Chapter 4
FOUR
CAL
I’ve faced seventy thousand screaming fans.
I’ve stood on fourth-and-goal with the season on the line.
I’ve had three-hundred-pound defensive ends trying to rearrange my internal organs.
None of that compares to waiting outside Terminal B in my SUV.
I glance at the arrivals board for what has to be the twentieth time in five minutes. Her flight landed twelve minutes ago. Which means she’s probably grabbing her suitcase.
Or she’s already decided this whole thing is insane and booked the first flight back home.
“Relax.”
I look over at my publicist, Monica. “I am relaxed.”
She snorts without looking up from her tablet. “You’ve checked the terminal doors eighteen times.”
“Eighteen?” I dart a glance.
“Nineteen.” Apparently she really is counting.
Monica has been my publicist for four years. She doesn’t scare easily. She certainly isn’t intimidated by me.
“I still don’t understand why you insisted on picking her up yourself,” she says.
“Because I invited her.”
“So did I.”
“You emailed her itinerary.” I roll my eyes. “I actually want her here.”
She finally looks up. A knowing smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “I know you do. I just wanted to hear you say it.”
I look back toward the sliding glass doors. People stream out in waves. No Jo.
“You’ve never been like this before,” Monica says. “Nervous to meet someone.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You’ve changed shirts twice.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“You also asked me if this one made your shoulders look too broad.”
I answer with silence.
She laughs. “You’ve won awards. Signed multi-million-dollar contracts. Appeared on national television.”
“I know.”
“So what makes this different?”
“I’ve never wanted something to work out so much.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
Monica’s eyebrows lift.
The terminal doors slide open again. A woman steps outside pulling a navy suitcase. Dark hair. Curvy. Denim jacket over a floral dress. A smile I’d recognize anywhere.
My pulse immediately kicks into overdrive. “That’s her.”
“You know from one picture?”
“I know.” She looks exactly like her photos. Except... Better.
Because she’s real and here
My chest tightens. Monica nudges me. “Go.”
My feet suddenly weigh about three hundred pounds. “Now, Cal.”
Right. I climb out of the SUV. The instant she spots me, she smiles. Not a huge smile. A relieved one.
Like she’s just as nervous as I am.
I wave. And cringe. Is waving stupid? She waves back. Okay. Maybe I didn’t do something stupid.
By the time she reaches me, every greeting I’d rehearsed has completely disappeared from my brain.
“Hi.” Wow. I really nailed that.
“Hi, yourself.” She’s smiling.
I like that smile. A lot.
“I...” Say something. Anything. “You look...”
Beautiful. Pretty. Amazing.
“...real.”
Fucking hell. Her eyebrows shoot upward. What’s wrong with me?
“I mean— You’re really here.”
“I’m really here?”
“Yes.” I rub the back of my neck. “I mean...you look like your pictures. Better even.”
She laughs. “You know, I was worried this might be awkward.”
I blink. “You were?”
“Oh, absolutely.” She grins. “And somehow this is even more awkward.”
Some of the tension in my shoulders eases. Maybe I’m not the only bundle of nerves here.
I reach for her suitcase. Our hands brush. A jolt of electricity shoots through me. She notices too. I can tell. But neither of us says anything.
I load her suitcase into the back of the SUV before opening the passenger door. She slides inside. I walk around to the driver’s seat. I introduce her to Monica, who is busy back at work.
The silence starts almost immediately.
I’m suddenly hyper-aware she’s sitting less than two feet away. And she’s looking at me.
Really looking at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her studying my face.
I grip the steering wheel. “Is something wrong?”
“What?”
“You keep staring at me.”
Heat rushes into her cheeks. “I was trying to figure something out.”
“Oh.”
“What?”
She smiles sheepishly. “I’m trying to reconcile the guy who sends me book recommendations with the guy who looks like he wants to fight sports reporters.”
I laugh. “You figured it out yet?”
“Not even a little.”
Before either of us can say another word, Monica leans forward.
“Wonderful. Since you’ve both acknowledged the awkwardness, let’s move on.”
Jo jumps slightly. “I completely forgot you were back there.”
“It happens.”
Monica taps her tablet. “First on today’s schedule is your hotel check-in.”
She swipes. “Then a dress fitting at one-thirty. Hair at three. Makeup at four-thirty. We’ll have you at the gala by six-fifteen.”
Jo blinks. “...I’m sorry. Did you say fitting?”
“Three designers have pulled dresses for you.”
“Three?”
Monica shrugs. “I had to narrow it down.”
Jo slowly turns toward me. “You didn’t tell me about any of this.”
“I didn’t know.”
She laughs. “You didn’t know?”
“I knew there’d be a gala. I didn’t know about...” I gesture vaguely toward Monica. “...all this.”
“He’s telling the truth.” Monica nods. “I stopped informing him of the details because he never remembers them.”
“I remember some things.”
“You forgot your own commercial shoot last Tuesday.”
“That happened once.”
“It happened twice.”
Jo covers her mouth, trying not to laugh.
I catch her eye.
She lowers her hand. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“No...” She smiles. “I think this might be the first interview that proves the internet got you completely wrong.”
I look over at her. “What do you mean?”
She shrugs. “They said you weren’t funny.”
For the first time all day, I stop worrying about saying the wrong thing. Because right now, talking to Jo still feels a little like texting.
And it feels good.
The ballroom sits just beyond a pair of oversized double doors.
Even through the thick wood, I can hear the hum of hundreds of conversations.
Silverware clinks against china. Someone laughs. A photographer calls out another guest’s name.
Monica smooths the front of her blazer before turning to us.
“Remember, you’ll stop on the carpet for photos. Smile.” She points at me. “Especially you.”
“I know.”
“Then you’ll spend about forty-five minutes circulating before dinner.”
“I know.”
“The foundation president wants to introduce you to several donors.”
“I know.”
“And—”
“I know.”
She studies me for a long second. Then her expression softens. “You’ve got this.”
I nod. “I’ve got this.”
I don’t. Not even a little.
Jo steps beside me. She’s wearing the navy gown she’d chosen that afternoon.
Someone would call it simple and elegant.
I call it breathtaking.
She catches me looking. “What?”
I shake my head. “You’re gorgeous.” I swallow. “You look incredible.”
A faint blush colors her cheeks. “Thank you.”
Before I can say anything else, Monica claps her hands. “Showtime.”
She pushes open one of the ballroom doors.
The noise doubles instantly.
A photographer spots us. “Cal! Over here!”
Another voice joins in. “Calhoun!”
Camera flashes explode. My stomach twists. I take one step. Then another.
Every instinct in my body screams at me to turn around.
Smile. Remember to smile. My jaw locks. Don’t look uncomfortable. Too late.
The cameras are already clicking. Someone asks a question. Another microphone appears.
My tie suddenly feels too tight. The room gets louder. Brighter. Hotter. Breathe.
I can’t.
My heartbeat pounds against my ribs. I hear my own name again. Then again. Someone reaches toward me. Without thinking, I reach for Jo’s hand.
She looks up immediately. “You okay?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Not because I don’t want to answer.
Because I can’t. Her expression changes. Concern replaces confusion.
I lean closer. “There are too people.”
It’s barely more than a whisper.
She squeezes my hand. “Okay.”
I nod toward a nearby hallway. “This way.”
She follows without another word.
We move as quickly as we can without attracting attention. Past the ballroom. Past the restrooms. Past the elevators.
I push open the heavy door to the emergency stairwell. It swings shut behind us with a metallic click.
Jo turns toward me. For the first time since we’d stepped out of the SUV, uncertainty flashes across her face.
Her eyes dart toward the closed door. Then back to me. I recognize that look. Oh, fuck. She thinks...
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intend. “I didn’t... I’m not like your ex.”
“I know.”
I drag both hands through my hair.
“I just...” I bend forward, resting my palms on my knees. “I needed...”
I close my eyes. Count to ten. Then I do it again. A warm hand settles gently against my forearm.
“Cal.” Her voice is quiet. Steady. “I’m right here.”
I nod without opening my eyes.
“Can you look at me?”
I manage it. She’s standing exactly where I’d left her. Not crowding me. Not panicking. Just watching me with calm, patient eyes.
“Breathe with me.”
She inhales slowly. I try to match her.
The first attempt is shaky. The second is better. By the fourth... My heartbeat finally steadies.
“There you go,” she says softly.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I ruined tonight.”
“We’ve been here less than two minutes.”
A tiny laugh escapes me. “I guess that’s a record.”
“See?” She smiles. “You’re already making jokes.”
I lean back against the concrete wall. “I hate this.”
“The gala?”
“The people.” I immediately shake my head. “Not the people. Being watched.”
She nods. “I figured.”
“I don’t know what to say.” I let out a slow breath. “I’ve always been like this.”
She waits.
“In school, I’d volunteer to write every group presentation, as long as someone else gave it.” I nod. “I’d rather throw a football in front of eighty thousand people than make small talk with eight strangers.”
Understanding dawns across her face. “If the world only knew.”
“What?”
“You’re not grumpy. You’re just really shy.”
Silence settles between us. Not awkward.
She smiles. “You know...”
“What?”
“I think I can help.”
I tilt my head. “How?”
“You don’t have to carry every conversation. Let me.”
“You’d do that?”
She shrugs. “I ramble professionally.”
That makes me laugh.
She points toward the ballroom. “So. You ready?”
I glance toward the door.
Then back at her.
Not really.