One Night with a Quarterback (13 page)

“What did you do back in Georgia?”

“Work,” was her immediate answer. She loved her work. The codes, the numbers, the basic zeros and ones of it all made sense in a way other things, other human things, never could.

“You were, like, a computer person, right?”

She grinned at that. “You can say it. Nerd. I'm a computer nerd, yes. Systems securities, for the most part. Digging around and finding the weak spots, then beefing them up.”

Kristen looked suitably impressed, then her eyes narrowed. “Come with me.”

She was out the door before Cassie could tell her not to bother. “Ooookay, then.” Grabbing her bag, she followed. “See ya, Frank!” she called cheerfully.

His response was a grunt. She'd have worried if he'd used real words.

Kristen wound around a few halls and into a section of offices Cassie had passed, but not entered yet. “Welcome to your world.”

“My . . . oh.” She saw a Big Bang Theory poster next to a poster of the 2001 Super Bowl–winning Bobcats and immediately understood. “Is this where the tech guys live?”

“One in the same. Barry!”

Cassie blinked. She didn't know Kristen had it in her to shout like that. Normally, she was so demure and poised, unflappable in the face of any conflict or inner-office drama.

Barry, a forty-something balding man with a comb-over and a bit of a limp, made his way over with creaky steps. His eyes brightened when he caught sight of Kristen, like she was a goddess deigning to descend from the heavens and speak only to him.

“Hi, Kristen,” he said quietly. “What can I do for you?”

She smiled brightly. Barry's eyes nearly popped out of his head. Clearly, Barry didn't get out much. “This is Cassie Wainwright. She has a tech background—systems securities, whatever that means—and I was wondering if you minded her spending some time with you and your crew for the day.”

He spared her a half-second glance, then back to Kristen. “Intern?”

“No, but a member of the Bobcats family, nonetheless.” She winked at Cassie. “From what I hear, she's a whiz with a computer.”

Barry's eyes grudgingly left Kristen's face for another few moments. He reached out a hand to shake, but pulled it back quickly to wipe on the leg of his pants before holding it out again. Cassie shook firmly.

“Looks like you're where you belong.” Kristen gave Cassie's shoulder a little pat, then a push. “Have fun, kids, and don't break the Internet.”

Barry laughed like she'd just told the original knock-knock joke. But when Kristen exited the hallway, his laugh turned to a studied frown. “Tech background. What, you can answer email and, like, totally Tweet and crap? 'Cause the social media department has enough teenagers on staff to handle that crap.”

She blinked. “I do, like, totally Tweet and crap. But mostly, I work for a software securities firm in Atlanta. I dig through clients' websites and systems looking for weaknesses and then shore them up.” She told him the name of the firm, which was big enough to be known around the country.

He blinked a little. “Well, then,” was all he seemed to manage. He walked back toward a room containing a bank of monitors. Two other people sat quietly working. He nodded to them. “Website developers. They're more in charge of esthetic stuff. Graphics and that junk.”

Clearly, Barry had a healthy distain of “graphics and that junk.”

He sat down in a rolling chair and pulled up another for her. “Over here, we're purely security and interoffice tech support. Keeping the front office staff from blowing up their laptops or letting in a worm to decimate the entire organization. Watch and learn, missy. If you get bored, the Twitter crew is in the other conference room.”

She smiled politely, then unzipped her hoodie and draped it over the back of the chair he'd handed her.

His gaze caught the graphic on her shirt. “Firefly?”

She glanced down, shrugged. “Underrated show cancelled too soon. Of course, if they brought it back now, it'd be a wreck.”

He slammed his palm down on the desktop, rattling the keyboard and making one of the other employees shriek in surprise. “That's what I keep saying. But everyone insists it'd be just as good.”

Cassie shook her head. “No way. It's time has passed, unfortunately. But it was a good run while it lasted.”

He watched her a moment, then logged into his account and opened his server program. “You're okay, Wainwright.”

As the ones and zeros flashed before her eyes on the monitor, she smiled. This was where she belonged.

Finally, something felt like home.

Trey pulled up to the movie theater and put the SUV in park. “Here, can you grab tickets while I park the car? We're running a few minutes late so it'll save time.”

She raised a brow at the twenty he held out. “It's a matinee, previews last at least fifteen minutes, there's no line, and I have money of my own.”

He kept holding out the cash until she rolled her eyes and stepped out of the car. “I'll get the tickets.” And closed the door with a firm snap, leaving him and his twenty bucks behind.

Trey grinned as he parked in the car in the sparsely populated lot. Okay, yeah. Not really a crowd for the 1:15 movie times, so that was a bullshit excuse. But the longer he stood in lines and in front of people, the longer they had to recognize him. His pathetic excuse for a costume this time—backward baseball hat and sunglasses—would do no good once he stepped in the theater. And he refused to be one of those douchebags who wore shades inside.

Easier to just have Cassie grab the tickets and scoot straight into the dark theater with her. A dark theater where he could touch and hold her all he wanted, in public, without people watching him or taking not-so-subtle pictures with their iPhones to send in to Bobcats blogs or for their own perverse amusement.

Take a photo while he was on the field, sure. Ask for a photo and pose with him, yeah. Take one of him secretly while he was on a date and not watching? An invasion of his privacy he never expected when he stared in the league.

He walked into the lobby to find Cassie standing off to the side with not only tickets, but a jumbo tub of popcorn and two drinks. She held one out for him. “I got you a regular soda.”

He mentally winced at the amount of sugar, but whatever. A movie meant popcorn and soda. Candy too . . . more in the offseason than now. “Thanks, you didn't have to.”

“I know. But I want my own drink. I'm picky.” She grinned around the straw as she took a sip. “I'm also very overprotective of my drinks. Get within a few feet of my beer and I turn into a honey badger.”

“You don't give a shit?” he asked, making sure to not touch her while they walked to the right theater number. Anyone who recognized him wouldn't get a photo of him kissing or hugging Cassie. Not yet. Once they were safely in the dark, he'd be good.

She laughed at the reference and walked with him into the theater, previews already in full swing. They surveyed the crowd—which amounted to two college-age girls sitting in the front row—and she sighed. “Damn. Where are we gonna find seats?”

He snorted and they picked seats in the dead center of the last row.

Their fingers brushed periodically during trips inside the popcorn tub, but for the first half hour, that was their only connection. Cassie watched a movie with her whole being. It was almost more amazing to watch her experience the movie than watch himself. She winced along with the dialogue, chuckled at jokes, tightened her jaw during a tense encounter. She threw herself so completely into the movie she didn't even seem to realize when he set the popcorn on the seat next to him and curled an arm over her shoulder. Didn't notice when he pushed the armrest between them up and pulled her tightly against him.

At least, he thought she hadn't noticed, until she sighed and snuggled closer into him. He kissed the top of her head and rested his cheek there.

He could get used to this. Or maybe he already had.

* * *

Cassie squinted at her watch as they walked outside after the movie. The bright afternoon light hurt after being in the dark theater for two hours.

Two glorious hours of sweet romance and just a little action thrown in.

The movie was pretty good, too.

She bit back a smile at the reminder of their hot kisses in the dark. Trey's hands had roamed over her shirt, cupping her breast gently, squeezing her nipple just a little. Enough to make her gasp into his mouth as he'd kissed her like a starving man. She had no doubt if they'd been actually alone in the theater, his hand would have slipped under her shirt for some more, er, intimate action.

Trey opened her door and waited for her to climb in before leaning in to sneak a quick peck. Then he jogged around the side and climbed in. “Where to?”

She frowned. “Back downtown so I can get my car. I have to head home. I've got a dinner date with my father and his wife and I think he might actually show up this time.”

He laced his fingers with hers as he drove, quiet support in the gesture.

Her head fell back against the headrest. “I swear, I see my stepmother more than I see him. I'm not entirely sure he doesn't want me to just . . . go away.” She made a drifting motion with her hand. “It'd be easier for him.”

Trey kissed her fingers and rested their joined hands on his right thigh. She felt it tighten and relax as he eased on the gas. “Easier, maybe. But he asked you to stick around, right? I can't see a guy doing that if he didn't want to know someone. Too much work to bring them here only to wish they were gone.”

She shrugged. Trey had a point, but it didn't alleviate the hurt her father caused when he avoided her.

“Maybe after dinner, we could—”

“Stop.” She squeezed his hand. “I already know I can't. Once I'm in, I'm in for the night.” She gave him a self-deprecating smile. “Just think of me as seventeen again, curfew and all.”

He gave a horrified glance at her as he stopped for the red light. “I'm gonna skip the fact that you just asked me to think of you as a minor.”

“Oh. Whoops.” She laughed when he shook his head. “Scratch that. Just think of me as playing hard to get, then. I'd honestly like to meet up again, but—”

“I got it.” He tugged enough to scoot her over to meet her in the middle for a kiss. “I'm not going anywhere. You're just going to have to get used to it.”

Neither of them mentioned the fact that she didn't actually live in Santa Fe. Or New Mexico. Or a surrounding state . . .

He dropped her off near the parking garage, where he'd met her. She just wasn't quite ready yet to tell anyone the full extent of her predicament with her father. Because once she stepped out in her full “I'm the love child you never expected, America” role, there was no closing that box.

Yes, the attention would dim. Some player would cheat on his taxes, or be involved in a drug bust, or be caught with a dozen hookers on his yacht. But until then, she had to be prepared for a lot of attention and speculation.

Hardly food for a budding relationship.

Cassie halted halfway across the parking garage floor. Relationship? Was she somehow in a relationship? She jogged to her car, started it, and waited for the Bluetooth to connect. “Call Anya.”

The moment her friend answered, Cassie felt five pounds of tension leave her body. “Hey. I need you.”

“First flight out,” Anya promised.

“I love you for that. But it's more of a phone consult.”

“Damn,” her friend muttered, and Cassie laughed. “Okay, what's the deal?”

“Do you have time?”

“Just left work, heading to do some recon on a wardrobe for a budding debutant. Chic enough to run with the matrons of Atlanta, but still young and fresh enough to not look dour in photos. Sexy, but simple. Sinful, but not salacious.”

“I just threw up in my mouth a little. How the hell can you think like this all day?”

“How can you think in code all day?” Anya asked back.

“Touché. Am I in a relationship?”

There was a bit of silence on the other end. “I need more information.”

“There's not much more to it. Am I in a relationship?” Cassie pulled out of the parking garage and turned for her father's house. The tension of heading back that direction—tension that had been nonexistent with Trey—made her shoulders ache.

“Let's do a quick checklist. Damn it, get out of my way!”

Cassie smiled. Anya was a horrible driver. Normally conservative and a little quiet, her evil twin came out when she drove around Atlanta traffic. It was as if she morphed into Bitch Mode Anya the moment anyone looked like they wanted to merge. “I'm on speaker phone, right? You aren't breaking laws and driving with no hands?”

“Bluetooth. Does he make you smile?”

“Often.”

“Do you want to be with him even when you're not?”

“Yup.”

“I already know the sex is good.”

“Anya . . .”

“Sunday driver!” Anya mumbled something else, then asked, “What? You said as much the first night you met. Plus, a girl's best friend is privilege to this information. And I'm not there to see if you're doing that dopy grin thing where you squint one eye and look like you might have gas.”

“I do not . . .” She did a quick rear-view mirror check. Damn it. “Is this what gas looks like?”

“So you
are
making the face. That's another check. Do you have the urge to drop him in the friend zone?”

“Hell no.”

The line was quiet a moment. “Sounds like a relationship,” Anya surmised.

Oh. Huh.
She bit her lip a little, then turned into the gated community and entered her code for the entrance. “So . . . that's awkward.”

“Because of the whole distance thing? Him in Santa Fe, you in Atlanta?”

“Because I promised Ken I wouldn't deal with boys right now.”

“Number one, I think that was rude and presumptuous of him to even make that rule. You're twenty-eight, not twelve.”

Agreed. But still . . .

“And number two, it sounds like this guy has his stuff together. This isn't some revolving door of beefcake. Your bedroom isn't flashing a “vacancy” sign. Give yourself a little credit. A meaningful relationship with a put-together man is not the end of the world. And if it is, then your father's world is very, very small.”

“Honestly, I think it is.” Or, at least the world Tabitha created for their little nuclear family. She wasn't quite sure yet if she'd been invited.

“That's gotta stop. Okay, pulling in to my private consult. Wish me luck. It's going to be hell dragging this chick away from the gold, shiny leggings. I could just
kill
whoever decided leggings were a good thing again.” With that, Anya was gone.

So. She was in a relationship. Cassie pulled up to the pool house and parked. There were worse things, right? And it wasn't like Trey was one of those weirdos who would start going to the press the minute he heard who she was. He seemed too relaxed for that. Too together to care what the media said.

She'd play it by ear.

Cassie reached for the doorknob of the pool house, then froze when she heard music. Sisters. She tried the door—unlocked—and walked in. “Hey, girls.”

“Hey!” Mellie's voice rang out from the bedroom. “You're back. We expected you awhile ago.”

“Playing tourist,” she said easily, dumping her purse on the couch next to someone's plain white sneakers. “Want a drink?”

“Coke!”

“Water, for both of us.” Irene walked out, still in what Cassie privately deemed their perma-uniform of pleated skirt and collared shirt. Her hair was pulled back so tight it made Cassie's scalp ache in sympathy. “Mom will shit a brick if we have carbonation this late in the day.”

Cassie looked at the clock. “It's barely four.”

“Exactly. Plus, all that stuff makes you bloat.” Taking a seat in the kitchen, she gestured with a queenly wave of the hand to the fridge. “There should be bottles of water. I suggest grabbing one yourself.”

She cut back the urge to ask if she was looking a little bloated. Tossing Irene one, she laughed when the girl fumbled and dropped the plastic bottle to the floor. “Guess the whole athletic gene didn't hit you, huh?”

“I'm more of an intellectual.” She rolled her eyes. “Tennis and swimming are about as physical as mom would let us get, in any case. Mellie would have played softball, I think . . .” Irene drifted off, as if realizing she'd slipped a bit from her icy front. “Besides, you don't strike me as the sporty type, either.”

“I'm not. Sports and I don't really get along. I don't understand them, on the whole.” She shrugged and took a sip of water. “Whenever a guy I dated was a sports nut, I struggled to keep up. I found myself nodding and smiling a lot, but never getting it. I lost entire weekends—weekends I can never get back—pretending to watch back-to-back games or matches or whatever the sport required. When in reality, I usually was on my laptop doing work, or surfing the net and just cheering whenever the boyfriend would cheer.”

Irene lifted a brow. “Ironic, I guess, given Dad's profession. Good thing you won't be around long then, to have to put up with a long football season.” Irene didn't look up from her bottle of water as she changed the subject. “What's that like?”

“What's what like?”

She dragged the plastic edge through the condensation beading on the wooden tabletop. “Having a boyfriend. And, you know, doing stuff with him. Stuff you don't know about, or like.”

Ah.
Cassie, unsure how to proceed, took a shaky step into the open field. “Sometimes it's fun. If he's into something I am interested in, I can learn a lot about a new subject. Like a guy I dated for awhile who was into graphic design. I'm not great on the art front of web stuff, but he was a genius with it. So I learned something new while we spent time together.” She smiled a little at the memory. He'd been a sweet guy, though no real spark. “Other times, it's soul-sucking, especially if I have no desire to know of, or ever hear of, the subject again.”

“Like what?”

“Monster trucks,” she said immediately.
Oh, Mark . . .
“This guy . . .” She shuddered a little, and Irene's lips quirked up in a ghost of a smile. “He was into monster truck rallies. And not just into them in the ‘Oh, I like watching that if nothing else is on' sort of way. But like the ‘I'll drive nineteen hours in the dead of winter to attend a rally weekend' kind of thing.” She hopped up onto the countertop, ignoring Irene's slight frown of disapproval. “That one killed it.”