One Night with a Quarterback (6 page)

“Pumpkin, that's enough.” A man the size of Stephen—though not as muscular and with more middle-age-spread—walked up behind her with an embarrassed smile. “Let's not bother Mr. Owens while he's eating.”

Trey rocked back on his heels, trying to drag out the moment, feeling like a complete ass and hoping nobody else thought it. The longer they stared at him, the more time Josiah had to wrangle Stephen home. “Not a bother. Always fun to meet a fan. I hope she's got all her classmates cheering come September. We love to hear the noise.”

A woman toward the back let out a quick yell, and a few patrons laughed. Trey grinned. In a louder voice, he asked the restaurant at large, “That was pitiful. Can't we do any better?”

The pizza parlor erupted into cheers and claps. Hands thumped the table, silverware and cups rattled, and someone started a slow clap with a Bobcats chant. It was a mini-stadium.

The little girl—who informed him her name was Anne—asked her father to take her picture with Trey. When he knelt down to her level and smiled at her father's phone, she surprised him with a quick hug around the neck just as the flash went off.

Several more pictures, one FaceTime wave for a family member who screamed bloody murder at seeing him on their cousin's phone, and several handshakes later, he grabbed his pizza and headed out the door. Stephen and Josiah were gone—hopefully in Josiah's car—and he hopped in his own and immediately activated his Bluetooth. Josiah answered on the first ring.

“He's home, dead asleep.”

“Thank you, God,” Trey breathed as he pulled carefully into traffic.

“I go by Josiah here on Earth,” his friend said dryly. “You have any idea how much this fucker weighs? Dragging his ass into his house was almost impossible alone. What the hell happened to you? I called for help, and you decided to eat dinner instead?”

“I was deflecting, moron.” A headache started buzzing behind his left eye. “People were watching, and I had to do something to keep them from looking too closely at who was out there slow dancing in the parking lot.”

“We weren't—”

“So now,” he went on, “they're going to remember someone from the Bobcats was at Pizza Dan's, and he was a decent guy who took some photos and shook some hands. And hopefully, if anyone recognized you two jokers, they'll let it go.”

Josiah breathed out heavily. “Okay, that's scary how accurate that was. You been interning with the PR geeks?”

“Bite me,” he said. He almost hung up before remembering to add, “Stay with him. Don't let him leave. Hide his cell phone, hide his keys, tell him a zombie apocalypse is outside if it keeps him indoors. Until he's sober enough to recite the alphabet backward, he doesn't go anywhere.”

Josiah was silent for a moment. “Okay, make sure he's sober. And then what?”

Trey's hands gripped the wheel, taking out all his frustration on the leather and steel. “And then kick his ass.”

Cassie turned into the short drive and came to a full stop before an arched gate, separating the rest of the world from the Jordan family home. Apt, really. One more barrier to stop her, to make her think before diving into this entire thing head-on.

The iron was almost frilly, with its curling tendrils and little blossoms sprouting here and there. Clearly, Tabitha picked out this piece. But that was sweet that he let her.

She input the security code Ken had given her into the pad and watched as the gate swung in soundlessly. No squeaky hinges for this McMansion. Then, following instructions to the letter, she drove slowly past the large home and around the back. There was a single spot next to a small cottage-style house behind the pool that was the perfect fit for her three-year-old Escape. As Cassie stepped out, she blinked against the gleam of the pool house windows.

Thank God I had my car washed before driving over here. Makes my little SUV look like the Clampett mobile.

She tried the front door of the pool house—was there even a back door?—and found it locked.
Huh.
She shoved her hands in her jeans pockets and rocked back on her heels. So she'd have to walk around to the main house and knock. Maybe there was a housekeeper with a set of keys for the place.

Housekeeper. She blew out a breath and ruffled the stray hairs that threatened to stick to her damp temples.
Welcome to the new world, Wainright.

“Cassandra!”

She flinched at the name since she'd never been a big fan. But it was more the tone than the name itself. High pitched, a little too cheerful. Turning, she spotted a woman in camel-colored pants, matching heels and a lightweight powder-blue shirt walking unhurriedly around the edge of the pool. Her hand extended up in welcome, a little feminine wave that would have made Miss America proud.

The stepmother.

No, Tabitha. The woman had a name, so she needed to use it. There was no reason to be on the defense. Nothing indicated this woman was an enemy. They were all testing out the waters here.

Cassie raised her own hand in acknowledgement, then popped the trunk of her SUV and hauled the first of her two suitcases down to the brick walkway.

“Oh, no, no, no.” Tabitha scooted—not a run, not a jog . . . a scoot—over and placed a hand over hers on the suitcase handle. “We've got someone who can do this for you.”

“I don't mind. It's just a few suitcases, nothing major. Clothes and junk.” She stepped back and got her first up-close look at the woman her father had married.

Her light hair twisted back perfectly. No leftover strands stuck to the side of a sweaty neck, like her own mess of hair. Her makeup was minimal, if she wore any at all. She looked fresh, put together, and ready to run a country if necessary.

Cassie's practical choice of older jeans and a T-shirt with one sleeve hem unraveling suddenly seemed like a very stupid decision.

Tabitha huffed a little, but stepped back gracefully and smiled. “So you're Cassie. Your father said you were lovely, and he was right. I'm Tabitha.” She held out a hand, which Cassie shook, praying her own hand wasn't slippery with sweat. “I'm here to help you settle into the pool house.”

“Thanks.” She stood there a moment longer while the older woman observed her quietly. “The, uh, door's locked. I tried it already.”

“Oh, of course.” She slid around Cassie and her suitcase and pulled out a pair of keys on a fake climbing ring and unlocked the front door. “I had a set made for you. The second key is for the small storage shed behind the house, in case you had anything else that wouldn't fit. It's got some pool toys, but not much. Our girls are too old to play with that sort of thing anymore.”

“Uh-huh.” Cassie wheeled her suitcase behind and followed Tabitha into the cottage house. Everything was polished, from the small kitchenette shining with stainless-steel appliances to the full- length windows overlooking the back woods.

“Two bedrooms, though the second is really miniscule. Better for an office. Ken, I mean, your father”—she said again, stumbling only a little over the term—“said you would be working.
Telecommuting
, I believe he said.”

The word was said with the underline tone of
Why would anyone do that?

“I'm a tech nerd,” Cassie said, by way of explanation. That was usually enough. The farther she went into her job description, the more glazed over the eyes of her victim tended to get. Wheeling her suitcase into what she hoped was the main bedroom—score, it was—she set it to the side and did a quick three-sixty.

Smaller than a typical master bedroom, but clean and comfortable. A full-size bed, nightstand, and dresser took up the majority of the room. But the flat screen mounted on the wall above the dresser was a nice touch.

She walked back out to find Tabitha standing in the living room still, hands clasped in front of her. “I put the keys on the kitchen table. If you need food or anything, feel free to come knock on the door and ask our housekeeper for anything you require.”

There it was. The housekeeper. Cassie used picking up the keys as a cover for her quick self-satisfied grin. As she pocketed them, she realized she'd been given a key to the pool house and a storage shed . . . but not the main house.

Come knock on the door.

She'd been wrong. The last barrier to a relationship with her father wasn't the frilly iron gate out front.

It was Tabitha.

“Mrs. Jordan?”

Cassie shrieked a little at the disembodied voice overtaking the pool house. She spun around, but nobody was there.

Tabitha smiled slightly and walked to an intercom by the front door. “The pool house is also wired to our in-house system. That's our housekeeper, Rose.” She pressed a button and said, “Yes, Rose?”

“Mrs. Jordan, you have a phone call from the Eyes on Family Society.”

“Oh, all right, I'll be there momentarily. Please ask them to hold.” She took her finger off the button and turned. “I'm sorry, but I really have to get that.”

“Of course. Thanks for showing me around and . . . stuff,” she finished lamely.
God, this was awkward
. She stood, waiting for Tabitha to walk out. But the woman just stared at her a moment, then took a step forward and wrapped her arms around Cassie in a stiff hug. Not one of those soothing motherly hugs you wanted to sink into and stay in for the comfort. But more like the hug of someone who didn't want to get too close. Cassie stood there, frozen to the floor, as Tabitha pulled back and put on a smile that looked like it hurt.

“Welcome.” And with that one word, Tabitha gracefully floated out the front door, closing it softly behind her.

* * *

Trey knocked briefly on the back door to Stephen's house, then tried the doorknob. It was unlocked, as usual—the dumbass—but he'd expected that. As often as he'd warned his friend to lock his damn doors, the ability to get in without breaking a window was a blessing.

After stopping off in the kitchen for two bottles of water—and a sigh of disgust at the amount of liquor and beer in the fridge—he wandered the house until he found Stephen snoring loud enough to wake the dead in his bed. Still fully dressed, his face pressed into the pillow so hard it was a wonder he could breathe, Stephen had one knee under his stomach. Taking aim, Trey launched a rocket that hit his target.

The rocket being the water bottle. The target being Stephen's up-ended ass.

“Fuck me!” Stephen rolled hard enough to fall out of bed, landing with a thump. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, then glanced around warily until his bloodshot eyes landed on Trey. “Jesus, never mind. Don't fuck me. Just get out.”

“Head hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Trey picked up the water bottle, uncapped it and handed it to his friend. After a few swallows, the chalky white pallor started to fade on Stephen's face. “You deserved that.”

“Maybe. What for?”

Trey closed his eyes for a moment, then slid down the wall by the bed until he was sitting next to his hung over friend. “What for . . .” he muttered. “You made an ass out of yourself. Again. You can't keep doing this shit, and you know it. What's the matter with you?”

Stephen took another sip of water before handing the bottle back to be capped. Then he scrubbed his hands over his face, as if trying to wake himself up more. “Dunno.”

“That's a five-year-old's answer. Try being a big boy.”

“I don't know,” Stephen said, enunciating each word clearly. “I never mean to do this. I just . . . maybe I suck at anticipating how hard the liquor will hit me.”

“Maybe you should stop drinking the liquor entirely.”

Stephen shot him a disbelieving look. “That's a joke, right?”

The fact that it wasn't, and his subsequent disappointment in his friend's answer, told Trey a lot about his gut feelings on the subject. “Cool it. You know Coach Jordan will rip you a new one if he finds out you're acting like a sloppy sorority girl all over town. Nothing stays a secret forever, and we can't keep walking behind you with a dust pan sweeping up your shit.”

Stephen opened his mouth—most likely to argue—but snapped it shut again and rolled onto his stomach with a groan.

“Gonna hurl?”

“No,” came the muffled reply.

“I'd say that's a pity, but it'd only be punishing your housekeeping service who would have to clean it up anyway.”

“Just go away.”

“No.”

“Why?” came the whiny question.

“Because I love your stupid ass. So start being worthy.”

The chuckle sounded painful.

“I'm not kidding, man. Who's gonna protect me in the pocket if you can't play because Jordan benched you? I need you, man.”

There was more to it. They both knew that. They'd been best friends for years, and Stephen was like a brother to him. But guy code insisted now was not the time for the truly mushy stuff. So it came down to using lingo they could both relate to.

Football.

“I'm always there.”

“You haven't been, lately. You're showing up late to meetings, slacking off in weights. You look like hell. And if you don't mind me saying so . . .” Trey nudged his friend's hip, watched his body rock and settle again. “You've put on a few.”

“They always want me to put on a few. They're asking me to put on another twenty. Every pound's another pound between you and a gorilla from another team.”

True. But still . . . “It's not healthy, especially if most of it is from beer. If you drop dead of liver failure on the field, you're really going to piss me off.”

“That would piss me off, too.” Stephen rolled over onto his back and draped one arm over his eyes. “I don't have a problem.”

Yes, you do
. “If there's no problem, then give up the drinking for awhile. Just to shut me up. You know I can carry on like a little girl if I don't get my way.”

Stephen's laughter was a bit stronger this time. “How true that is.”

“So just . . . lay off for awhile. If it's not a problem, then you should have no trouble. I'll be proven wrong—a rare occurrence, indeed—and we can move on.”

His friend held out the hand not shielding his eyes from the light for a handshake. “Whatever.”

Whatever, indeed.

* * *

Clothes put away in the dressers . . . check.

Notepad full of things for Anya to send . . . check.

Set up office and email to boss . . . check.

Email mom to update her . . . check.

Die of boredom . . . in-progress.

Cassie pushed back from the desk, letting the rolling chair glide over the wood floors of the guest bedroom. Her head fell back and she observed the whitewashed ceilings. It was college finals week all over again. Staring blankly at a point on the wall and losing track of hours at a time.

Maybe she should go over and knock on the back door of the main house, ask if her father was around. But she just got here . . . was that too presumptuous? Then again, if he'd just met her when she told him she'd be coming in, she wouldn't be wondering where he was.

There was a knock at the door, and she bolted up in the chair and sprinted toward the distraction. Then skidded to a halt when she saw through the glass front door, not her father, but two teenage girls.

His daughters. Her . . . sisters.

The shorter one waved and grinned, bouncing a little in her old-school penny loafers. The taller one raised a brow, in an extremely scary imitation of her mother. Both had light blonde hair and pale cream skin, as if they never stepped outside without a parasol and SPF 90 sunscreen.

Cassie wiped her hands down her jeans and opened the door. “Hey. You guys must be Irene and Mellie?”

“Yup. I'm Mellie and she's Irene. And you're Cassandra.” The shorter of the two, Mellie brushed past Cassie and bounced into the house. “This is the pool house, so we've been here a million times, but all the sudden it feels different, you know? Like stepping into someone else's house.”

“Not that it kept her from waiting to be invited in,” Irene added in a low voice. Still standing on the front step, she held out a hand. “Irene Jordan.”

She took the hand and shook once. “Call me Cassie.”

“Please ignore my younger sister.” The
younger
bit sounded beleaguered, as if she were speaking as a full-fledged adult about a toddler. Stepping in with her mother's same grace, she surveyed the house. “We aren't in here often. Have you settled in?”

The mini-Tabitha welcoming committee. “It's great. Everything's fine.”
Say something else . . .
She noted the plaid skirt that reached nearly to Irene's knees, with the simple light green polo. “School uniform?”