“You’re right.” I pull it out, not even waiting to get to the counter to crack it open. “Thanks.”
“Hey,” he says when I pull out the stool next to him. “You alright? You look . . . weird.”
Another one for my ego!
“Wow, you sweet-talk all the girls like that?” I take a sip out of the can, looking at him over the aluminum rim.
He gets off his stool, shaking his head. “You know what I mean.” He walks across the kitchen and pulls off a couple of paper towels before coming back. “You look like you were thinking about something and whatever it was, wasn’t good.”
“Oh no.” I take a bite of my taco. There is no better stalling method than a mouthful of food. “I was just thinking about everything on my to-do list.”
Even though that’s a lie, I do have a shit ton of work to do.
“You still working on that thing for Mahler? What is it anyway?” he asks. His jaw clenches beneath his beard the way it always does when Mahler or any of the League’s higher-ups are mentioned.
“Yup, still working on it.” I take one of the napkins he brought over. “And I honestly don’t know yet, but even if I did, couldn’t tell you. I had to sign a nondisclosure agreement last week. So everything stays under wraps until the event itself.”
“You know how I feel about him, so I won’t say much. But I will say watch out, you can’t trust him.”
I don’t tell him I think he’s right, but I also don’t tell him he’s wrong. At this point, it’s not really about trust, it’s about building my résumé and not burning bridges. But Quinton wouldn’t know this because I never told him that my job is out here just dangling by a thread. It doesn’t matter that Quinton might actually be a friend (that word still haunts my dreams) of mine . . . or at least someone I’m friendly with, I’m not sure he would stop taking a knee for me. And more so, I wouldn’t ask him to. It’d feel more manipulative telling him now that we’re getting along than it would’ve when I hated him.
“It’ll be fine.” Considering my past experiences with Mr. Mahler and my luck in general, this might be a bit of an exaggeration. But no need to tell Quinton this—therefore increasing the size of his head—right now. “The entire thing is only for thirty to forty people. How much damage could it do?”
“Pretty sure that’s the question the girl asks at the beginning of every horror movie.” He takes a giant bite of his taco and gives me a chance to let his words sink in.
“You know what? I really don’t like you.” I throw my wadded-up napkin at his head and for once, I actually hit my target. But instead of the immense joy I thought would follow, it’s more like a dull jolt of triumph for accuracy followed by disappointment from the lack of reaction from Quinton and the way it falls so gently to the floor.
“Do you feel better now?” He follows my gaze to the stupid, useless ball of paper on the floor.
“Not even a little bit.” I hope he can hear the warning in my voice. “As an avid Bravo watcher, I’ve seen my fair share of items tossed in people’s faces and I’m not afraid to step my game up.”
“Is that where that one chick flipped the table and was yelling about prostitutes?”
Well fuck me.
Seriously.
I want him to do it.
He watches Real Housewives? He plays professional football, donates his salary to worthy causes, and watches Bravo. I’ve literally never been so attracted to a man in my entire freaking-ass life.
“You watch Bravo?” I ask, but I know it’s too good to be true. That’s probably one of the many things he does with Angela when she’s over here forgetting about her Diet Cokes.
“I’ve watched.” He shrugs before picking up another taco like he didn’t just discover my love language. “My mom likes it, so I’ll watch it with her.”
The visual I get of him watching Real Housewives with his mom and not Angela does things to my insides that I’m not proud of. It’s so sweet to picture him sitting with his mom, not caring what they watch, just wanting to spend time with her.
“I bet you can’t wait to go back home to watch it with her. I’m sure watching the Dallas franchise is even more fun when you’re there.”
“Probably.” He doesn’t meet my eyes and shoves another bite into his mouth. I wonder if he dated one of the housewives? I’m pretty sure one of them was a cheerleader. His shoulders tense up and his jaw does that clenching thing before he tries to hide it with the phoniest smile that I have ever seen. Glad he can throw a football, because acting is def not an option for him. “Can’t wait to go home to see.”
He sounds like he’s stepping on a nail and is doing everything he can not to show me just how much he never wants to go home. Between his dad not coming to the launch or being on the board and his reaction to me mentioning Dallas, something has to be going on. And as a person who understands the desire to keep all family matters under wraps, I drop it.
“Anyways, speaking of things I like to watch”—I really am the segue queen—“Vonnie invited me to go to the next Mustangs game with her. I wanted to run it by you since it’s your box too. I didn’t want it to be weird.”
“Not weird at all. I can just give you one of my tickets if you want, that way you can ride on your own.” All of the tension he was sporting is gone just as fast as it arrived. So much so that I wonder if I imagined it all. “I think that’s the game right before Halloween. I’m not a kid
