Chapter 3 #3
With that, I find myself being walked home by the quarterback. With the brim of his cap down low over his head and his hands
tucked into his pockets, no one seems to notice who he is. He still draws glances; a tall, fit guy with a strong jawline will
always get attention. But we walk along unhindered.
Crossing Bourbon Street is a show, as usual. Music blares from all corners, country from one bar, rock from another, blues
down the street. Drunks and gawkers flow past us like geese in a flock.
Finn steps closer to me, his arm brushing mine. “You see,” he says, bending low to my ear. “I might have been swept up by
the mob if you weren’t here to guard me.”
I snort. “I’m sure it would have been horrible. Dozens of strangers all vying to buy you a drink.”
“Endless women showing me their tits,” he says with an expansive sigh. “And me without any beads to give them.”
“I doubt they’d mind.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle as he looks at me from under his brim. “No. But I’d rather be with you anyway.”
I’m not one to blush. I blame the heat in my cheeks on the balmy night air. “I’m not sleeping with you,” I blurt out.
“All right.”
“All right?”
A laugh leaves him in a huff of breath. “You expect me to beg?”
“No. Of course not. I just . . . that was easy.”
His big shoulders lift in a shrug. “I’m an easygoing guy.”
“At the risk of sounding paranoid, this all feels odd. Like you’re playing me.”
His lips quirk. “You do sound paranoid. Tell me, does this paranoia affect all areas of your life, or is it just with men?”
We cross Canal at a brisk pace before the light can turn. “I’ve never been walked home by a man without him expecting something,
Dr. Phil.”
“You’ve been walking home with the wrong men, Chess.”
No one knows this better than me. But I slow my steps. “Look me in the eye right now,” I say to him. “And tell me that you
have walked a woman home without intending to get in her pants.”
He halts, which has me stopping, too. From the bar on our right comes the sound of Elvis crooning about how he can’t help
falling in love. It’s loud and sappy and fills the resounding silence between us as we stare at each other in challenge.
Guilt skitters over his expression, but he tries to hide it. “I have walked a woman home without intending to get into her
pants.”
My eyes narrow, and his lips curl in a slow smile. “I’m doing it right now,” he points out.
“You’re impossible,” I tell him with a laugh and start walking again.
“Charming,” he counters. “You know, I don’t actually have sex with every woman I talk to, Chess.”
“You don’t?”
“So dubious.” He nudges me with his shoulder. “I do have some standards.”
“And they are?”
He gives me a cheeky look. “Whether or not I want to have sex with them.”
“Your vetting process is foolproof, I’ll give you that.”
Finn shrugs again. “Attraction is instant, for the most part. Whether it burns and grows or flickers out and dies after you
talk to someone is the key.”
“Look at you, with your insight. And here I thought you had all the wisdom of a fortune cookie.”
“My wisdom is worthy of at least a pamphlet.”
“Tell me something . . .”
“Anything,” he says agreeably.
“If you only have one-night stands, how can you possibly talk to someone long enough to know if the attraction will grow?”
He opens his mouth and then shuts it. A reluctant smile tugs at his lips. “Okay, you got me. My criteria basically consists
of, can I stand her for the next two to four hours? But it still holds true.”
“I want to call you a pig right now,” I say with a shake of my head. “But at least you’re honest.”
“Most football players are. Our world is pretty blunt.”
I’ve judged him. The realization is a slap to the face and not pleasant. Yes, he is blunt, which I knew from the start. And
yes, his sex life is fairly shallow; he’s admitted as much. But he’s clearly intelligent and kind. Not the soppy sort of kindness
that seems to be more about showing off than actual caring, but a quiet, unobtrusive thoughtfulness that’s unexpected and
lovely.
Too soon, we’re at my building. Finn shoves his hands in his pockets and gives me a gentle smile. “Well, then.”
“Well . . .” My voice trails off.
The impact of Finn Mannus is immense. It’s not the way he looks, although he is certainly blessed there; it’s the intensity
of his focus, as if you are the most important thing in this golden god’s world. An illusion, but no less potent.
And no less awkward when our stare stretches on, neither of us saying another word.
He looks at me as though he knows exactly what’s going on in my head; which is funny, since I don’t have a clue. I don’t want
to leave this spot, and yet I don’t want to invite him in either.
And he isn’t exactly asking to come up. Irritation swells within my chest. For the first time in ages, I’m dithering.
“So,” I say through stiff lips. “Thank you and good night.”
That smile of his returns. The one that’s slow and easy. The one that graces billboards and sells millions in athletic wear.
“It’s gonna be like that, huh?” he teases. “No, ‘see you around’ or ‘let’s have lunch.’ Just ‘bye’?”
I’m facing down the man equivalent of devil’s food cake. But years of shitty hookups and bad dates have given me strength.
“I also said thank you.”
The lines of his face go tight for a second, and I wonder if I’m seeing disappointment. “You’re welcome, Chess.” He takes
a step back, already becoming part of pedestrian traffic. “Sleep well.”
I go into my building and don’t look back. But I want to.
My day doesn’t go well. At all. I’d tossed and turned all night long, finally falling asleep when the sky had turned dove gray.
Having forgotten my phone in my purse, I overslept, not hearing my wake-up alarm.
Which means I’m not able to take a shower before James arrives and, right after him, the next group of football players I’m supposed to shoot.
So I’m stuck with lank hair and a stiff neck from sleeping the wrong way.
James somehow manages to knock over a light, breaking it and putting me out of several hundred dollars. He’s so upset, I can’t
find it in myself to do more than pat his shoulder and refuse to let him pay for it.
The guys I’m photographing are nice and cooperative, which should put me in a better mood, but somehow it makes it worse.
They remind me of Mannus. How can they not? These are his teammates, his friends. Every joke they toss out, every good-natured
chuckle and charming smile they send my way, makes me think of him.
I imagine how he’d joke with them. How he’d take up the space in the room without even moving a muscle. The sad truth is he’s
doing that without even being here.
I don’t want to think about him. But the man must have witchcraft in his veins, because he’s managed to haunt me after only one day of
knowing him.
Worse, I feel wrong for having left him at my doorstep last night. It’s ridiculous. He probably forgot about me before he
even reached his home. We hung out for a few hours, made each other laugh. That’s it. Move on.
One of the guys, a big wall of man flesh named Carson, idly jokes that if Manny oiled up for games, it would make him harder
to tackle and, thus, his job easier.
Dubois, another offensive lineman, tsks at Carson. “Manny already is a slippery motherfucker. You just want to see him oiled
up.”
Don’t we all?
I drop my camera. On my toes. “Shit!” I bend down to inspect my camera, thanking the gods that my poor throbbing toes spared
it from damage.
Neither of the guys notice.
“Oil this.” Carson grabs his crotch, now thankfully clothed, and hefts his handful.
“No one is oiling anyone or anything but me,” James announces, which makes them all blush and stammer.
Foot hurting, muscles aching, I do my job, hoping to get everyone out of my house as soon as possible. But it’s not until
five in the afternoon that I’m alone.
Finally.
Except, for the cherry on top of my shitcake day, I get my period a week early, and don’t have enough tampons left to get me through it.
Grumbling, I toss on some black lounge pants and my oversize Tulane T-shirt and head to the drugstore.
My head throbs by the time I get there, and my insides are writhing. I rest my hand against my lower stomach and grab a basket
before calling James to complain.
“I swear,” I tell him as I grab a bottle of painkillers. “It’s like this entire day has been cursed.”
He snickers. “Curse. Get it? The Curse?”
I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see me. “Laugh it up. Meanwhile, it feels as if someone is playing Battleship in my uterus.”
“Poor Chessie Bear. At least we know why you were in such a foul mood.”
A flush washes over my cheeks. “Yeah.” Lie. Lie. Lie. A tub of salted caramel gelato makes its way into the basket.
“Tell me you’re getting some gelato,” James says.
I smile. “Just grabbed it.”
“Salted caramel?”
“You know it.”
I find the feminine products aisle and search for my brand. “I’m going to go home, take a long bath with my gelato, and forget
this fucking day.” Forget Finn. “And then I’m going to go on and buying a freaking year’s supply of tampons so I don’t have to make these kinds of
emergency runs anymore.”
A low, deep chuckle rumbles from behind me, and all the tiny hairs lift on my arms.
“But you’ll still need your gelato,” a familiar—fuck me, seriously?—voice points out.
My insides swoop even as my cheeks burn.
“Who is that?” James asks in my ear.
I slowly turn on one heel. “The plague,” I say, glaring up at Finn Mannus’s smiling face.
“From asshat to plague.” Finn scrunches up his brow. “I’m not sure if that’s a step down or a tie.”
“Who is that?” James nearly yells now.
I don’t take my eyes off Finn. “I’ll call you back.” James’s squawks of protest cut off as I hit the end button. “Are you
stalking me, Mannus?”
Finn rests his hands low on his lean hips. “Having a healthy amount of conceit myself, I admire yours, but no, buttercup.