Chapter 5
Chapter Five
T essa
Landon ends the call, and I look down at his phone in my hands.
He said I could delete the number. My fingers hover over my number, but I can’t do it.
I’m curious if he’ll check, and if he does, if he’ll use it.
I’m not sure that he will. Not after him telling me to remove it, that he wanted me to be the one to give him my number.
In a way, not deleting the call is me giving him my number, right?
“You need anything?” Landon asks from the doorway.
I place his phone on my desk and shake my head. “Thank you for your help, Landon.”
“You’re welcome.” He flashes me his dimples. Surely, he knows the power of those things.
“So, point me where to go next.”
“Down the hall, there are two rooms. We just have cats and dogs and Buckwheat right now. There’s a utility sink, and next to it is a hose that’s hooked up to the water. Just make sure each bowl is full. You shouldn’t have to open the cages.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
“No.”
“I’ll be quick.” He winks and disappears down the hall.
Tilting my head back against the seat, I close my eyes.
I can’t believe this is happening. That I fell, and he was the one there to pick up the pieces for me.
Why did it have to be him? I know I’m crazy.
Any woman would be thrilled to have Landon Barker at their beck and call, but he’s…
too much. Too sexy, too confident, too… everything.
“Hey.” His deep voice pulls me from my thoughts.
Opening my eyes, I see him kneeling next to the chair, a concerned expression on his face. “You okay?”
“Oh, you mean other than the sprained ankle—by the way, thanks for the diagnosis, Doc—and the fact that you have to do my job and take care of me? Sure, I’m just peachy.”
“Come on, Miss Independent. Let’s get you home.” He stands to his full height and begins to remove the ice pack from my ankle.
“Thank you so much for all your help, but I can call Autumn. If we could just switch phones,” I say, grabbing his from the desk and handing it to him.
I should have already called her, but I haven’t.
I don’t want to analyze why that is. I’m just going to blame it on the pain, and maybe it has a little to do with the sexiness of the quarterback who’s been tending to my needs. I mean, my ankle.
My phone rings, and he grins as he pulls it out of his pocket and looks at the screen. He turns it to show me, and it’s Autumn. “See, perfect timing.” I hold my hand out for the phone, but instead of handing it to me, he flashes those damn dimples and swipes at the screen.
“Hello.” He pauses. “This is Landon.” He goes on to explain why he has my phone and what happened. “I’m going to grab her some dinner and take her home.” Another pause. “I can pick her up in the morning.”
“Let me talk to her,” I say loudly, holding my hand out for the phone.
“No, she’s not okay with it.” He laughs. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
“Landon,” I say, my voice stern.
“She wants to talk to you.” He winks as he hands me my phone and takes his, sliding it into his back pocket.
“Hey, Autumn.”
“Sounds like you’ve had an eventful day. How’s the ankle?”
“It’s swollen and hurts to stand. I should be fine resting it tonight.”
“He’s taking you home, huh?”
“I thought maybe—” I don’t say more because I know she knows what I’m getting at.
“Yeah, I would have, but he’s there, and he really wants to help you.”
“What if he’s some psycho killer or something?” I ask, sneaking a look at Landon. He’s leaning against the edge of my desk, legs crossed at the ankles, arms crossed over his chest, and a cocky smirk on his face. Like the adult that I am, I stick my tongue out at him, causing him to laugh.
“He’s not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Jeremy, is Landon Barker a serial killer?” I hear her ask her husband, and I roll my eyes. I hear him chuckle and say no. “See,” she tells me.
“Fine. Can you pick me up in the morning?”
“You have a ride.”
“Autuuuuumn,” I whine.
An evil laugh comes through the line. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Take care of that ankle.” The line goes dead, and I’m tempted to toss my phone at Landon’s smug face.
“Do you have what you need?” Landon asks.
I point to my purse and my lunch bag on the corner of my desk. He picks them up and hands them to me. “Ready?” Before I have a chance to answer, he’s bending and lifting me into his arms.
I squeal a little, which causes a low chuckle to come from deep in his chest. “You know, it feels better. I’m sure I can drive.” My attempt to convince him falls on deaf ears.
He continues to push through the door and carry me to his SUV. “Can you open the door?” he asks.
I hesitate as I think about arguing, but I’m sure he’ll just figure out a way to do it on his own.
Besides, being this close to him, being in his arms, wrapped in all that muscle with his scent surrounding me, it’s doing things to me that it shouldn’t.
I don’t want to be attracted to him, but I am.
I need distance, so I reach out and pull open the door.
He moves it over with his leg and carefully places me in the passenger seat.
“I’m going to go lock up.” He jogs back to the door, makes sure it’s locked, and then jogs back to his SUV. He easily slides behind the wheel and looks over at me. “All right, what are we thinking for dinner?”
“I have food at my house. For me,” I add as an afterthought. “I can eat there.”
“I’m sure you can, but you need to stay off that ankle. Come on, let me buy you dinner.”
My stomach growls. Traitor . I don’t look at him because I know he heard it, as well.
“Fine, a drive-thru. Thank you,” I murmur the last part.
What I don’t say is that I was taking a late lunch.
I wasn’t hungry, so I had planned to walk Buckwheat and then eat before checking on everything and closing for the day.
“You pick.”
“Anything. I’m not picky.”
“Really? So, what if I said I wanted a juicy burger and fries?”
My stomach growls again, and my mouth waters. “I’d say add a large sweet tea and you’ve got a deal.” I can feel his eyes on me as we pull up to the Stop sign. I don’t dare look at him. I don’t want to know what he’s thinking right now.
He reaches for his phone, taps on the screen, and places it to his ear.
“Hey, Henry. I need a to-go order, please.” He rattles off three cheeseburger deluxes, two orders of fries, and two large sweet teas.
“Yeah, I know, but this is a special occasion.” He listens, then says, “Thanks, Henry,” before ending the call.
We drive in silence for the next fifteen minutes, nothing but the low hum of the tires on the road filling the cab. I don’t know who Henry is or where he’s taking us, so when we pull up to the back entrance of a small bar not far from the stadium, my interest is piqued.
“I’ll be right back.”
I watch him as he goes to a back door, enters a code, and disappears inside. Where are we, and why does he have the code to get in? Not that it’s any of my business, but if this is some shady place of business, I should know, right? He did bring me here, after all.
A few minutes later, he’s back and hands me a white paper bag that smells like heaven. “What is this place?” I ask, setting the bag on my lap.
“A bar. The owner, Henry, is a fan of the Cougars. He has a back room, kind of an extension of the main bar area, for the players. Only we have access. It’s a place we can go to kick back, have a beer, and not worry about the fans.
Don’t get me wrong, we love our fans, but sometimes you just want to chill.
I just want to be Landon Barker, not Landon, the Cougars QB. Henry makes that happen.”
“That’s… nice of him.”
“Yeah, he’s done it for years. I take full advantage of it, and his food is melt-in-your-mouth good. This will be the best burger you’ve ever eaten.”
“I don’t know. I’ve had some pretty good burgers in my day. My dad is a machine when it comes to the grill.”
“I’m telling you. The best,” he says, pulling out of the parking lot. “So, where are we headed?” he asks at the Stop sign.
“Make a left.” He does, and just like that, we’re headed to my place. We don’t talk unless it’s me giving him directions. Twenty minutes later, he’s pulling into my drive.
“Nice place,” he says, removing his keys from the ignition.
“It’s not much, but it’s mine,” I say defensively.
“Hey.” He reaches over and places his hand on my arm.
“I wasn’t being rude or sarcastic. I meant it.
” I hate that my defense is up with him.
He’s just a regular guy who happens to get paid a lot of money for doing something he loves and, I must admit, is damn good at.
I love my home, and I’m not embarrassed by it.
I need to chill. I’m letting his career, his fame, cloud my judgment for the man that he is.
The man who’s taking such good care of me.
I nod and reach for the door handle, pushing the door open.
“Stay put,” he says, climbing out of his SUV and rushing to my side.
“I’ll come back for this.” He takes the bag from my hands and places it on the floorboard. “You got your keys?”
I fumble around in my purse, praying that they’re in there and not on my desk back at the shelter. Finally, I feel them and pull them out, holding them up for him. “Got ’em.”
“Okay. I’m going to go unlock the door and prop it open. You stay here. I’ll be right back to get you.”
“I can try and walk,” I counter, and he gives me a look that tells me to stay put.
I go through my mind, trying to remember if my house is a mess.
I’m pretty sure everything is tidy, no bras lying around or anything like that.
Don’t judge. I like to set the girls free once I’m in for the night.
I often do that before I shower so I can get dinner started.
That is, if I’m cooking. Anyway, I’m good. I think.