Chapter 23 Andy
Chapter 23
Andy
“ Who are you? ”
The vision of Harlow with her spatula, wielding it like a weapon, has me chuckling all over again despite the fear that was in her eyes. Does she actually believe I could be a criminal there to do them harm?
I’ve never seen a grown man more reluctant to leave a room in my life; worse still when I asked him to give us some privacy before this situation got out of hand and Harlow got more pissed off.
She’s two hot seconds away from kicking me to the curb if I don’t give her some answers right quick.
The truth.
Not the truth I’ve been giving her since we’ve been talking.
We wait, both of us anxious while Steve takes his sweet time hooking Kevin to his leash and slowly—so slowly—shuffling through the front door. His backward glance almost has me cracking up; never have I ever seen a man more wistful and sad to go.
“So.” Her arms are crossed in a defensive pose. “Who are you? What is the deal?”
I laugh, which makes her frown. “The deal is that my name is Andy—but professionally I go by Landon.”
“So you’re not wanted by the FBI or the police?” She nods slowly. “Just to clarify once and for all.”
“No.”
“If you’re not a murderer—as I already suspected you were—then what are you?”
“Any guesses?” The minor football comments I gave were a small clue, but they seem to have gone over her head.
“Why does it seem like my dad recognizes you? That makes no sense. None at all.” She gives her head a shake, and I wish she would let me put my arms around her.
This is not going the way I expected it to.
“What are you here interviewing for?” She raises one brow. “A reporting job for the team?”
A reporting job? Uh—that is the longest stretch of a guess I have ever heard.
“Nope. Keep guessing.”
I like this game.
It’s fun—for me, at least.
“Ugh.” Her hands go up, frustrated. “I don’t know! I’m not good at this.” She groans. “Are you, like, one of those guys who competes in Ironman competitions? Or CrossFit or whatever it’s called? Is that why you’re so buff?”
I rub my chin. “That’s actually a really good guess. But no.”
“Just freaking tell me,” she grumbles. “Before my dad gets home and the moment is gone for us to have privacy. I have a feeling he’s going to be on your ass like bees on honey.”
Ya think?
“I’m a professional athlete.” There. I said it.
Phew!
What a relief.
She cocks her head. Laughs. “Shut up, no you’re not.”
“I’m not?”
“Pfft, no!” She laughs some more. “Oh my God, I can’t even imagine. That would be hilarious.”
“Uh ...” Now it’s my turn to be insulted. “Why do you think I couldn’t be a professional athlete?”
“’Cause. You’re too tall and you’re too ...” Her hands flail around as she searches for the word. “Nice.”
“You think I’m too nice?” Is that a thing?
“Obviously I think you’re nice, or I wouldn’t be hanging out with you. Athletes are giant assholes.”
She’s making this harder than it has to be.
“They are?”
Harlow smirks at me. “Are you going to respond to everything I say with a question?”
“Probably. Until you say something that makes sense.”
Her jaw drops open. “Hey! That was a rude thing to say!”
“Not as rude as you telling me I’m too tall and too nice to be a professional athlete!”
This conversation is ridiculous.
I wish I’d had the forethought to record it; listening to it would be hours of cheap entertainment. Dex would piss himself laughing if he heard us bickering about this.
I cross my arms, mimicking her pose. “How do you know athletes are giant assholes? When was the last time you met one?”
She tilts her chin up defiantly. “Uh—I live in Green Bay, we have tons of athletes here. It’s a small town.”
“Okay, but when was the last time you met one?”
“I was at the gym once, and Calvin Brewer came in.”
Calvin Brewer actually is a giant asshole, but I keep that bit to myself because she is graspingggggg. “What did he say to you that was rude?”
She scoffs. “He didn’t have to say anything—I could tell by the way he walked.”
I laugh, tipping my head back. “You could tell by the way he walked? Oh brother. That’s a new one.”
“Yes. He walked like he had a stick up his ass.” She lets out a humph to punctuate her sentence.
What a little shit she is being!
“So that’s your extensive research? One dude walking with a stick up his backside? That would never stand in the scientific community.”
Harlow smiles, giving me the satisfaction that I amused her. “Okay. To your point, let’s say you actually were an athlete. What were you doing wandering around New York all willy-nilly. Anyone could have recognized you.”
She sounds pleased with herself.
Like she cracked the code!
“ Wandering around New York all willy-nilly? ” I repeat, mouth literally hanging open. “First of all, a guy at the Statue of Liberty recognized me, but for the most part, in New York, no one gives a shit. Hence the reason I like it there. ’Cause no one gives a shit.” She’s obviously not familiar with the reasons celebrities and millionaires flock there.
Anonymity.
“These are my football hands.” I hold them up so she can see. “I am Andy—but professionally, I go by Landon Burke.”
“Interesting,” she squints at me. “All right, Mr. Football Hands. Prove your identity.”
I grin, pleased with myself for backing her into a corner and ready to prove my point.
“Oh, I’ll prove my identity to you all right.” I have a bone to pick with her—it’s grating on my nerves that she won’t accept my explanation, and not only that, she seems to be mocking me.
Plus, I love winning. I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she finds out she’s wrong and I’m right.
Ha!
I pull the phone from my back pocket and notice a missed call from Trent and a text from the driver, letting me know that he’s nearby at a hotel should I need anything.
I poke open the web browser and type in my own name, Landon Burke.
Hit Search.
Instantly my face, name, and bio appear on the screen, along with a history of teams I’ve played for. Photos.
Lots and lots of photos.
“He is me. I am him,” I say by way of explanation, holding my phone to her so she can take it, and when she does, her face falls.
Harlow’s skin pales as her eyes skim my cell, getting visibly ...
I don’t know what that look on her face means, and I’m not sure I like it.
She stares.
Blinks.
Stares some more before giving me back my phone with shaking hands.
“What does this mean?” Harlow steps back to lean against the counter, cradling her face in her palms. “Oh my God, you must think I am such an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot—this is my fault.”
“Why didn’t you say anything? You had, like, a million opportunities!”
I mean—yes, I had many opportunities. The hotel room, the conversation about jobs, the second I arrived on her doorstep. But the words are not easy, especially knowing that, in a way, I duped her.
Honestly, most people recognize me. And if they don’t, they pick up on clues from the people around them. Our circumstances were different—I love the privacy we’ve had when we’re together, being low key and inconspicuous. The fact that Harlow did not know who I was?
Loved that even more.
“I didn’t say anything to you about who I am because I didn’t want to burst your fun bubble by making it weird. I also didn’t want to tell you that I was visiting New York because New York wants me to play football for them. And”—I shrug—“I don’t know. I wanted our time together to be carefree and fun, which it was. And I wanted to keep it that way and not let this get in the way.”
“This”—she uses air quotes around the word—“being, oh gee, I don’t know, that apparently you’re the hottest thing since sliced bread.”
“Harlow. Babe.” I lay my hand on her arm and tell her as gently as I can: “No one says sliced bread anymore.”
“Shut up, you asshole!” She bursts out laughing. “This isn’t the time to joke around, this is serious.” She nibbles her bottom lip. “Do you actually live in Seattle?”
“Yeah—I play for the Mountaineers.”
“The Mountaineers.” She tests the word out, blowing a puff of air before admitting, “I have no idea what to say to that right now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what, having a job ?”
“No. I’m sorry I kept the truth from you.”
“I mean, as far as lies go, there are probably worse lies a man can tell. In fact, I should be doing cartwheels and jumping up and down, shouldn’t I?”
I can’t stop from smiling. “That would be the preference at this juncture, yes.”
“So wait.” The pieces are clicking together in her brain. “What are you doing in Green Bay? Did you come to see the team, or are you here to see me?”
I nod. “Yes.”
Harlow giggles, thank God. “What does yes mean? Stop doing that.”
She’s so fun to tease.
“It means ... once I told my agent I was coming to Green Bay to see you, he immediately called the team. It makes sense to set up a meeting with them.” I stuff my hands in my pockets to prevent myself from reaching for her. “The meeting is tomorrow morning—they’re pretty gassed up to see me.”
When I say gassed up , I mean they’re fucking excited to have gotten the call.
My camp’s call to them came out of the blue; obviously they weren’t on my radar. But, hey—I invited myself to their table. Why not hear what they have to say?
“But. Green Bay hasn’t been to the Super Bowl in forever.” Her face is scrunched up. “That much I know.”
One of my shoulders rises and falls. “Eh, that’s not true. Ten years isn’t that long in football years. All they need is one or two key players to make it happen—they don’t have the right combination at the moment, and it only takes one player to change the dynamic.”
She nods slowly up and down, processing my words. Letting them sink in baby bits at a time, and I’m still afraid to touch her.
“When were you going to tell me your real name?”
“I’m telling you now.” I pause. “Andy is my real name.”
“Please.” She scoffs. “You were forced to tell me because my father busted us making out in the kitchen.”
“We were about to fuck; no one was making out.” Give me some credit.
She gives me an eye roll instead. “You know what I mean. Would you have told me before you left?”
I nod enthusiastically. “Totally. Yes. That was the plan.” Ninety-nine percent yes. “I have no idea what my plan would have been, but I would have said something—I don’t want us to stay inside every time we’re together because I have to hide. I want to go places with you.”
That seems to make her happy. She beams, hiding her smile in the collar of her sweatshirt like she doesn’t want me to see it.
“I don’t know how I feel about dating someone famous,” Harlow mumbles.
I get that.
“I suppose I’m more well known than some of my teammates, but there’s nothing wrong with that. Aren’t you relieved that I didn’t turn out to be a freeloader? Or a crook. Or the Tinder Swindler?” For real. Some people would give their left nut to find out the person they were dating was famous. Or better yet, royalty. “At least I don’t have to ask you for burrito money.”
She cracks a smile. “I don’t know how I feel about this. It’s a lot to take in.”
“What’s the hesitation?”
Harlow’s mouth pulls down at one corner. “No hesitation. It’s just that I’ve seen some of the football wives around town when their husbands are playing, and they’re not always nice people.”
“Not nice people? It’s not nice to stereotype.” She wouldn’t know unless she met them face to face or spoke to them. You cannot judge a person by what you see on the internet or how someone strides when they walk past you at the gym.
She looks disconcerted.
“You’re right, it’s not nice to stereotype. And you’re right—I haven’t actually met any of them. I haven’t met Calvin Brewer.” She laughs. “I’m just making assumptions based on how they look.” Harlow lets out the loudest sigh. “Now I feel like a giant asshole, ugh! I think I’m just projecting because I am not like those women.”
“You might have a lot in common with them. Obviously I know most of my friends’ wives and girlfriends, and some of them are pretty fucking awesome, the same way you’re fucking awesome.”
They are going to love her.
“Stop.” She demurs. “Now you’re just trying to butter me up.”
“I have to butter you up?”
“No.” She grins. “I guess not.”
Good girl.
Daddy like.
“Okay. Deep breath before this entire conversation gets totally off the rails—let’s not focus on other people. Let’s focus on us.”
I remove my hands from my pockets and get closer, pulling her in. Put my hands on her shoulders and squeeze, rubbing them gently, my large palms then running down her arms.
Back up again, massaging.
Harlow moves her head from side to side as if she’s stretching her neck out or angling for a proper massage.
A naked massage would be great right about now.
Statistically, most massages lead to sex, in case you weren’t aware.
“You plus me. That’s all that matters right now.”
“I know that, babe.” Harlow smacks a hand over her mouth, horrified. “Oh. My. God. I did not just call you babe!”
She moves forward, pressing her forehead against my bare chest.
“Please forget I said that, oh my God , please let the ground swallow me whole.” She’s moaning and carrying on, so the only logical thing to do next?
Kiss her.
Kiss her anxieties away.
It only takes a few seconds for her to melt in my arms—seriously, I’m not exaggerating. Her arms come around my neck and pull me down so she has better access to my mouth, her fingernails raking up and down the back of my neck.
That’s her thing.
She loves my hair.
Loves having her fingers in it.
With almost no effort, I lift her at the waist and set her on the counter, the same way I set her there earlier.
“ You like that, baby? ” I tease, practicing baby talk and endearments. “I don’t hate you calling me babe, and if you want to call me sweetie or shnookums, I wouldn’t hate that either. That’s what couples do, yeah?”
She pulls a face. “Um, I think it’s too soon for us to be talking like that. This is, like, our second date.”
Ha ha, it is. But so what?
“Some people get engaged after one date.”
She pulls back so she can look at me. “Who?”
“I don’t know—people.”
“You don’t know what people.” Harlow laughs, pulling me in, wrapping her arms around my waist. “Stop making shit up.”
“I need you. No one else is going to tell me to stop making shit up and give it to me straight.” She should learn now I’m used to getting the things I want.
“Does everyone always do what you say?”
“Not everyone. Strangers mostly, like the woman at the hotel who bent over backward to make us breakfast snacks.” Even though it was billed to my room and was far from free.
“That was nice of her.” Harlow’s face is tilted up toward mine. “And it was so sweet of you to put that whole day together for us back in New York. No one has ever done anything like that for me.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
She’s warmed up. Happy.
She has stars in her eyes, and if I just slide my hands under her shirt, I can cop a feel of her gorgeous tits, whisper about her sexy pussy and how tight she felt when I was inside her earlier.
“Did you know you purr when you’re about to come?”
“I do not!” She laughs.
Her hands are on my ass, squeezing. They move along the waistband of my pants, inching around to the front, down over my pleasure trail, straight to my—
“Harlow Margaret!”