Hello Quarterback (Hello #8)

5. Mia

5

MIA

Hayden French sat across from me at the posh café in downtown with drink prices so obscene they weren’t listed on the menu and an exclusive guest list more upscale than the one-of-a-kind designer rings Hayden wore on all his fingers.

He paired the jewelry with skin-tight jeans, distressed sneakers, and a smug smirk on what magazines called “America’s most kissable lips.” And he was perfectly positioned in front of the café’s mirrored windows to have his image reflected back at him.

Every so often his gaze tracked from my chest to his reflection, and a sparkle lit his eyes.

I had to give it to him—Hayden French was handsome, and all of America loved him, but not as much as he loved himself.

I swirled the glass stir stick through my vanilla latte, wondering when this date would finally be over. Hopefully Tallie had a backup plan ready to go.

“Tell me, Mia, has anyone ever written you into a song?”

My eyebrows drew together, almost surprised he asked me a question about myself. “My mom used to sing ‘Mama Mia’ to me,” I deadpanned.

I could have sworn I heard someone snort behind me, but Hayden didn’t crack a smile. Instead, he leaned forward, scrubbing a hand over the short stubble on his chin that made him look perfectly messy. I wasn’t sure what he was about to say, but it wasn’t words he spoke.

He sang.

The opening lines to his most popular song, “Hello Beautiful.” But instead, it was “Hello Mia.”

My cheeks instantly flushed with embarrassment, and I darted my gaze around the café to see if anyone was watching. This was so not on brand for Mia Baird, CEO of Griffin Industries, a multi-billion-dollar corporation making waves in the world like no company had ever done before. It was humiliating to be treated like some kind of groupie.

“Hayden.” I reached for his hand, only to get him to stop as a rally of applause went through the café.

I made a mental note to tell Tallie never to set me up on a date with another singer.

Hayden nodded graciously to his nearest admirers and turned smoldering brown eyes back on me. His gaze flicked to my lips and then back to my breasts before returning to my eyes. “I need to excuse myself for a moment. Be right back, Mia ore.”

Oh, he did not.

I forced a smile, and as soon as his back was to me, I got out my phone. There were several texts, one from the mayor, another from my best friend, Farrah, asking me how the date was going, another from Gage responding to a question I had, and then one from Tallie. I tapped out my response.

Mia: He’s a 10 but he keeps checking himself out in the windows. He’s a 2.

Tallie: He’s a 2, but in an office poll, he ranked in the top three favorite celebrities. He’s a 10.

She sent me a screenshot from a social media account that was already showing images of us going into the café together. The caption called us a “future power couple.” They also said I was too old for him.

Mia: Pass.

Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw Hayden sitting across from me again and tucked my phone back in my purse. Just fifteen more minutes of this date before I could excuse myself to my next meeting. But when I looked up, it wasn’t Hayden filling the chair after all.

My lips parted as I took in the wall of muscle opposite me. Even dressed casually in jeans—that actually fit—a nondescript navy-blue shirt, and a Madigan Ranch ballcap, he breathed influence, power . From the broad shoulders, the pull of the shirt against his biceps, the outline of his quads through his jeans... Damn.

But with all of that to look at, the part that distracted me most was the green-blue of his eyes, like they couldn’t pick a color so decided to be both.

“Ford Madigan,” I said with a smirk.

He grinned. “Mia Baird.”

I picked up my cup and casually sipped the lukewarm latte. “I’m surprised to see you here. Gage always thought this place was over the top.”

“I was meeting my agent.”

“Ah, I see.”

He had the kind of eyes that smiled even when his lips didn’t, and I had to wonder what he was smiling about this time. “Your family doing well? They must be proud of such a famous son.”

Ford batted his hand. “My other brothers are giving Dad grandchildren, and all I got was second place at the Super Bowl.”

That had me laughing, genuinely. And that was rare for me at work when I had to put on the front of determination, power, grace, and do it twice as well as any man had before me.

A ringed hand dropped onto Ford’s shoulder, and Ford looked up to see Hayden towering over him territorially. The sight was almost laughable, a pop star trying to intimidate the best quarterback in the NFL.

But Ford handled the tension with ease, standing up and shooting a crooked smile Hayden’s way. “Had to catch up with an old friend.” He stepped away from the chair, adding, “My niece is a huge fan of yours.”

Hayden’s expression eased, and Ford reached out to shake my hand to say goodbye. As if on instinct, I returned the gesture, feeling more than his large, warm palm. There was a slip of paper in his grip. And something in his eyes told me to keep it a secret.

I casually held it in my lap as Ford walked away. I watched him return to his seat and take a sip of what looked like green tea.

Hayden studied me for a moment. “You know him?” His stare was solidly on me now. I tilted my head. Was he... jealous?

“I do know him.” An awkward silence hung between us, so I continued. “Hayden, I’m sorry, but my phone was blowing up while you were in the restroom. I need to get back to the office and put out a few fires.”

His expression settled back into the smooth, unbothered facade he put on the cover of every magazine. “Let me walk you to your car.”

“That’s... nice of you,” I said. Unexpectedly nice.

We got up, and I swore I could feel Ford’s eyes on me just as surely as I felt Hayden’s hand settle on my back. At least he had the sense not to let it drop too low as we walked out of the café, a million camera flashes sounding around us as paparazzi clamored to ask if we were together.

“No comment,” I said smoothly as my driver opened the door for me.

Hayden leaned in, and I realized it was for a kiss. I quickly turned my cheek, feeling the pressure of his lips for half a second, and then ducked into the car. “Goodbye,” I said to him, and my driver, Zeke, an older Filipino man in a sharp black suit, shut the door. As soon as he got in, I said, “Drive. Please.”

“That bad?” he said, looking at me with amused dark eyes in the rearview mirror.

“No comment,” I replied with a smile.

Then I reached to the paper in my hand, unfolding it to see neat handwriting inside.

You can do better.