Chapter 6 #3
But then my eyes drifted to the corner of my desk, catching the shadow of a massive, neat stack of corporate contracts and PR reports waiting for my signature.
Reality slammed back down, heavy and unyielding.
“I can't today,” I muttered, the corporate version of Mars reclaiming the microphone.
“You don't want to?”
There was a quiet, sudden vulnerability in his question that caught me off guard.
“No.
I genuinely can't.”
I spun my chair back toward the glowing monitor of my computer.
“If I want to actually enjoy my weekend without a cloud of impending deadlines over my head, I need to bury myself in this work tonight.”
“Tomorrow at noon,” he stated, his voice ringing with absolute, unshakeable certainty.
The line fell into a heavy pause.
Once again, I let the mental image play out.
A walk through Buffalo Bayou Park under the noon sun.
Hot coffee.
A double chocolate croissant from Oliver's.
And Jalen Carter looking down at me with that steady, devastating confidence.
I leaned back in my chair and stared blindly at the ceiling, my heart beating a little too fast against my ribs.
Against my better judgment, a memory of his face flashed vividly through my mind.
The easy, effortless smile.
The way he carried the weight of a multi-million-dollar franchise on his shoulders but managed to look like he didn't have a single care in the world.
He was completely at ease, even when my own mind was spinning in chaotic circles.
This was dangerous territory.
This was exactly how sensible people ended up entangled in impossible situations, willingly blurring the lines between a clinical business arrangement and personal pleasure.
I let out a long, defeated sigh.
“Okay.”
The line went completely quiet.
"Okay?" he repeated.
There was enough surprise in his voice to make me smile.
"Don't make it weird."
A laugh escaped him.
"I mean... cool. I'll see you tomorrow at Oliver's then?"
"You know Oliver's at lunchtime is impossibly crowded."
"We'll be fine.The confidence in his answer eased me, washing over my lingering doubts like a cool wave.
I considered asking exactly how he planned on navigating one of Houston's busiest lunch spots without causing a full-blown scene, but I had a distinct feeling he already had an answer.
Or several.
Quarterbacks spent their entire lives adjusting on the fly at the line of scrimmage.
A crowded bakery probably didn’t even register as a threat to him.
Either way, I didn't question it.
Instead, a quiet, stubborn anxiety started creeping in around the very edges of my mind.
One football game was a massive, detached spectacle, hidden away in a private suite, shielded by bulletproof glass and VIP security.
A crowded bakery on a Friday afternoon was something else entirely.
It was intimate.
It was exposed.
The thought of walking into a packed room, matching his stride, and sitting across a tiny wooden table from Jalen Carter made my stomach tighten into a hard, nervous knot.
I forced myself to push the thought away before it could grow permanent roots in my head.
This is research, I reminded myself, my fingers tightening around the phone.
A calculated, tactical rehearsal.
Nothing more.
“If you want me focused tomorrow, I'd better actually get some of this work done,” I said, my voice sounding more businesslike than I actually felt.
"Fine."
There was a heavy, warm pause on his end of the line, the kind of silence that made you feel like the other person was smiling.
“I'm looking forward to our rehearsal, Amara."
The sheer amusement dancing in his deep voice made me roll my eyes, though the gesture was entirely wasted on an audio call.
“Of course you are.”
“I am,” he repeated softly, the playfulness dropping into something that sounded entirely too genuine.
I shook my head, smiling despite every single one of my internal alarms.
“Goodbye, Mr. Carter.”
His low, rich laugh followed me all the way through the speaker until the screen went dark.
“Goodnight, Mars.”
I ended the call and stared at my phone for a moment longer than necessary, watching the screen fade to black.
Then, with a deliberate, firm movement, I set it face down on my desk and tried to force my eyes back to the glowing contracts on my monitor.
At least, that was the plan.
The frustrating reality was that I spent the next five minutes staring at a paragraph of legal jargon while smiling at absolutely nothing at allWhen I woke up the next morning, I didn’t immediately jump out of bed.
Instead, I lay there watching the morning light filter through my blinds, the sheer absurdity of the upcoming day settling over me.
Before my internal monologue could spiral into full-blown panic, I reached for my phone and called Nia.
She answered on the second ring, her voice crisp and already alert.
"You're up early."
"So are you," I countered, pulling the duvet up to my chin.
"I've been up since five, girl."
That didn't surprise me in the slightest.
Nia was training one of her college basketball players this morning, which meant she’d probably been running drills and blowing a whistle since before sunrise.
"What's up? You don't usually call this early unless something is on fire."
I took a deep breath.
"Jalen and I are meeting at Oliver's."
A heavy, static-filled pause stretched over the line.
"Nia," I warned, anticipating her brain short-circuiting.
"I'm just thinking," she said, her voice dripping with mock innocence.
"You are not just thinking."
"I absolutely am," she laughed, abandoning the innocence entirely.
"So, tell me. Why are we meeting the franchise quarterback at Houston's premier spot for a public lunch?"
"Apparently, we're doing a public rehearsal before the game tomorrow.
A soft launch."
"Honestly? That's smart."
"It was his idea," I admitted.
"Even smarter. The man has a PR brain hidden under all that talent."
I rolled my eyes, even though she couldn't see me.
"I'm nervous, Nia. Genuinely."
"You should be."
"Thank you so much for the endless encouragement.
You're a spectacular best friend."
"You know what I mean, Mars," her tone shifted, dropping into something softer, more maternal.
"Are you sure you're ready for that kind of crowd? It's lunch at Oliver's. It's going to be a zoo, and people have eyes."
I thought about it for a long moment, staring up at my ceiling.
The truth was, I wasn't sure.
The thought of all those eyes made my throat feel dry.
But I couldn't spend the rest of my life avoiding rooms full of people just because a blurry photo was floating around the internet.
"I mean... I have to be ready at some point. Might as well dive into the deep end."
Her voice softened completely.
"Fair enough. You've got this."
"If I panic, you'll be my designated emergency contact."
"Mars, I already am," she teased. That made a genuine smile break through my nerves.
"Seriously, though. If you need anything, if it gets too loud or people start getting weird, you call me and I will come break up the huddle myself."
"I will. Go finish your training session."
After we hung up, I finally dragged myself out of bed and headed straight for the shower.
The pounding hot water helped settle the frantic rhythm of my nerves, washing away the grogginess and leaving me with a clean slate.
By the time I stepped back into my bedroom wrapped in a plush towel, I felt a little more like myself.
I stood in the middle of my oversized closet, the soft curls from my week-old silk press brushing pleasantly against my bare shoulders and back.
I found myself staring at the racks of clothes for much longer than necessary.
This is coffee, I muttered to myself, shaking my head.
Not a date. Not an event. Not a red carpet appearance.
Why on earth was I acting like I was getting ready for the Met Gala?
Eventually, I forced myself to simplify.
I settled on a pair of fitted black capris, a sleek halter top that hit just right, and my favorite pair of woven espadrilles.
It was simple, comfortable, and undeniably pretty.
I added a few delicate pieces of gold jewelry to catch the light, sprayed a fine mist of my favorite vanilla and cashmere perfume over my wrists, and finished with a minimal makeup routine: tinted moisturizer, a swipe of blush, mascara, a clean lip liner, and a high-shine gloss.
By the time I grabbed my purse and headed out the door, my stomach was already doing standard gymnastics.
Finding parking anywhere near Oliver's was exactly as annoying as I had anticipated.
The surrounding streets were choked with lunch rush traffic, but I finally managed to parallel park into a tight spot half a block away.
I climbed out of the car.
Thankfully, it wasn't too hot yet.
The typical Houston humidity was being kept at bay by a rare, beautiful breeze.
Unfortunately, the pleasant weather did absolutely nothing to slow down my heart, which was currently racing like I was heading into a life-or-death job interview instead of meeting a man for a pastry.
I adjusted the leather strap of my purse, took one stabilizing breath, and started walking down the sidewalk toward the bakery.
Before I could even make it halfway down the block, the sharp buzz of my phone vibrated in my hand.
I glanced at the screen.
Jalen.
I answered immediately, pressing it to my ear.
"Hello?"
"Turn around," his deep voice murmured over the line.
I slowed my pace, my espadrilles scraping slightly against the concrete.
I looked around, confused.
"What?"
"Turn around, Amara."
I turned.
And promptly forgot how to breathe.
Well.
That was unfortunate.
Jalen was crossing the street toward me, and for a second every coherent thought left my body.
The man looked unfairly good.
A light beige overshirt sat perfectly across his broad shoulders over a fitted white t-shirt.
The sleeves were rolled to his forearms, exposing strong tan skin and a watch that probably cost more than my first apartment.
Relaxed dark denim fit him perfectly, paired with clean sneakers that somehow made the entire outfit look effortless.
Just masculine confidence wrapped in six feet of trouble.