Hello Quarterback (Hello #8)

17. Mia

17

MIA

A dozen conflicting feelings tugged at my chest as we pulled up to my building after the date. Enjoying dinner with Ford had been so easy, like sliding into a warm bath. But then he would say something that reminded me it was all for show, and disappointment would seep through me stronger than a shot of whiskey.

Sitting next to him on the limo ride home was like walking a tightrope in my own mind, trying not to fall for him and trying not to be saddened he wasn’t falling for me.

By the time Zeke parked the limo in the parking garage, all my nerves were frayed, and I could have easily slid into bed and slept for the next twenty-four hours. But I had some work to do the next day. With the football game Sunday morning, I needed to research in preparation for meeting with some stakeholders and potential partners in Griffen Industries’ suite.

Zeke opened the door for me, and I went to get out, but Ford took my hand. “One second, Zeke,” he called. Then he said to me, “Hold on, I have something for you.”

I turned to look at him, surprised. “You do?” I hadn’t seen anything in the car.

But now that he was reaching toward the corner, I realized there was a black box I hadn’t noticed against the black leather seats. He held it in his large hands, then pulled it open, showing a purple and white jersey inside. Upon lifting it out, I realized printed on the back was his name and number.

I held it gingerly in my hands, the slick material soft under my fingertips.

“I had it made for you,” he said gently. “I thought you could wear it to the game.”

“Oh...” I looked from him to the jersey, my features falling.

“What?” he asked, confused. “I thought it would be good for the press?”

Another pang strummed at my heartstrings. “That’s not it. I just can’t wear this in the suite when I’m supposed to be working. I need to be in business professional—even at a game.”

“Ah,” he said, and if I wasn’t mistaken, he looked a little disappointed too.

I made to hand the jersey back to him, but he shook his head. “You keep it. Maybe it would make a good nightgown. I remember my brothers and I used to wear my dad’s old jerseys to bed.”

The peek at his past made my lips curl up. “Thank you. And good luck on Sunday.”

His smile was warm as his blue eyes. “Thank you, Mia.”

Something about hearing him say my name made my stomach swoop. So before he could see me react, I tucked the jersey back in the box and stepped out of the car. Giving Zeke a quick thanks and good night, I went to my private elevator. Once the doors opened, I got in and turned to watch the slick black car leaving the garage, taking Ford Madigan with it.

Heaving a sigh, I shucked my heels and waited for the elevator to take me upstairs. The marble floor was cold against my tender feet. The lift whooshed as I was carried to the uppermost floor of my building.

When the doors slid open, I set my shoes by the entrance and went farther into my penthouse, the jersey box still tucked snugly under my arm. The entryway light was on and waiting for me, but I had to turn on the light as I went to the living room, with its cushy beige chairs, the coffee table crafted from driftwood and glass.

Everything had its place, from the art on the wall to the bowl of fruit on the kitchen island. There were hints of my success everywhere, including the floor-to-ceiling view of the city, glittering with lights below. But there was no sign of a relationship outside of my close friend, Farrah, and my parents.

Except for the gift tucked under my arm.

I walked to my bedroom, seeing the perfectly made bed done by my housekeeping service. I tossed the black box on the white covers, then slipped out of my dress. Taking off the strapless bra was such a relief.

The tall windows reflected my naked body. My breasts, which hung so much lower now than twenty years ago when I graduated high school. My apron stomach folded over my hips. It seemed like all of me was sagging, except for my head, still held high.

In the reflection, I watched myself open the box and slip the jersey over my head, the material sliding over my body until the hem rested right below my ass.

I was surprised how sexy I felt, and I had to go to my walk-in closet with its floor-length mirror to get a better look.

Surrounded by all my clothes and shoes, I stared at myself in the mirror, in disbelief of how cute I looked.

My entire wardrobe was designed to be professional, stylish, powerful. I had the most expensive designer gowns and suits, but I’d never felt as gorgeous as I did with Ford Madigan’s name on my back.

It was a shame I couldn’t wear this jersey tomorrow. Or better yet, every single day.

In consolation, I kept it on as I went to the bathroom and washed away the day’s makeup and released my hair from its twist. My blond locks fell around my shoulders, and for a moment, I allowed myself to wonder what it would feel like to have Ford here with me. To watch him react to me, naked underneath his jersey.

But then reality sank in. An ex-boyfriend’s comments about my schedule here, a complaint about my priorities there. Sometimes I wondered if a relationship could hold two successful people or if one person’s ambition was destined to suck up all the air.

Wasn’t that the case with my former boss, Gage? He’d fallen in love and stepped down as CEO so he could spend more time with Farrah and her children from a former marriage.

I respected his decision to have a family, but it wasn’t mine. I loved my job. I wanted to fall in love too—with someone who understood. Was that too much to ask?

With my mind running wild with fantasies and questions, I slipped under my covers, hit the button to put out all the lights, and slowly fell asleep to the quiet hum of the air conditioner.

I decided to stay in my condo the next day, buckling down without any distractions. I hardly turned my head away from the computer screen until I heard the sound of my front bell. A delivery.

Confused and half-dazed from working so intently, I walked to the front door, rubbing my eyes. I only realized I was still in the jersey when my doorman, a sweet older man in a green and gold suit, gave me a sheepish smile. “For you, Ms. Baird.”

I straightened my shoulders, mustering all my dignity. “Thank you.”

I took the black box from him, wrapped in a black silk ribbon, thinking it looked an awful lot like the gift Ford had given me. But when I walked to my living room and set the box on the coffee table for examination, I realized there was no telling who it was from without opening the package.

A tug of the ribbon was all it took for the material to fall away, and I lifted the lid. Seeing the contents made my lips spread into a smile.

It was a purple blazer, made to look like Ford’s jersey, all the way down to his name and number on the back.

I bit my lip, holding it up, and a piece of white card stock tumbled to the ground. When I picked it up, I instantly recognized the handwriting from the flower delivery.

Like I would let my girlfriend show up to the game without my number on her back .