next night. It reeked of booze and cheap perfume."

  "Really?" Connor leaned forward, obviously fascinated by the idea of car gossip.

  This was definitely a human chink in his armor I didn’t see coming.

  "Yep. Nothing like driving you. Two women, three bottles. He kept lighting up no matter how much I reminded him there's no smoking in my car. Said he'd buy me a new fu—um, new car." He glanced in the rear-view mirror, meeting my gaze. "Excuse me, Miss Tate."

  "Don't worry, Mac.” Connor waved the apology meant for me off. “Hailey puts up with me so she can put up with just about anything."

  "I believe that must be true." Mac winked at me again, letting me know this was an ongoing joke between the two men.

  "So,” Connor got the conversation back where he wanted it, “you pick him up after the concert, and…?"

  "Yep. He's an hour late, which isn't a surprise. We build that into the bill with musicians."

  This was fascinating. I was glad Connor was just as interested because otherwise I'd feel like a nosy fan…and I didn’t even know who we were talking about. Still, I asked, "Why?"

  "There are...backstage activities that often slow them down from getting right to the car."

  "I assume you're not talking about encores?" When Mac just snorted, I gave him a little grin. "How late do ballplayers usually run?"

  Mac had one of those big laughs. Not the kind that forces your attention on him. But the kind that makes you want to smile. As if just knowing he was laughing was part of an inside joke.

  "Con, you better keep an eye on this one. She's a hot ticket."

  "She could also kick my ass.” He gave my hand a squeeze. “I learned to never go near her when she's hung over and has her sparring gloves on."

  A little bit of warmth rose up my neck at the compliment. From any other guy to any other girl it may not have been one. But I knew in his athlete's mind, allowing that I could beat him at anything physical—whether it was true or not—was the biggest compliment he could give me.

  It was better than the Wow he'd handed me earlier.

  I pictured the notebook shoved in my desk and repeated the words again.

  TWENTY-TWO

  We climbed the stairs to the foyer of a home I may have seen featured on a show about a billionaire and I questioned every single thing I was wearing right down to my underwear.

  This was one of those times the binder of outfits hadn’t been enough. Becca had been in heaven. She even offered to come over and help me dress and I nearly took her up on it.

  But, between the phone call and a slew of emails with step-by-step for a simple hairdo and makeup that was just a touch more than I'd been wearing lately, I felt like I could almost pull this off.

  And wouldn't that be a miracle.

  But, Connor had a great point. Tonight would bring us a long way in finishing this whole thing. Half the reason Dex had him doing this was to get his bosses to chill out. Unfortunately, I was learning that if you're a pro-athlete, your bosses consisted of owners, managers, coaches, agents, fans, and who knows how many other groups of people.

  Since I was the perfect girl-next-door and I was on the job, this party was the right opportunity for us to hit most of the key players and make them believe this social mirage we were creating.

  Just inside the door, I'd done a quick scan of the room to make sure that not only did my clothes look good on me, but they weren't too formal or flashy or too under- or over-done.

  Now, I needed to remember to send Becca flowers. Not only did I look good, but I looked right.

  Connor slid his hand from my back to my waist, giving me a little pull into his side.

  "Don't worry,” he whispered. “Most of the girls have been where you are. The majority of them seem pretty nice from what I can tel
l." He pulled us out of the doorway and scanned the room with me.

  Was I that obvious?

  "See that one in the red with the slit that goes way too high up her leg?"

  "How could I miss her?"

  "Trust me. You want to. If you see her heading toward you, divert. Fast."

  "Got it."

  "That older man, the one actually wearing a tux with a cummerbund.” He nodded to the man picking up two champagne glasses off a tray as it passed. “Jason's wife says he's handsie, so keep a safe distance."

  "Handsie old man. Distance. Check."

  "See that—?" Connor's hand stiffened, his fingers biting a bit into my hip.

  "What?"

  "Nothing."

  "Yeah. No. Not nothing. What?"

  "The blond in the black dress with the really big bracelet?"

  I glanced toward the way he'd nodded his head. Oh.

  "Yeah?"

  "That's Ackerman’s girlfriend."

  "The one you hooked up with?"

  His step faltered. Not enough that anyone would have noticed, but with his arm around me, I couldn’t help but feel it.

  "The one who told him we hooked up. Unlike the reports, no one caught us. No one caught us because nothing happened. She came onto me in an elevator. I said no and the next thing you know I’m getting my nose checked to see if it's broken or not."

  I tried to ignore the way his arm had tightened around me. How angry he sounded.

  “And?” Because, I couldn’t imagine that you got from a pass in an elevator to a nationally televised brawl in one step.

  “And, she went to Ackerman right before the game. She played it up, cried. Made it sound like I was hitting on her and was making her uncomfortable with my inability to take no for an answer.”

  A part of my heart raged at that. At the fact that anyone would do that, let alone to Connor.

  “He held it together for most of the game,” Connor continued, his voice even lower now. “But toward the end, as it was clear we were going to be out for the post-season, he started throwing little barbs my way. I didn’t even know what they were about until right before he came at me. And, who would you believe?”