Hello Quarterback (Hello #8)

8. Ford

8

FORD

I finished rolling my shirt sleeves as I walked toward the front door. The security system had alerted me to a car coming down the driveway, and I wanted to be there for Mia when she arrived.

I looked through the mirrored front window, and my jaw nearly hit the floor. The path to the house was her runway as she walked to the door in a flowy dress the color of a pale Texas sky. It wrapped around her like the wind, her hair brushing over her shoulders, drawing more attention to her cleavage on display.

She was nearly at the door when I remembered to swing it open. Her looks may have caught me off kilter, but damn, her perfume had my mind spinning circles like the blades of a windmill. Soft, sweet, expensive, classy—like the woman in front of me, looking up at me with the prettiest blue eyes.

Fuck, maybe this really was a bad idea.

“Hi, Ford,” she said sweetly, not looking away. She wasn’t shy—I liked that about her.

“Mia.” I stepped back, swallowing hard, and let her walk through. My eyes drifted, admiring the way her hips swayed under the light blue fabric. Fuck. That image would be running through my mind all night.

I gave myself a quick shake of the head and closed the door after her. “I’ll hang up your bag,” I offered.

She passed it to me and uttered a soft “Thank you,” before stepping farther in and looking around at the massive framed art hanging on my entryway walls.

“I like this,” she said, admiring one of horses grazing the countryside. “Did you pick it?”

I nodded. “A friend of mine from back home is an artist. I asked him to paint some custom pieces for me.” Putting my hand gently on her shoulder, I shifted her attention to one across the hall. “This one’s inspired by the creek near my home.” Her skin was warm through the dress, and I had to make myself withdraw my hand while she examined the image.

The painting showed flowing prairie grass leading up to a stand of trees. Amongst the branches, so small you couldn’t tell much detail, were five horses tied to the trees and waiting for their riders. My brothers and me. “We used to spend summer afternoons cooling off in the stream.”

“It looks idyllic,” she said, eyes darting back and forth across the canvas.

My throat felt tight as I saw it through her eyes. So much of my childhood was idyllic, and then other parts, not so much. “Cottonwood Falls was a great place to grow up.”

She turned to me. “I’ve never been in a professional football player’s home before. Do I get a tour?”

I grinned. “Nothing much to show. My bedroom’s that way, the guest wing is there for when family comes to visit. This is the living room.” I stepped into the open space with comfortable furniture and a giant TV I used to watch game film more than any movies or shows. “There’s a pool out back.” I gestured toward the sparkling water out the tall patio doors. “And this way is the dining area and kitchen.”

I could only imagine what my mom would think of my kitchen with its double ovens, a massive refrigerator that would have actually kept up with five boys, and plenty of counter space with granite instead of laminate posing as butcher block.

“The design is gorgeous,” Mia said. “Very modern compared to the surroundings.”

My lips lifted as I gazed through the big patio door showing my pool and the massive grounds covered in green grass and dotted with mature oak trees. “Had to have the best of both worlds.” After a pause, I walked toward the fridge. “How do you feel about steak?”

Her heels clacked against the stone floors as she followed me. “Love it,” she said. “As long as it’s not cooked like a shoe.”

“I’m not sure how you cook shoes,” I teased.

She chuckled, the sound warming my heart.

“My chef prepared the meal for us,” I admitted. “Which means it will be done perfectly.” I opened the fridge. “Do you like wine?” I asked her. “I also have beer, seltzer, tea, lemonade...”

Her smile was warm as she said, “Wine is great. Whatever you have is fine.”

I pulled out a red wine my chef said paired well with the dinner, then I poured her a glass and got myself an ice water. I handed her the drink, and our fingers brushed as she took the stem.

The heat sent a shock through me stronger than any hit I got on the field. I missed the touch of a woman, the soft brush of fingertips over my body, the sharp grip of nails dug into my back.

“You aren’t drinking?” she asked, seemingly unphased as she stood by the counter with me.

My unexpectedly strong reaction to her touch left me struggling to find words. After a moment, I said, “I only drink water, sometimes an electrolyte drink or tea. But let me live vicariously through you.”

She smiled slightly as she swirled the wine to get its aroma. Seeming satisfied, she looked down and took a sip. “So good.”

“I’ll have my chef send the label to Vanover,” I told her, going to the table. I pulled out a chair for her, and she easily slipped into it like she was used to people taking care of her.

Good. She deserved to be treated like a queen. And my heart sank because she’d never agree to this—something fake when we both knew she was more than worthy of something real.

“Let me get our food,” I said, giving myself a chance to turn my back and hide my emotions.

After putting on my oven mitts, I pulled out the pans of steaks and roasted vegetables, then plated them for both of us, careful to make it look good for her. With her job, she must have been used to fine dining for every meal, and I didn’t want to let her down.

I looked at her hopefully, bringing the plate to the table, and she smiled down at it. “Looks delicious.”

“Glad to hear it,” I replied, sitting across from her. “Dig in.”

“You don’t need to ask me twice.” She cut into it and brought a bite to her mouth, letting out a soft moan that sent blood to all the wrong places in my body. “It’s great.”

I shifted in my seat. “I’ll let my chef know,” I replied, taking a bite myself. Logically, I knew it was good, but I could hardly taste it through my nerves. This was harder than stepping on the field for any game, even with fifty thousand people watching.

Maybe I shouldn’t ask her to be my fake girlfriend after all. It was embarrassing, for both of us really. But then I thought of all I’d be giving up just because I couldn’t swallow my pride.

Good thing she liked the wine; otherwise, I’m sure she’d splash it in my face.

“You seem distracted,” she said. Was that a hint of disappointment in her voice?

I shook my head. “Not at all. I’ve been looking forward to this all day.” Even if I was nervous too.

She glanced down for a moment, then tucked a blond lock behind her ear. “Is that so?”

I nodded. “Tell me, what were you doing with Hayden French?”