Winning the Quarterback (Curvy Girls of Whitetail Falls #5)

Chapter 1 – Nora

The trouble with being a romance novelist is that you start to see meet-cutes everywhere.

That jogger who stops to pet your dog? Potential love interest. The barista who remembers your complicated coffee order?

Definitely marriage material. The guy across the street unloading moving boxes who just happens to have shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of your considerable emotional baggage?

Well…

I adjust my oversized cardigan and sink deeper into my porch swing, pretending to focus on my laptop screen while actually watching him over the rim of my coffee mug.

"I'm not staring," I inform Pudding, my orange tabby, who sits beside me with an expression of profound judgment. "I'm... conducting research."

Pudding's tail flicks in a gesture that clearly translates to: Keep telling yourself that, Nora.

But seriously, what else am I supposed to do?

I've been stuck on Chapter Twelve of my latest manuscript for days, and the universe has kindly delivered distraction in human form.

Tall, broad-shouldered human form, with faded jeans that hug in all the right places and a baseball cap shading what appears to be an unfairly handsome face.

The moving truck backed into the house twenty minutes ago, and I've accomplished exactly zero words since.

The golden October sunlight spills across the street, turning the cascade of fallen maple leaves into a carpet of fire.

Against this backdrop, Mystery Man hefts a box labeled 'KITCHEN' with enviable ease.

"It's professional curiosity," I explain to Pudding, who has begun grooming himself with theatrical disinterest. "What if he's the perfect inspiration for my hero? Derek needs more... dimension."

Pudding pauses mid-lick to give me a weird look.

For the record, I'm not usually the type to spy on my neighbors.

Whitetail Falls is small enough that everyone generally knows everyone's business anyway.

But there's something about New Guy that keeps drawing my gaze back.

Maybe it's the confident way he moves, or how he stopped to help Mrs. Finch corral her recycling when the wind kicked up.

Or maybe it's just that I've spent too many hours alone with fictional people and my judgmental cat.

I attempt to focus on my manuscript. Derek and Jenny are about to have their first kiss after twelve chapters of torturous sexual tension, and I can't quite capture the—

"Pudding! No!"

My cat chooses this moment to make his daring escape, leaping from the swing and darting down the porch steps with surprising agility for a creature who sleeps twenty hours a day.

And of course he heads straight across the street.

I'm on my feet instantly, laptop clattering to the swing. "Pudding! Get back here!"

But my traitorous pet is already halfway to his target: New Guy, who's bent over another box on his driveway.

I hurry after him, my oversized sweater flapping behind me, cursing under my breath. The last thing this man needs on moving day is my cat's unwanted assistance. I've only made it halfway across the street when Pudding reaches him, weaving figure-eights around his ankles.

"I am so sorry," I call out, breathless more from embarrassment than exertion. "He doesn't usually—"

New Guy straightens, and oh.

Oh.

Up close, Mystery Man is even more devastating. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, the kind of smile that feels like a secret being shared. They're hazel, gold and warm like the October light filtering through the trees.

"Hey there, buddy," he says, crouching down to stroke Pudding's head. My cat—my standoffish, people-hating cat—instantly arches into his touch, purring loud enough to be heard from where I stand frozen in the middle of the street.

"Traitor," I mutter.

New Guy laughs, a warm, rich sound that settles somewhere beneath my ribs. "I think we're being insulted," he tells Pudding, who has now flopped shamelessly onto his side, exposing his belly.

"It took me two years to earn belly privileges," I say, finally finding my voice as I close the distance between us. "You managed it in ten seconds. I'm questioning everything I thought I knew about our relationship."

His smile widens, revealing a slight dimple in his left cheek. Dimples should be illegal on men who already look like this.

"I've always had a way with... cats." There's just enough pause before the word to make my cheeks warm.

"I'm Nora," I offer, tucking my hair behind my ear. "Nora Bell. And the shameless attention-seeker at your feet is Pudding."

"Pudding," he repeats, still scratching my cat's chin. "Bold choice."

"He stress-ate an entire bowl of butterscotch pudding when I first brought him home from the shelter. The name stuck."

"A cat after my own heart." New Guy straightens, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. He's tall enough that I feel deliciously small next to him, something I rarely experience as a voluptuous woman who's five-foot-nine in bare feet.

He extends his hand, and I notice the calluses on his palm when our skin meets. "Devin Turner."

I blink. "Turner? As in—"

"My grandmother's place," he confirms, gesturing to the cottage behind him. "She left it to me when she passed last spring."

My mind is spinning. Not just because his hand is warm and large around mine, or because the contact sends a ridiculous tingle up my arm. But because I suddenly realize exactly who I'm talking to.

"You're that Turner," I say stupidly. "Devin Turner. The quarterback."

Something flickers across his face, a tightening around those incredible eyes. "Former quarterback," he corrects gently. "But yeah, that's me."

Devin Turner. Whitetail Falls' golden boy who led our high school team to three state championships before being drafted to the pros.

His grandmother, Eleanor Turner, used to bring newspaper clippings of his games to the book club at Moonlight & Manuscripts, the bookstore where I work three days a week.

"I thought you lived in... Colorado?" I manage, suddenly conscious of my messy bun and leggings with a coffee stain on the knee.

"I did." His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes now. "Time for a change of scenery."

There's a story there, one that makes me itch to know more. Before I can embarrass myself by asking, Pudding chooses this moment to dart between Devin's legs and make a break for the Turner property.

"Pudding, no!" I lunge forward, but it's too late, my cat has disappeared inside the open door of the cottage. "I am so sorry. He's never done this before. I swear I'm not normally the crazy cat lady who lets her pet invade people's houses."

Devin laughs, and this time it sounds genuine. "No worries. I don't have much set up yet, so there's not a lot he can destroy." He tilts his head toward the door. "Want to come collect him?"

And this is how I find myself following Devin Turner, the Devin Turner, into his grandmother's cottage, trying not to stare at the way his t-shirt stretches across his shoulders or how his jeans sit low on his hips.

The interior is just as I remember from the few times I'd visited Eleanor, cozy and dated in the best way, with honey-colored hardwood floors and a stone fireplace dominating the living room. There are boxes everywhere, and most of the furniture is still draped in sheets.

"I'm planning to renovate," Devin explains, catching my glance. "Modernize a bit, but keep the character. Gram would haunt me if I changed too much."

"She was a wonderful woman," I say softly. "She always brought cookies to book club. Said reading without snacks was a crime against literature."

Something warm flickers in his eyes. "That sounds like her." He pauses. "You were in her book club?"

"I work at Moonlight & Manuscripts. The bookstore on Foxglove Lane?"

"The one with the cat in the window and the coffee that smells like heaven?"

"That's the one." I smile, absurdly pleased he knows it. "Though Pudding just comes with me on my shifts because he has abandonment issues."

His laugh echoes through the half-empty cottage. "Somehow I doubt you're the kind of person who abandons anyone."

"There you are, you little monster," I say, spotting Pudding curled up on a sheet-covered armchair by the window. "Time to go home and let Mr. Turner unpack in peace."

"Devin," he corrects. "Mr. Turner was my father, and even he hated being called that."

I move to scoop up Pudding, but he gives me an imperious look and settles more firmly into the chair.

"Apparently my cat has decided to move in with you," I sigh. "I'd apologize, but he's kind of a jerk, so maybe it's your punishment for being too charming with the chin scratches."

Devin watches me with those steady hazel eyes, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. "You think I'm charming?"

"I think you know exactly how charming you are," I counter, feeling a blush rise to my cheeks. "I'm sure you've had plenty of practice."

"Not as much as you'd think." He steps closer, reaches past me to gently collect Pudding, who allows himself to be picked up with unexpected docility. "Here. I'll walk you guys back across the street."

Our fingers brush as he transfers my cat to my arms, and there it is again—that current of awareness, like static electricity but warmer, deeper. His eyes lock with mine for a breath too long to be casual.

"Thanks," I murmur, suddenly finding it difficult to look directly at him. He's like the sun, too bright, too much.

Outside, the golden afternoon light has softened toward evening, casting long shadows across Willowbrook Lane. A breeze sends leaves spiraling between us as we pause at the edge of his driveway.

"It was nice meeting you, Nora," Devin says, hands sliding into his pockets. "You and Pudding."

"You too." I shift my cat in my arms, his warm weight a comfort against my suddenly racing heart. "And, um, welcome back to Whitetail Falls."

He nods, something unreadable crossing his face. "It's... different than I remember."

"Good different or bad different?"

His eyes meet mine again, and this time his smile reaches them, slow and genuine. "Just different. But maybe good. Yeah."

I cross the street feeling his gaze on my back the whole way, and it's only when I'm back on my porch that I allow myself to look over my shoulder. Devin stands where I left him, watching me with an expression I can't decipher from this distance.

He lifts his hand in a small wave before turning back to his boxes.

"Well," I tell Pudding as I set him down on the porch swing, "that was... something."

Pudding yawns, supremely unimpressed.

I pick up my laptop, but the screen has gone dark, the story forgotten. Derek and Jenny will have to wait for their kiss. My mind is too full of hazel eyes and dimples and the strange, sudden certainty that my quiet life has just become considerably more interesting.

Across the street, Devin Turner carries another box inside, and I pretend I'm not watching the way the fading sunlight gilds his profile.

I'm not staring. I'm conducting research…