Blind Side(9)

“Thank you for coming.”

I nodded.

“Look, I don’t want to be a nag, and I certainly don’t want to be here, working after sunset, any more than you do.” She paused to swipe a curl out of her face, and I realized then that she’d loosened the bun it had been tied up in all day, letting the wild gold and brown and blond strands frame her face like a halo. Her cheeks were peppered in freckles, her lips plump as she pursed them. “Can we just agree to go over this quickly, figure out the solution to our problem, and get some much-needed sleep?”

“What problem do we have, exactly?”

“Oh, other than you nearly biting the head off of an ESPN reporter?” She shrugged, pulling her laptop out of her bag and propping it on the table between us. “Not much.”

“She was a nuisance. They all are.”

“You didn’t seem to care last season when they were running all your tape and talking about how you’re the next Ronnie Lott.”

“Yeah, well, a lot has changed since last season.”

“Like your relationship status?”

The words were like a slap to the face, and I actually jerked my head back at them, surprised to hear the quick reply from the girl I’d always seen as a wallflower.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” she amended quickly, and just like that, the softness slipped over her again. Her voice was quieter, hesitant. “I know… well, I can imagine how difficult a breakup is, especially with your high school sweetheart.”

“How do you know so much about it?”

She leveled me with a look. “It’s my job to know. And it’s also my job to make sure you’re okay.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel all warm and fuzzy, Kitten?”

She deflated, sitting back in her chair. “Quick and painless, remember? We can be out of here after you finish that beer if you cooperate.”

I grumbled out an exhale, waving at her laptop and taking a long pull of my IPA while I waited for her to get out whatever she needed to.

“Ms. Banks has invited the reporter you refused to speak with back for Chart Day. She wants to give her an exclusive.” Giana’s eyes flicked to mine then. “I can leave you alone until then, if you promise to take these next couple of weeks to get your mind right and give a proper interview when she returns.”

“Leave me alone… as in?”

“As in, I won’t schedule any other media obligations. No interviews, no podcasts, not even a photo op until Chart Day.” She typed something on her computer. “And I know you don’t need coaching on how to act on camera. You’re one of the easiest for me to rely on when it comes to this.” She paused, fingers hovering over the keys as she glanced back at me, the white light of her screen reflecting on her face. “But I can tell you’re not okay. And I don’t want to add anything to your plate. So… does this sound like a fair deal?”

There was something about how she said it, that I’m not okay, that made my ribs tighten around my lungs.

I managed a nod.

“Good,” she said, but before she could go back to typing, she glanced over my shoulder at where the musician had started playing again.

And right on cue, she blushed.

I narrowed my gaze, watching her tear her eyes away and back to her computer before I slung my arm over the back of my chair and twisted so I could get a good look at this guy.

“This is a special one I wrote for a pretty girl,” he said softly into the microphone, smiling again at a different table of girls seated at his feet. They brightened at his attention, and then he started strumming and singing, his dark brown Chelsea boots tapping away on the bottom rung of the barstool he sat on.

He had dark, shaggy hair, an unkempt stubble on his chin, and dark bags under his eyes. He looked like he was hungover, but maybe it added to the whole tortured artist bit. He also wore a shirt smaller than the one Giana was wearing, if I were to wager, and skinny black jeans with holes ripped over the knees.

The sign above the tip jar next to him said Shawn Stetson Music, along with his Instagram and Venmo handle.

I had to fight not to scoff as I angled back toward Giana, crossing my arms over my chest and sinking back into my chair.

“What’s up with you and the guitar dude?”

Giana had her coffee cup halfway to her lips when I said it, and the mug wavered dangerously in her hands afterward, a little bit spilling out and onto her laptop as she cursed and sat it back down. She quickly wiped where the foamy liquid had splashed her keys, shaking her head with another furious blush on her cheeks.

“What? What are you talking about? There’s nothing up with me and Shawn Stetson.”

A nervous laugh bubbled out of her, one that resulted in a weird snort thing that made my lowered eyebrow bounce up to join the one lifted.

Did she just refer to him by his first and last name?

“Convincing,” was all I murmured in response.

She pursed her lips, sitting up straighter and pulling her shoulders back. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but let’s turn the conversation back to—”

“You like him.”

She gaped, clamping her mouth shut once she realized it was hanging open. “I certainly do no—”

“You’re crushing on him so bad you can’t even stand to hold eye contact with him across a crowded bar.”