The Trouble With Quarterbacks(33)

YASMINE: Don’t just throw yourself at him now that you’re allowed to date him. Make him work for it. Maybe go for a blow job first? Or just do a hand job? We can discuss later.





YASMINE: Oh, and thank GOD you waxed last week.





CANDACE: HA! Get over it! It’s just hair! And mine happens to be lovely, even down there.





YASMINE: Please stop. I’m already planning to call round to find a shrink who can hypnotize me and help wipe my memory. Only way I’ll manage to get to sleep at night…





After I get home from school, I sit down on the sofa, place my mobile on the coffee table, and stare at it. It was one thing to avoid calling Logan all day—when I was busy chasing after tots—but it’s another to stave off the urge now that I’m here…lonely…thinking of him and wishing he were here.

I reach out to pick it up but then stop myself, forcing my body back against the sofa cushions. I turn on the telly, flip through a few channels, decide every show is boring, and turn it back off. I look around the flat, wondering if I should clean it up a bit. Eh, not worth it. Kat will only wreck it again.

Then, my mobile rings.

It’s Logan.

How did he know?! Did I slip into a hypnotic state for a bit and accidentally call him? Did I text him?!

Or maybe he’s as anxious to hear from me as I am to hear from him?!

It rings twice. Then a third time, and I feel all kinds of nervous, fidgeting on the sofa like I’m a toddler in need of a bathroom break.

Finally, my hand shoots out and I answer it on a whim. The call connects and my breath gets caught in my chest as Logan speaks.

“Hey Candace.”

His voice sends goosebumps down my arms.

I smile. “Hi.”

“Did you talk to your boss?”

My smile widens. So he’s been anxious about the meeting too. He wants to know if I’m off limits. Why does that make me feel so special?

“Is that all you care about? I thought we could do some chitchat first. You can ask me how my day was,” I tease.

“How was your day?” he asks, tone perfunctory.

“Oh, not bad. Started out with some finger painting. Then outdoor play, and I got a bit of color on my cheeks because I forgot my sun hat. In the afternoon, I had to wash some wee off my shoes—”

“Candace.”

His voice sounds threatening, and I like it. I’ve never gone for the soft boys, the ones who let you walk all over them.

“Now I want to hear about your day,” I say, prolonging his agony. I like this. Taunting him is fun, and maybe I’ve got a little evil streak because I don’t plan on stopping any time soon.

“I can’t recall much of it. I’ve been distracted.”

Interesting.

Then he says, all commandingly, “Come over. We can talk about everything here.”

“That sounds awfully bossy of you,” I chide.

“Come over or I’ll come there, though I saw your room, and that bed…it’s not big enough.”

For what?! Jesus. Warn a girl.

I walk into the kitchen, open our fridge, and bend down to stick my head inside for some relief. It smells a bit like moldy socks, but the cool air is nice on my heated face.

“I guess I could come round for a bit?”

There’s no hesitation before he responds, “I’ll send my driver.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh no need. I’ve got a retinue of my own. Loads of them just waiting down by the curb eager to do my bidding. Oh, please, Candace! Let me drive you! No, me!”

“He’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I eek out a high-pitched “Oh Lordy!” and hang up on him so I can dash into my room and get ready.

What does one wear to seduce and ensnare a professional footballer? A dress? A nightie? Sexy knickers? No knickers?

Kat and Yasmine aren’t home, which is probably for the best. They’d only war with me about what outfit to wear, and I think I’ve settled on something quite nice: a short black dress with sheer black stockings underneath. My checkered coat will have to do because it’s all I own.

When I’m finishing up in the bathroom, refreshing my hair and makeup, I get a text on my mobile from the driver alerting me that he’s downstairs.

Right then. Off to Oz, I suppose. I lock up the flat and hop-skip down the stairs, waving eagerly to neighbors, who only give me brief grunts in response.

The driver is this well-dressed lad about my dad’s age, all done up in a black suit. His hat is very shiny, and he gives me a huge grin when I introduce myself then he tells me he’s called Pat. I don’t think he was expecting I’d shake his hand, but what was I supposed to do? Just ignore him?

We ride toward Logan’s, me in the front seat beside Pat. He said I could get in the back, but that felt a bit odd, and this way I can fiddle with his radio.

“Do you like pop, or would you rather I find something a bit more mellow?”

He shoots me a sideways glance, chuckles, and then shakes his head. “Whatever you like is fine.”

He’s got a great New York accent, one of those you can tell he’s cultivated since birth.

I pick his brain as we drive, asking where he’d go if he wanted a proper sandwich, pizza, a burger…basically I only care about food.