The Trouble With Quarterbacks(36)

“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.