The Trouble With Quarterbacks - R.S. Grey Page 0,45
it’s not as if I’ve just arrived. I’ve been here for a while. I got here before you and did a little snooping around.”
He peers up at me with an arched brow. “Find anything good?”
“Just your stash of itty-bitty condoms. I didn’t know they made them so small.”
A normal bloke would probably get real defensive, but the grin Logan aims my way tells me he’s not bothered by my joke in the least. Why? Because it couldn’t be further from the truth.
I gulp down a heaping mouthful of wine after he passes me my glass, and I distract myself by strolling into the living room and walking over to a large window with an expansive view of Manhattan.
The city skyline is dark with ominous black clouds bulging overhead. Off in the distance, a bolt of lightning pierces through the blackness, and I scrunch my nose, already anticipating how soaked I’ll get on the journey home. Bugger.
“It’s supposed to pour,” Logan says, strolling into the room and looking at the weather forecast on his mobile. “You can’t leave until it’s cleared up.”
“It’s not like I’ll be walking. Surely Pat could give me a ride if I asked him nicely enough?”
“I don’t want either of you out on the wet streets. Driving in the city is crazy enough as it is.”
“Oh I see how it’s going to be.” I twist around to face him. “Quite controlling, are you? Used to getting your own way?”
His eyes narrow on me. “You’ll leave after it stops raining.”
As if on cue, thunder rumbles outside, and I shrug, not quite willing to put up a fight. I like my company and I like my wine; it can’t hurt to linger a little while longer.
Logan walks toward one of his long sofas and sits down, stretching his tall frame out so he looks positively royal sitting there, all confident and at ease. He has one arm slung over the back of the sofa and one ankle resting on his other knee so he’s aimed in my direction.
I stay standing near the window as I sip my wine, looking at him from top to bottom. I try to find any imperfections I’ve missed in the previous times we’ve been together. Unsurprisingly, I come up short.
“Tell me why you’re not taken,” I blurt, suddenly feeling mad with curiosity.
How’s it possible he’s available? What dark secrets is he hiding?
His brows furrow in thought, and he glances down at his glass. “It’s not from lack of female companionship.”
“Oh. Ohhh, I see. Have you slept with every girl in Manhattan then?”
His dark eyes slice up to me and I zip my lips.
“I’ve had girlfriends, Candace. But no, I don’t think I play the field—not like a lot of my other teammates do.”
“So, it’s not because you’re a player. Hmm…so then what is it?”
“I could ask you the same thing, you know?” He juts his chin toward me. “How is it possible that you’re single?”
I choke on my wine and have a hard time clearing my throat. Eventually, I manage it, but he’s not going to let me off the hook. He’s still sitting there, calm and composed, waiting for my reply.
I shrug and try to play off his question while I pace back and forth in front of the window. “Oh, who knows? Maybe I haven’t been able to find a guy who’s worth bothering with. I have a busy schedule, and the last few blokes I’ve been with seemed to enjoy playing games more than they enjoyed being with me. It was always a struggle to figure out who was going to text who first. Who was going to make the first move? Who was stringing the other along? It gets old.”
I look away before he answers. “I feel the same way, except my games involve slightly higher stakes. Ever since I started to shine on the football field, I’ve had to wonder what women really want from me. Some like the limelight. Some like the notoriety of dating someone they feel is important. I doubt I’ve had a woman love me for me in a very long time.”
His words sit heavy in my chest, and I peer over at him with a frown.
“Total idiots, the whole lot of them.”
He smiles and shrugs, refocusing his attention on his wine glass. “On top of all that, I don’t have all the time in the world to devote to relationships. It’s not worth it to try to reconfigure my schedule for someone I’m not