Chapter 13 #2
It’s just as well because I need to find Maguire and get to the press conference.
In the hall outside the press room, I pace around after it’s over, but I don’t see Fontanna.
Maguire’s gone and sent in the clips though they’re all monotone except for a few choice jokes from Gabe Wyatt talking about Fontanna.
Every single reporter there asks every player and coach who takes the podium what they think of Fontanna’s spectacular play, and they all of course agree that it was stupid crazy good and of course they expect nothing less of him.
Foley stops me mid-pace. “What’s with you?”
“Waiting.” I shouldn’t even say that much, but what the hell. Foley already knows the score—or as much as anyone knows.
“Let me guess, for Fontanna?”
I resume pacing without an answer.
“Me and a couple of others are going over to Louie’s tonight. Maybe I’ll see you there,” he says. I stop, hiding the panic rising in me. Fuck. Tate’ll kill me if he thinks I’ve invited them.
“Don’t go on my account,” I say without expanding. Foley shrugs, playing my too-cool game. What I really want to do is beg him to go somewhere else, but I’m fifty-fifty on whether that would backfire. Fontanna’s right not to trust the media. Not with things you want kept quiet, anyway.
And Fontanna and me isn’t something I want blasted about.
I know his friends aren’t going to spread it around, but I’m not so sure about Foley, et al.
, since it’s their business to spread news around.
My only angle is that it’s far from news.
Too bad in this social media age, gossip is news and anything goes in tweets and Instagram posts.
I don’t even want to think about YouTube.
“I thought you wanted to hang out with us reporters? Now we’re not good enough for you?” I know he’s teasing, but maybe not completely. He may be looking to make me part of a story. Am I getting as paranoid as Fontanna now or what?
“Don’t you ever take time off the record, Foley?” It’s as good as an accusation, assuming he’s grilling me to write about it or use it in a story.
“Get over yourself, Smitty.” He puts his hands up.
“This isn’t an interview. You’re safe with me.
” I nod, letting him off the hook as he walks away.
I owe him an apology and if I see him, I’ll buy him a drink.
I need friends in this business. I need friends, period.
So far I have Maguire, Henry—sort of, Cat, Max, and Sean.
Maybe Gabe. Foley if he’s still talking to me.
Fontanna I can’t count as a friend. Lover is a whole different category than friend and too close to being on the enemy side. Fontanna and I are definitely riding that edge. All the fucking time. Maybe that scary exciting edge is what has me hooked.
Speak of the devil, my phone beeps and I check it. Fontanna sent me an email telling me to meet him “there.” As if someone’s going to hack into his text messages to find out where we’ll be.
I shove my phone into my bag and dash for the door, my heels clacking on the industrial tile of the hallway as I head for my car.
The parking spot I find is a block and a half away and, when I arrive, my suspicion is confirmed.
Louie’s is hopping, crowded with diners and a full bar.
Glancing upstairs, I see that the balcony lounge is full too.
After a few seconds of standing back to observe, sight unseen, I find what I was afraid of.
Foley’s sitting at the end of the bar with a couple of other guys and a woman I recognize.
Guess I can count myself lucky Sarina’s not here.
Louie approaches, playing host for the night, and welcomes me.
Putting a hand behind my back, he says, “We’re expecting you.
Come right this way.” And he escorts me past the bar, through the packed main dining room, and around the corner to a private room.
I manage to keep Foley from noticing me in the crowd. Fucking crazy shit.
“They’re waiting for you,” he says and leaves me on the threshold of a room with an enormous table filled with Fontanna’s friends—and a few of mine, including Cat, Hunter, Gabe, Mia, Sean Patrick who appears to be dateless, and Max Devon who appears to be with a woman about my age. Way to go, Max.
Tate stands amid the chorus of hellos and comes over to me, dragging me inside as if I’m reluctant, but I’m not.
I may be overwhelmed, like I’ve just been admitted to an exclusive club after a long arduous initiation test. But the feeling is a good one.
Better than good as I feel my grin stretching to ridiculous proportions and a bout of giddiness coming on.
He pulls out a chair next to his and sits me down.
He whispers, “Took you long enough, Smitty.”
Max, sitting across from me, lifts his glass in greeting. “Good to see you, Chloe. I’ve been enjoying your spots on NESH. When are they going to give you your own show?”
“He’s a glutton for punishment,” Tate says. “No one else in their right mind watches that trash.” He turns to me, a teasing challenge in his eyes, and I laugh. Then I smack his shoulder.
He feigns injury and I really laugh.
“What is your deal, Fontanna?” I whisper.
“Are we enemies or not?” The table around us is loud and it reminds me a lot of the dinner party except Cat is much more relaxed and she waves at me from her end of the table.
I wave back, waiting for Tate to answer me.
He’s taking a swig of ice water as if that’ll give him courage or wisdom or whatever it is he needs to answer me.
“Is there such thing as enemies with benefits?” he finally says, still under his breath, very close to my ear, tantalizing me with his hot breath and his words.
“Maybe we’re living proof of the myth,” I say, feeling a need for a drink, something much stronger than ice water.
We finish dinner without much in the way of PDAs aside from his arm around me and a close whisper here and there.
Theoretically no one knows he has his hand on my thigh half the meal and I have my hand on his the other half.
At one point, I try moving it up to his crotch to test his manhood, but he clamps down severely enough that I gasp.
Lucky for us, Max is the only one who notices, based on the smirk he gives me.
I want to tell him it’s not what he thinks, but what would be the point?
It’s not like we haven’t fooled around. Not like we’re not going straight back to his place or mine to fool around tonight.
Because we’re eating an Italian meal, I settle for sipping red wine instead of whiskey and it warms me, making me horny as hell.
Though honestly, it could be the scent of Tate, his hard muscle under my hand, his heat and his very masculine presence or his playful sense of humor among his friends that’s turning me on.
He’s relaxed—or most of him is—but I can sense the underlying sensual tension.
Hell, maybe the whole table can sense the sparks between us. Or maybe not.
Most of the other couples have their own sparks flying. Dessert is served and I never ordered a thing. Plates have been magically appearing in front of me all evening. I whisper to Tate, “Who’s running this dinner?”
“Gabe. He runs after-game dinners as often as he can, inviting as many of us as he can every time.”
“He foots the bill?”
Tate looks at me. “Does it matter?”
He’s shutting down my reporterly curiosity and I shake my head and make a zip-my-lips motion with my hands. It’s so strange being a good little girl, playing by the rules. Guess I’ll do anything for a night of those promised benefits from Tate Fontanna.
He grins at me, the full double-dimple smile, and I almost cream my panties right there.
When he leans in and rewards me with a kiss on my temple, just a light and quick touch of his lips, I swear I get dizzy.
I never believed swooning was a real thing until this moment.
Shameful for a Southern girl, but now I’m worried for my sanity.
When Max pushes his chair back and stands with his date, I’m relieved. We won’t be the first couple to leave the party. I look at Tate and he squeezes my thigh, nodding.
We stand next and after a round of goodbyes and a quick hug with Cat, we walk out behind Max and his date, Natalie.
It’s not until we’re around the corner and into the main dining room, heading for the bar area, that I remember Foley and friends. Fuck. “Can we leave through the back door?” I say, stopping.
He has my arm and keeps moving, pulling me along. “What the hell are you talking about, Smitty?”
At the same time, Max stops in front of us, flashes a look at me, and says, “Hey, Foley. What’s going on? Great place, isn’t this?”
Tate freezes for no more than two blinks, seeing Foley and the others sitting at the bar and sizing up the situation. He gives me a questioning look, then seems to answer his own question. “Shit. I hope these guys don’t make it a regular habit to come here.”
“Why shouldn’t they?” I say, knowing I’m the reason they’re here even if I didn’t invite them tonight.
He gives me a look that says you’re kidding, right? But then he presses a hand on the small of my back, a warm gesture.
He doesn’t assume it’s my fault. He assumes that they came here tonight of their own volition, not at my urging. Which is technically correct. Of course he gives me the benefit of the doubt. Tate’s a decent guy. That’s what decent guys do. Guys who trust you. Whether they should or not.
“This is a great place,” Foley says sliding his eyes to mine. “Look who’s here,” he says to me and then nods at Fontanna. “Chloe and Tate.” I can almost hear him singing the refrain. He’s put us together as a couple and I shoot him daggers.
“In the flesh,” Tate says. “Enjoying the best Italian in Boston.”
Max says, “Fontanna should know since his family’s in the restaurant business.”