The Trouble With Quarterbacks(42)

“Pat! What are you doing here?!”

I assume, at first, that it’s a total coincidence. I’m sure he must have just been in the neighborhood on business, but then he announces, “I’m driving you home.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Of course Pat would drive me home from work. How silly of me to assume I’d have to hop on the subway like every other New Yorker!

He takes the massive arrangement from me and sets it in the back seat of the SUV. Once it’s buckled into place, he opens the front passenger door for me, continuing our tradition.

“You all set?” he asks as I hop in.

“Sure, but you really didn’t need to sit out here and wait for me like this. I’ll bet you were bloody bored.”

He holds up his mobile, and there’s some kind of sports game on it. It’s too small for me to make out what it is though.

“I was watching an old World Series game. You know you can watch just about anything you want on YouTube these days?” He sounds like he thinks it’s the best invention since sliced bread. “World Series game seven from the 80s—bam! Right at your fingertips.”

I grin. “You’ll have to tell me more about it on the way home.”

We chat so much the drive flies by, and before I know it, I’m carrying that massive bouquet of flowers up the rickety stairs toward my flat. I unlock the door and try to be quiet as I arrange the vase on the TV stand. I know Yasmine and Kat are both asleep; I envy them. It’s late, and I’ve got to be up early for work at The Day School. I half-groan just thinking about it, but I know I’ll be fine. I’ve done the late night/early morning routine loads of times before and survived, so there’s no point in feeling sorry for myself now.

Using the dull light filtering in from the street, I unload my tips from the pocket of my District uniform and count out the bills, slightly disappointed with how few there are. Some nights are like that. Here’s hoping tomorrow and Friday are better.

I wonder for one quick second if it’s worth all the trouble—extra hours on my feet, carting drinks around—and then I catch sight of the huge roses, big and fat and lovely, and I know I’d work a thousand shifts to be able to go to that gala with Logan.

I text him Thursday morning when I get to school, before my students have arrived, to thank him for the flowers and for having Pat come round to get me.

LOGAN: Glad you liked them. I told the florist I had a girl I really wanted to impress…





CANDACE: Well they did a good job! They must have used every rose in the tri-state area for the bouquet. I’ll have a whole swarm of bees in my flat later if I don’t keep the window latched.





LOGAN: Ha. What are you doing tonight?





Ugh! I wish I could reply with Oh nothing much, just coming round to your flat to do a bit of humping, but I absolutely have to work. My bank account is filled with tumbleweeds and I can’t be expected to buy myself a new fancy-shmancy dress, and pay rent, and cover the rest of my bills, and send money back home to Mum if I don’t work my arse off.

CANDACE: Another shift at District, I’m afraid. And before you ask, I’ll be there tomorrow night too, remember? I know, boooo. What a lousy schedule! What will you be doing? Lounging about?





LOGAN: I’m actually on Fallon tonight.





CANDACE: You mean like…Jimmy Fallon? The show?





Then I remember the email on his phone from over the weekend.

LOGAN: Yeah, and I have a few spare tickets. I was going to see if you and your roommates wanted to come.





I do about a thousand curses in my head, a whole long string of them that would make a sailor blush if he heard them said aloud.

CANDACE: That sounds brilliant! All this time I’ve been in New York, and I’ve never made it round to any of those live tapings. I suppose I’ll be a nice friend and see if Yasmine and Kat want to go without me…





LOGAN: I’ll have the tickets dropped off at your place just in case. Wish you could come, but at least I’ll see you Saturday, right?





CANDACE: Yes! I’m counting the seconds.





Oh god. Is that too much? Have I come off too desperate? If only you could erase texts after they’ve been sent.

LOGAN: Me too. There’re some details my assistant can email over to you, just about the location and timing, I think. Send me your email address.





I’ve just finished giving it to him when I hear the front door of the school open and tiny voices fill the hall outside my classroom. No more flirty sexts! Time to shape the nation’s youth!





Chapter Thirteen





Logan





My assistant, Rosie, has been talking to me for the better part of thirty minutes. I’m amazed at how little air she seems to need compared to the rest of us; in fact, I’m more convinced now than ever that she’s part cyborg. I’m studying her, trying to see if there’s a battery pack or charging port hidden somewhere on her body, but even if there were, I’d never find it. She wears a lot of layers: black shirt, black blazer, poofy wrap thing that’s looped twice around her neck. She has an earpiece on, a phone attached to her hip, a clipboard, and a tablet.