Chapter 7
My stomach grumbles as I pull into the parking lot this morning.
I rushed out the door and didn’t have time to eat before I left, and my insides are reminding me.
I barely had time to tie my curls back in a messy bun before hurrying to button up my oversized flannel.
Thankfully, I can at least get dressed here today since I have a stylist for media and interview days.
It’s still the craziest thing to say out loud.
I have a stylist. Who the hell am I? Either way, she’s a saving grace on days like today where choosing an outfit is the last thing I want to do.
Rushing around in the mornings isn’t a normal occurrence for me.
I tend to wake up when the alarm blares—exhausted or not—and move about my day, but I didn’t sleep well last night, or the night before actually.
I’ve always been envious of people who can shut their brain off and fall asleep the second their head hits the pillow.
It’s something I’ve frequently brought up in therapy, actually.
My anxious mind works overtime as soon as the silence sets in.
Sometimes it’s me envisioning scenarios that haven’t happened, working myself up over what ifs. And other times, more often lately, it’s reliving a tragedy. Reliving things that broke me down and brought me to my knees.
The clock ticked on for three hours after I laid down last night before I was able to fall asleep, and then when I did, my subconscious thought I needed to be reminded of the worst day of my life.
Replaying it for me to see again in the form of a nightmare.
I felt myself clawing to wake up. I was screaming at myself, but I couldn’t open my eyes, I couldn’t break free from it.
By the time I finally did, I was sobbing into my pillow.
As I make my way down the hall and toward the hair and makeup room, I hear voices up ahead, somewhere around the corner. I recognize one right away.
My first interview this morning is with none other than Mr. Liam “not a date” Evans.
When I round the corner, I see him standing in the threshold of one of the offices. His head tilts back with a laugh, and I continue on my way, picking up my pace.
He sees me dart by, and I hear him excuse himself from his conversation as he scurries to catch up with me.
“Hey, Dem. In a rush for our coffee date? We haven’t even picked a day yet, but now works for me.”
I stop at the sound of his voice.
“Not a date.” I stare at him unamused. “I’m running late and—” Mid-sentence my stomach makes the most obnoxious sound, and I know he hears it as his eyes widen, trailing my face and head toward my stomach. A playful smile spreads across his lips.
“Hungry?”
“No time. I don’t like eating while Cheryl does my makeup. I think it’s rude and it makes her job harder.” I offer him a smile in return, noticing his hazel eyes fixed on me.
Staring. Judging. Probably looking at the dark circles under my eyes and thinking I look like shit.
But his head tilts softly and he stares at me for a quick moment. His rich dark hair is trimmed and styled perfectly, the hard-set shape of his jaw loosens. His entire face softens.
“Are you okay?”
His question catches me off guard as his voice lowers and loses its sarcastic tone, becoming mellow and sincere. The answer “no” flashes in my mind, but I blink my eyes and swallow the word.
“I’m fine, just in a rush this morning.”
His lips press together into a line and he doesn’t blink as he nods, moving to the side and extending his arm out for me to pass him.
Clutching my notebook under my arm, I pivot past him, but not without one more glance back as I hear his voice again. He could tell something was bothering me. And he didn’t press it. I appreciate that.
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you should eat,” I hear him say as I’m already a dozen paces down the hall.
But I don’t answer.
I still can’t believe I agreed to get coffee with him.
There’s a version of me that wouldn’t have agreed to that if my hair was on fire, but something about the way our conversation flowed that night.
The ease of it. The care he took with his attention.
His words. I’ve always known about his little crush, but something about his presence at the party helped me feel so safe and calm—two feelings that have been hard to come by lately.
Alyssa apologized for interrupting us, but I brushed it off. It’s not like we were discussing anything monumental, although I can admit I did enjoy our conversation.
I haven’t had a deep conversation with someone in months.
My mom has asked me a few times recently if I plan to start dating again anytime soon.
My answer has been no every single time.
But I will admit I miss having someone to talk to all the time.
A constant ear at the end of the day. I guess I lost that long before I actually got divorced, though.
Despite the ever-present uninterested look on my face, I really do enjoy talking to people. I crave it, I think. But that isn’t the vibe I give off and I realize that.
I’ve had a fair share of people—particularly, men—tell me I look intimidating.
I guess looking unapproachable is nice when I don’t want to be bothered. But apparently I look unapproachable to everyone except Liam.
Once hair and makeup are done, I quickly get dressed. Pulling the black pants over my thighs and buttoning the white blouse. A black and white combination is my favorite and I’m thankful my stylist knows me so well.
“This hair is every girl’s dream.” Cheryl approaches on my left as she examines my curls one final time.
“That’s definitely not what I thought at fifteen. I ran a hair straightener over this for so long.” I pull at a curl between my fingers. “I’m surprised they’re still around.”
She takes the makeup poof and gently pats it against my chin, careful not to let anything drop on the white blouse I’m wearing.
As I’m standing in front of Cheryl as she takes one more look over my face, the door of the conference room opens, and a deep, charismatic voice instantly greets everyone.
Glancing over, I smile professionally, but Liam makes a beeline directly for me and extends a small brown bag. His forearm flexes as he holds it up, and I tilt my head in confusion.
“What’s this?” I take the bag from his outstretched hand, and he shoots me a quick, direct reply before he shifts his attention to my producer.
“Eat.”
My fingers grip the bag as I stare blankly at the back of Liam now that he’s turned away. He brought me food?
I peek in the bag, smiling down at the empanada and cup of fruit along with a smiley face on the sticky note. It’s very sweet.
But I pull my lips in, tuck my shoulders back and regain my composure—except not before I pop one of the giant green grapes in my mouth.
He catches my eye from the corner of his, and I mouth a silent thank you as he nods. I probably seemed awkward two minutes ago when he first walked in, but to be fair, who expects the quarterback to show up to an interview with a brown bag of food for the reporter about to conduct their interview?
“Are we ready?” I ask, confidently placing myself between all the men in the room.
“I’m ready.” Liam’s deep voice runs through me.
A grin spreads across his face the moment I turn toward him, and it’s incredibly obvious that he knew my question wasn’t directed at him based on the twinkle in his eye. I’m tempted to roll my eyes at him, but remember I’m standing in front of seven other men as well.
“Well, we’re here to talk about you.” I turn to him and whisper, “And I know that’s your favorite subject.”
Greg gives me a nod, and both Liam and I take our respective seats in the room.
Interviews with Liam are always really well received by fans. There’s a lot of interest in a thirty-something quarterback with stats like his. He’s exciting to watch and fans love his story.
Liam hums to himself as he sits. His long legs spread slightly and his hands come together in his lap.
The dark blue pants and white polo he chose today are complementing him and his sun-kissed skin well.
There’s a mossy green to his eyes today, and I’m starting to think I’m getting a different version of them every time I look lately.
“Would you like to hear about other subjects I’m interested in?” He leans toward me with a whisper.
I fan myself quickly with the papers in my hand. “No, thank—”
But he rattles some things off.
“Puzzles. Anatomy. The Roman Empire. Anything Demi related, really…”
I huff, sitting back in my chair as I shake my head at him spewing off a list.
“Anatomy. Really?” It’s hard to hide my facial expressions on a normal day, but I skip right over the last thing he said.
“Well…” I watch as his eyes scan my face. But just my face. He doesn’t move to my chest or roam my body at all like most—all other men would have. “I like Grey’s Anatomy,” he says.
A laugh rises from my chest at that. It’s such an unexpected response, such a quick, truly genuine reply that makes me laugh like I haven’t in months. Maybe aside from the weekend, when he was also using his witty charms in a very obvious effort to get me to laugh.
His eyes soften as he smiles at me with a lazy grin. I see why the girls love him. Honestly, he’s very charming and has the good looks to put him at the top of anyone’s most attractive athlete list. But if it’s not football, I really don’t think he takes anything seriously.
“Grey’s Anatomy, huh?” I cross my arms. I too have been known to binge some Grey’s in my spare time.
He nods. “When O’Malley died, I lost it.” I watch his hand pull at his jaw.
Noticing the sports watch on his wrist. The veins on his forearm. The gold ring on his pinky finger.
My teeth sink into the inside of my bottom lip as I look at him.
The clapper board slaps in between us. “Camera three, ready.”
My attention snaps to Greg, and I nod.