The Trouble With Quarterbacks(54)

“No no no! I can’t stand people!” I shout out. “How in the world do they not notice that there’s a ripe old nappy stinking up the place?! It practically smells like a farmyard in here!”

“Yeah? Well I’ve just cleared off about three weeks of nose hairs from the bathroom sink, so quit your bellyaching!” Kat shouts back to me.

We go on working through the morning, doing our best to make this place semi-livable again, and by the end, my legs and arms are killing me. We load up our cleaning supplies and our sacks full of trash so we can clear out. As we head for the lift, my mobile buzzes in my pocket, but I can’t answer it. My hands are too full of the rubbish we’ve got to take down to the building’s dumpsters. We tried cramming it in the shoot up on the fourth floor, but the bags are too full.

“Your mobile’s going off again,” Kat says from behind her mound of rubbish sacks. “I’ll bet that’s someone else asking you for a favor.” She snorts. “I can’t believe Amy asked you to go on her podcast! I haven’t talked to her in like a decade!”

I groan. “I wish I could make it all go away.”

“You can’t though, you know. You’re dating him now. It comes with the territory.”

“Am I? Dating him?”

“What?” she says, sticking her head round the tower of rubbish. “You’re going to let that little tiff last night ruin it for you? Or is it the mags doing your head in? Oh what a sad lot in life to have your lovely photo splashed across the internet!” She shakes her head as if she doesn’t understand me. “Right, well, if you do break it off, be sure to send him my way, because he’s bloody gorgeous and rich, and charming, too! And maybe I’d be willing to put up with a bit of press if it meant getting to squeeze that arse of his.”

I laugh and knock my elbow against hers. “You’re mad, you know that?”

“That’s nothing new. Now come on, let’s go toss this rubbish then grab a sandwich somewhere. I’m starved.”





My mobile goes off a million times the rest of the day, but none of the texts or calls are from Logan. Most of them are from people I haven’t seen since primary school. A few are from family back home, and one is from a news outlet asking if I’d sit for an interview! I hung up on them immediately, of course. What else was I supposed to do?!

Other than the call from last night, Logan has been dead silent. It’s late evening as I’m sitting on our sofa, going at a frozen block of ice cream with a spoon, when I realize the ball is probably in my court. He phoned last night and I didn’t answer; if I want to talk to him, I should probably make a move.

I pause in my ice cream endeavor and glance around. The flat’s dead silent. Kat and Yasmine went out for groceries, and I’m all alone. It’s kind of nice.

My eyes skim over the huge bouquet of roses Logan sent earlier in the week. I’ve been tending to them as if they’re absolutely priceless: changing the water, cutting the stems, singing them a song or two. They say you’re supposed to talk to plants and they really respond to love and affection…and oh hell, I’ve done it again. I’m avoiding the issue at hand.

Logan.

It’s time for action!

I set down my ice cream and reach for my mobile, scrolling through contacts until I get to the Ls. His name is quite nice there, all masculine and strong. Logan Matthews. I would be Mrs. Candace Matthews. Oh get a grip, will you?!

I dial him before I wimp out, and it rings and rings like the universe wants me to suffer.

I eye the roses again. Then the ice cream. Then my stomach clenches in a real painful way, and then finally, the call connects.

“Hey.”

That’s all he says, and he doesn’t sound too keen to hear from me either, at least I don’t think he does.

“Hi.”

The line goes dead silent for a minute, so much so that I pull the mobile away from my ear to check that the call hasn’t dropped.

“Logan?”

“I’m here.”

“Oh right. That’s…good.”

No response.

Oh dear.

“Are you okay? Are you knackered or something? Have I caught you at a bad time?”

He sighs, and I can practically see him sag in defeat. I wonder where he is. What he’s doing. What he’s wearing. Then I roll my eyes and force myself to stay on task.

“No, it’s fine. I’m just going over my schedule for the week. Nothing important.”

“Sounds lovely. I’m doing the same, actually.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. We’re both quite busy, I’ll have you know. The queen’s asked me round for dinner tomorrow, so I’ll have to pop over to England for that. And then I’ve got squash with the Obamas on Tuesday, though I might have to cancel because Beyoncé wants to see me as well, and no one turns her down.”

He laughs like he can’t quite help it, and then he says my name.

It’s so bloody lovely to hear him say it that I go limp on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, wishing we were together.

“Truthfully, I’ve been wondering why you haven’t called or texted me all day,” he admits. “Especially when you didn’t answer my call last night. I didn’t like how we left things at the gala.”