Hello Quarterback (Hello #8)

15. Mia

15

MIA

Tonight, my stylist and makeup artist had come to my penthouse to prepare me for our first date. Not because I wanted to impress Ford, but because I knew that photos of us would hit everything from major newspapers to the biggest influencers’ TikTok accounts. I had to look amazing . Like a successful CEO who scored a quarterback, not a friend he met for dinner.

As the stylist tied the straps at the back of my red silk dress, I wondered if Ford’s heart was racing as much as mine.

A million different ways I could mess this up were playing through my mind—each of them ending with me getting humiliated on a national stage and earning a vote of no confidence from a board swayed by a doubting fucking Thomas.

“How’s that feel?” my stylist asked.

I rolled my shoulders and then swung my arms side to side to test the fit. “It’s perfect.” I turned to her, offering a grateful smile. “How do you always find the dresses that make me look like a Kennedy?”

She chuckled. “You look better than a Kennedy.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“You look like a Kardashian.”

I had to chuckle at the compliment, which was really showing the difference in our ages. But it was nice all the same—I knew she wouldn’t compare me to the powerful, beautiful family unless she meant it. “Only because I’m dressed by you.”

She squeezed my side, then snapped at the makeup artist. “Add some bronze to that cleavage of hers.”

The makeup artist rushed over, dusting some powder over my chest that highlighted the girls without making me look obscene or overly done up.

I stared at myself in the mirror, in the red, ruched dress that gave me an hourglass appearance without being restrictive at all. She paired the dress with matte black heels, a matching black purse with everything I’d need, and diamond stud earrings. With flawless makeup and my hair in an elegant twist at the base of my neck, I felt like royalty. “Thank you, fairy godmothers.”

They both smiled at me, and I glanced at the clock on my wall. “Ford should be arriving in the limo any moment.” Zeke was driving us both to the event.

My stylist said, “I’ll clean up everything here. You go along, Cinderella.”

I smiled at her, then walked toward the private elevator. It was already waiting for me, the doors opening instantly when I pushed the button. Without pause, I stepped onto the marble floor, seeing myself in the mirrors reflecting muted light.

I couldn’t help wondering what Ford saw when he looked at me. Because even though I knew we were trying to impress everyone else, deep down, I wanted to impress him too.

The elevator dinged open, and like something out of a fairy tale, Ford waited at the back of the limo. Over our years as acquaintances, I’d seen him all types of ways—sweaty after a game, serious after a press conference, in casual jeans and T-shirts. But never had I seen him like this.

He wore a suit that fit his broad, muscled shoulders perfectly and tailored black pants that hugged his strong thighs. He leaned back casually against the limo as if he were just as comfortable there, waiting for me, as he was on the football field.

And whether he meant to or not, I saw his eyes track slowly up and down my body before his lips lifted in a grin. “Beautiful.”

With a smile, I did a spin.

He whistled, making me laugh.

Maybe that was the best and worst part of this—enjoying being around him, all the while knowing we would never be more than friends.

He held the door open for me, and I stepped into the back seat, catching a hint of his cologne. The desire that rushed through my body was so foreign, so strong, I nearly toppled over on the way to my seat.

If Ford noticed my stumble, he didn’t say a thing. Instead, he slid in after me and closed the door. Within seconds, Zeke was pulling out of the garage.

Here, alone in the back seat with the privacy window separating us from Zeke, I realized yet again how large this man was. He was at least half a foot taller than me, pure muscle and hard angles, and I was practically salivating. If he could hear the thoughts going through my mind, sense the way my body was reacting to his presence, he’d think I was no better than the groupies who lined the stadium after games, hoping for a player to take them home.

Finally, the silence felt so thick between us that I said, “You look nice too, Ford.”

His shoulders seemed to relax at that comment. “Thank you.” His tone was warm as a towel fresh out of the dryer. My mom always used to give one to me, even if I hadn’t showered, and wrap me up in the warmth.

We drove without speaking for another couple minutes, and the silence made me restless. As if sensing my nerves, Ford reached out and caught my hand in his.

I looked at his large hand enveloping mine and then up at him, where a reassuring smile played along his full lips. “Better practice, right?” he said.

My smile faltered. I thought he’d been trying to comfort me, but no, it was all strategic with him. Why did I want to avoid the truth so badly? I was too old, too successful, to be pining after a guy who had no interest in me, who didn’t appreciate all I had to offer.

So I reminded myself of that, even while linking my fingers through his. “Are you up for this?” I asked, doubting myself mostly. “Tallie leaked to the press that we’d be at the restaurant tonight. It’ll be... chaotic.”

He rubbed his thumb over the back of my hand, almost like it was instinct. “I’ve dealt with the press before.”

“Right.”

More silence.

“Ford, I’m going to need some encouragement here. I’m freaking out a little.”

He reached up his free hand, holding my cheek in his palm. “No need to worry. Just keep your eyes on me, Sunflower.”

My lips quirked. “Sunflower?”

“That’s the flower you chose, right?” he said. His voice held a note of emotion to it—I couldn’t quite tell why, though.

“That was quite the display you sent to the office,” I replied. A little butterfly fluttered in my stomach at the reminder of Tallie’s words. Does he know this is fake?

Heat intensified his gaze as he said, “I meant it. I’ll be the only man sending you flowers.”

“Why?” I asked. “Jealous?”

But his response was completely serious. “Because my girl will get what she needs from me. No one else.”

Before I could respond, the limo had slowed and then stopped. And then the back door opened, leading us into a hoard of paparazzi with blinding flashing cameras.