The Trouble With Quarterbacks - R.S. Grey Page 0,91
gets worse from there. I’m asked by two different groups to give them my autograph. What in the world do they want with my chicken-scratch letters on a stained cocktail napkin? I laugh and try to play it off as if they’re kidding, but they insist, and well…I don’t want them to think I’m some snotty brat, so I do it, but I feel crummy afterward, like they think I’m someone more special than I am. I’m a total fraud—or at least that’s the way it feels. Neither of the groups leave decent tips, which just goes to show you how annoying people can be sometimes. I’ve worked my arse off the whole night and I have barely anything to show for it. Still, I count out the bills and set most of them aside in my head to send to Mum in the morning.
I had a long chat with her last night, same ol’ same ol’: her trying to insist they don’t need money, me not budging on the subject. She asked about Logan, and I told her we’re proper dating, girlfriend/boyfriend and everything. Even with the press and such, she still didn’t quite believe it and made me swear I wasn’t pulling her leg.
After I grab my purse and mobile from the employee break room in the back of District, I head for the exit, more than ready to be done with my shift. I’ve gotten used to seeing Pat waiting out on the curb for me, so when I spot an unfamiliar sleek black SUV in his spot, I frown, assuming he’s forgotten to pick me up.
I turn toward my subway stop, a bit mopey that I have to trek home like a normal person, when the front door of the car opens and out walks Logan, rounding the front so he can get to me.
I stand there on the sidewalk like a total knob, just soaking him in.
He’s a sight for sore eyes, that’s for sure, all hunky and done up in a black button-down and slacks. He’s dressed up, and I remember that he had a fancy dinner tonight with Nike. He must not have changed out of his clothes yet. Yummy.
“What are you doing here?” I ask with a smile I can’t quite keep from spreading across my lips.
“Picking up my girlfriend,” he says, with a slight tug of his brows like he’s almost offended by the question.
“You didn’t have to do this. You’re probably dead on your feet. I can make it home on my own.”
There’s not even an argument from him. He just moves behind me and starts prodding me toward the passenger side of the vehicle.
“I’ve never seen you drive before,” I point out.
“You sound impressed.”
“I suppose I am. Is that silly?”
He laughs and helps me up into the seat. I’m quite useless, apparently, because he takes it upon himself to buckle me in place too. He gets really close and leans over to click the seatbelt into the little slotty thing, and well, I take full advantage of his position. I inhale his cologne and melt into the seat. He turns to look at me, his eyes as dark as my thoughts.
I lean in and kiss him, and he must have expected it because there’s no shocked delay, just a responsive mouth and a little bite on my bottom lip. God. I want him and he bloody well knows it, because when he breaks the kiss (much too soon, if you ask me) and leans back out of the car, he’s wearing a cocky grin as if he knows everything I’m thinking.
He shuts my door and heads back to his side. I scan the sidewalk for paparazzi, but for once, we’ve lucked out.
I don’t even ask where we’re headed as he pulls away from the curb. I know he’ll take me back to his flat, because that’s exactly where I want him to go. Usually, I’m a Chatty Cathy with him, but right now, I’m too on edge. I keep glancing over out of the corner of my eye, taking in his profile in repose as he deftly navigates the city streets. His hands on the steering wheel are all big and veined. Not too much, you know, like the scary blokes who resemble the Hulk, but enough to make my belly tighten with desire.
His shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his forearms tanned and toned. I really stare at him, long enough that he glances over, and I