The Trouble With Quarterbacks

by R.S. Grey

  Oh, this is heaven. Even better than expected. My stomach’s been in knots for the last half hour in anticipation of seeing Logan, but knowing he’s not in the flat makes it so much easier to stroll in past the unlocked door.

  It’s dead silent inside, and all the lights are off. I hover in the foyer, kick off my ballet flats, and sort of do a bit of bobbing and peering down deserted hallways to check there are no ghosts about to pop out and scare me.

  “Anyone home?! Yoohoo! If you’re going to leap out at me, at least give me a heads-up so I don’t soak my knickers!”

  When no one from the other side responds, I get comfortable. I flip on lights and stroll through rooms, making a mental map as I go. Powder room, living room, bar, guest room, gym, sauna, kitchen, butler’s pantry, real pantry, another bathroom, another bedroom, a tunnel to China—just kidding on that last bit, but wow this place is huge. It might as well take up a whole city block.

  I retrace my steps and try to make it back to the kitchen, but then I somehow find myself in a whole other wing with its own set of bedrooms and bathrooms, and I sort of go into a bit of a panic run because my brain immediately assumes I’ll lose myself in this labyrinth forever and eventually starve. Dear god no. Any other death, please!

  Eventually, I do find my way back to the kitchen (after I’ve gone sweaty), and I immediately scour the cabinets for a loaf of bread so I can leave a trail of crumbs for myself if I go off wandering again à la Hansel and Gretel.

  This, of course, leads me to finding a veritable cache of snack foods: crisps, crackers, popcorn, biscuits, nuts, cereal. It’s endless. I think I’m close to tears, but maybe it’s because only moments ago I assumed I’d never eat again.

  I’ve just popped the lid on some Pringles when Logan strolls into the kitchen and catches me red-handed.

  My cheeks are so flushed you could fry an egg on them.

  “Oh, I do hope you were serious about the ‘making yourself at home’ bit,” I say, scanning guiltily across the junk food I’d already begun to pull from the shelves. It nearly covers his kitchen island, and now I realize I might have gotten carried away.

  Logan doesn’t move from the doorway, at least not at first. He hovers there, looking at his kitchen then looking at me. The edge of his mouth tips up into a smile, and then he laughs and strolls in to dump his bag on the island (on the edge, where there are still a few centimeters of free space). He doesn’t stop walking until he’s right in front of me, taking the Pringles tin from my hands and dropping it on the counter beside me.

  I get a heavy whiff of his spiced body wash as his hands come to my hips and he pivots us, walking me backward until my back hits the edge of the island.

  “You’ve just showered,” I blurt out.

  “Yeah. I had a late workout today. I called in the middle of it.”

  That sends my brain spiraling with glorious images of him lifting heavy objects while sweat drips down his bare abs.

  “Tell me about it?”

  His dark brow quirks. “What do you want to know?”

  “I’m trying to create a proper fantasy, but I don’t know what all you did. A bit of running? Did you lift some of those huge tires? Tell me everything,” I tease while my eyes flutter closed.

  He laughs under his breath then leans in to press a kiss to my cheek. With my eyes closed, it feels even more intimate, and I don’t stop myself from resting my palms flat against his hard chest.

  He tightens his hold on my hips and I stay perfectly still, wondering what will happen next. Will we sweep all this junk food aside and go at it right here in his kitchen? How sinful!

  But when Logan’s mouth doesn’t immediately descend on mine, I open my eyes to find him studying me with a smile.

  “So you spoke to your boss?” he asks, letting his gaze fall to my mouth.

  I wet my bottom lip and his eyes narrow.

  Oh…interesting.

  “Yes. This morning.”

  “And?”

  “Well…it’s not against the rules per se to engage in…well…err, I don’t think I should call it dating yet, right? A bit presumptive of me.”

  “You’re allowed to date me and you won’t be fired?”

  “Ye—”

  The S sound gets stolen by his lips as they crash down onto mine.

  I’m so dead shocked I sort of flinch in fear until my brain can put two and two together and I realize I’m being kissed, properly kissed, by Logan Matthews!

  He’s ace at it, by the way.

  His mouth moves on mine and his lips are gentle at first, not too forceful or overly keen like some lads. At first, it’s like he’s testing the waters, making sure I’m okay with what he’s doing. I fist my hands in his shirt in case he tries to pull back. Not an option. Then he steps toward me to deepen the kiss, and the countertop bites into my lower back.

  Oh, bliss.

  I think I must say that aloud because he pulls back half a centimeter to chuckle, but I don’t let him go any farther. I kiss him again—harder. I wrap my arms around his neck and bring our bodies flush together. It’s not so easy with his height, so I rise up onto my tippy toes. That’s apparently still not good enough for him because he hoists me up by the hips and plops me on the edge of the island.

  My arse crunches half a bag of crisps, and now I’m laughing too hard to be kissed properly.

  He groans in annoyance and grasps my chin in his hands to hold me still.

  His eyes lock with mine and oof, his brown eyes are like a punch to the gut. The last of my laughter dies a swift death.

  “Spread your legs,” he says, all confident, causing my insides to liquify instantly.

  I do as he says then he steps between them, nestling us together like a lock and key. My dress slides up high on my thighs, revealing more of my sheer black stockings.

  “Better,” he says, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to the edge of my mouth.

  I try to turn to land my mouth on his lips—suddenly desperate to kiss him again—but he doesn’t let me. His hands hold me perfectly still as his mouth drops down to my neck. He kisses there, just at the base of my chin where my pulse seems closest to my skin. He can feel it, I bet, hammering away as his lips move a little lower and touch my skin again. He breathes me in and my thighs want to clench together, but since he’s standing between them, they tighten around him instead. He likes that; I can tell because he rolls his hips against me, giving me a little taste of everything that could be if we took things a bit further.

  When his mouth gets to the collar of my dress, he pulls back and looks down at me.

  I’m breathing hard. It’s sort of embarrassing, but he’s not paying a bit of attention. His gaze is on my thighs as he pushes the material of my dress up higher until it’s right at my waist. My sheer stockings reveal a hint of my skimpy black panties. They’re nearly indecent and I’m almost tempted to yank my dress down to cover them up once again, but then Logan reaches down to trace a line along the hem. The pad of his finger runs over my stockings so the material is yet another thing used to tease me as he continues, over one thigh, down between them, and then back up.

  “Black is an interesting color on you,” he says, and his voice sounds different than I’m used to.

  A little scary, if I’m honest.

  “Oh?”

  “You with your ballet flats and your blonde hair and your freckles on your nose. I would have expected you to wear pink or white.”

  “I like black,” I say, trying not to fidget under his gaze.

  His eyes flit up to mine, and he grins like a villain who’s bested his nemesis.

  “I do too.”

  Then with a groan, he pushes off the counter, swipes a hand through his hair, and yanks the fridge open.

  I’m so bereft in his absence that I nearly tip off the side of the island before catching myself.

  “Where’ve you gone?” I ask, aware that my bottom lip is jutting out a bit.

  I thought we were onto somethin
g. I thought he was feeling everything I was.

  “To get ahold of my sanity,” he says, reaching in to grab a package of lunch meat. “I haven’t eaten since lunch, and I planned to ask if you were hungry. I was going to make you dinner.”

  He retrieves more sandwich supplies then carries them over to the island to set them down beside me after he shoves aside some snack food bags. When his gaze falls between my open thighs, I slam them shut again.

  His eyes narrow as he sucks in a deep breath and refocuses on the task at hand.

  “So we’re going to eat dinner?” I squeak.

  “Yes. I’m going to make you a sandwich.”

  “So chic.”

  The glare he shoots me warns me that he’d like to punish me for my impertinence. Oh! Please do!

  “You could just drape some ham on me and eat it off?” I suggest, liking this game we’re playing where he pretends to be serious and I persuade him otherwise.

  He squeezes his eyes shut then casts his gaze heavenward as if looking for some divine help with dealing with me.

  “Just stay put right where you are, will you?”

  “Sure thing,” I say, chipper as a Girl Scout.

  I stay up on the counter, helping him construct sandwiches for us to eat. We load them up with cheese and avocado and tomato and lettuce. By the time we’re done, his is so massive I doubt he’ll be able to fit it into his mouth at one time.

  “Let’s go to the table,” he says, helping me down from the island, taking my hand in his, and leading me across the room.

  Everything in his flat is well-designed. The whole place is a mixture of traditional furniture and lighter, more modern details. Someone definitely did it all for him, which is fine. I bet he doesn’t have much room in his schedule to worry about interior design.

  “I really like your flat. I did get a little lost earlier, I will admit, but I found my way back to the kitchen soon enough.”

  “Thanks. It’s… It works.”

  He doesn’t sound all that enthused.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “I’m a little embarrassed by it, to be honest. I didn’t grow up in this world. I told you my dad has that orange orchard. That’s where we lived, which meant we all had chores to do around the house and yard. It was a nice life, don’t get me wrong, but we didn’t have any of this,” he says, sweeping his hand around the room.

  “I see. Well, I grew up with about forty butlers, so I’m quite used to the pampered life. No doing my own dishes or laundry,” I tell him with a wink. “Truly though, it’s great. You’ve accomplished quite a bit from the looks of it. You should be proud.”

  He nods and chews a bite of his sandwich. I do the same, wondering why it doesn’t feel more awkward to be alone with him like this. We haven’t gone on a proper date. We haven’t even really gotten to know each other, but then he’s already seen me puking up my guts and there was that business in the pool on Saturday…

  “So…um…I was wondering,” I begin, after finishing up my bite. “Do you see lots of girls?”

  He tilts his head, wondering what information I’m after.

  “I mean, like, dating-wise.”

  My gaze is pinned on my plate.

  “Candace.”

  “Hmm?”

  “No, I’m not dating anyone else. Are you?”

  A laugh spills out of me before I can help it. Oh right, he’s meant to think I’m cool. “No, erm…not at the moment.”

  “Good. Then we should talk about this. Getting involved with me isn’t as easy as you might think.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Candace

  “How so? Have you got a weird proclivity or something? A fetish with bondage and trapeze equipment?”

  He looks positively confused, so I laugh like I wasn’t being 100% serious. I should probably lay off the taboo books.

  “No, I mean, I’m a public figure, and that comes with consequences.”

  I wave away his concern. “Come on. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

  A bit of press? No big deal.

  He sets down his sandwich and frowns. “I don’t think you understand what’s going to start happening if we spend more time together.”

  “I do though—you’ll get totally infatuated with me, and I’ll have to bat you away with a stick.”

  “Be serious.”

  “I can’t be. It’s physically impossible.”

  He releases a soft laugh and shakes his head, apparently not interested in pushing the subject. “Well…I guess we’ll see then. This weekend I’m going to a Feeding America gala. I was planning on going alone unless you want to come with me.”

  My eyes widen in shock. “As your date?”

  “Yes, though we won’t be able to arrive together.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because the press will have a field day, and I’m not quite ready for that.”

  “Oh…okay. Sure. You know more about this world than I do. I’ll just follow your lead.”

  He says his assistant will get me the details and I nod like that’s a sentence I hear all the time, though really it makes my stomach twist into a knot.

  I like Logan, but it’s this version of him that I know, the down-to-earth handsome bloke who makes me a sandwich, not the real version of him, the proper celebrity with loads of fans and assistants and drivers.

  A tiny part of me wonders if I really know what I’m doing, getting involved with him like this, but I shut the door on that thought immediately, not wanting to go down that road and let worries about the future ruin our fun for now. Besides, he’s probably making it out to be worse than it is.

  “Are you done?” he says, standing and rounding the table. He’s cleared off every speck of food on his plate, but I’ve only eaten about half of my sandwich. I can’t be bothered to finish the rest.

  “Yes, but let me wrap it up and take it home. I’ll have it for lunch tomorrow.”

  “Home? Are you leaving already?”

  I shrug. “I probably should. I have an early morning tomorrow at The Day School and then I’ve got a shift at District tomorrow night. I’m on the schedule for Saturday too, but since you want me to go with you to that gala, I’ll have to see if someone can switch with me so I can work Friday instead.”

  “Right, well, just stay for a little bit longer. It feels like you just got here,” he says, dropping our plates on the island to deal with later and then disappearing into his pantry, only to reappear a moment later with a bottle of red wine. I watch him uncork it and grab two glasses. Twist my arm, why don’t you?

  “Okay. I’ll stay just for a bit. But you know, it’s not as if I’ve just arrived. I’ve been here for a while. I got here before you and did a little snooping around.”

  He peers up at me with an arched brow. “Find anything good?”

  “Just your stash of itty-bitty condoms. I didn’t know they made them so small.”

  A normal bloke would probably get real defensive, but the grin Logan aims my way tells me he’s not bothered by my joke in the least. Why? Because it couldn’t be further from the truth.

  I gulp down a heaping mouthful of wine after he passes me my glass, and I distract myself by strolling into the living room and walking over to a large window with an expansive view of Manhattan.

  The city skyline is dark with ominous black clouds bulging overhead. Off in the distance, a bolt of lightning pierces through the blackness, and I scrunch my nose, already anticipating how soaked I’ll get on the journey home. Bugger.

  “It’s supposed to pour,” Logan says, strolling into the room and looking at the weather forecast on his mobile. “You can’t leave until it’s cleared up.”

  “It’s not like I’ll be walking. Surely Pat could give me a ride if I asked him nicely enough?”

  “I don’t want either of you out on the wet streets. Driving in the city is crazy enough as it is.”

  “Oh I see how it’s going to be.” I twist around to face him. “Qui
te controlling, are you? Used to getting your own way?”

  His eyes narrow on me. “You’ll leave after it stops raining.”

  As if on cue, thunder rumbles outside, and I shrug, not quite willing to put up a fight. I like my company and I like my wine; it can’t hurt to linger a little while longer.

  Logan walks toward one of his long sofas and sits down, stretching his tall frame out so he looks positively royal sitting there, all confident and at ease. He has one arm slung over the back of the sofa and one ankle resting on his other knee so he’s aimed in my direction.

  I stay standing near the window as I sip my wine, looking at him from top to bottom. I try to find any imperfections I’ve missed in the previous times we’ve been together. Unsurprisingly, I come up short.

  “Tell me why you’re not taken,” I blurt, suddenly feeling mad with curiosity.

  How’s it possible he’s available? What dark secrets is he hiding?

  His brows furrow in thought, and he glances down at his glass. “It’s not from lack of female companionship.”

  “Oh. Ohhh, I see. Have you slept with every girl in Manhattan then?”

  His dark eyes slice up to me and I zip my lips.

  “I’ve had girlfriends, Candace. But no, I don’t think I play the field—not like a lot of my other teammates do.”

  “So, it’s not because you’re a player. Hmm…so then what is it?”

  “I could ask you the same thing, you know?” He juts his chin toward me. “How is it possible that you’re single?”

  I choke on my wine and have a hard time clearing my throat. Eventually, I manage it, but he’s not going to let me off the hook. He’s still sitting there, calm and composed, waiting for my reply.

  I shrug and try to play off his question while I pace back and forth in front of the window. “Oh, who knows? Maybe I haven’t been able to find a guy who’s worth bothering with. I have a busy schedule, and the last few blokes I’ve been with seemed to enjoy playing games more than they enjoyed being with me. It was always a struggle to figure out who was going to text who first. Who was going to make the first move? Who was stringing the other along? It gets old.”