From the Start (25 page)

And her book. He’d brought it into the living room at some point and showed her the lines he’d underlined. Oh man, if there was ever a way to steal a writer’s heart . . .

And then the best part. He’d gone and torn out the dedication page and wadded it up.

“Colton, that’s a library copy.”

He’d only grinned.
“So I’ll pay a fine.”

Wasn’t long after that he’d slipped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. She’d shifted to lean against him. And then . . .

Then apparently fallen asleep.

And now she couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do than let herself drift back to sleep.
So warm . . . so comfortable . . .

But the second she closed her eyes, the ringing of a cell phone cut into her haze of sleepiness. Colton’s, sitting on the coffee table. He didn’t twitch a muscle. Poor man must’ve been exhausted last night after not sleeping the night before.

As gently as she could, she slid out from underneath Colton’s arm, grabbed his phone and padded from the room. She couldn’t figure out how to silence the thing fast enough, so instead she tapped into the call and lifted it to her ear. “Hello?” she whispered the greeting as she trailed into the kitchen.

“Uh, this is Ian calling for Colton.”

“I’m sorry . . .” Her voice came out froggy. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Sorry, this is his friend Kate. He’s asleep.” Great. She didn’t want to think about what the person on the other end of the phone probably assumed. Ian—that was Colton’s manager, right? “I can wake him up if I need to.”

“I’d hoped his common sense would return by morning. But if he’s still sleeping at nearly noon—”

“Noon?” She somehow managed to whisper and shout at the same time. She’d told Hailey and Marcus they’d be back at the hospital by midmorning.

“Look, maybe you can talk some sense into him. I was able to get an interview set up for him at the station. They’re expecting him there at one o’clock. I’ve called three times this morning.”

And they’d slept through every one.

He had a potential job prospect? Here . . . in Chicago?

She abandoned the coffee filters she’d pulled from her cupboard and walked to the peninsula dividing her kitchen and living room. Colton still hadn’t moved a muscle.

“What do you mean, talk some sense into him?”

“He refused to do the interview today. I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately.”

Why would he refuse . . . ?

Because of me.
That was it. He didn’t want to leave her alone, and so he’d said no to what could be a game-changer for his future.

She couldn’t let him do it.

“I’ll talk to him,” she said softly.

“Good. I emailed the station address and all the details to him, so just tell him to check his inbox. Tell him he’ll regret it if he misses out.”

She tapped out of the call and paused for only a second before calling the taxi company. Then she paced back to the living room. Morning light filtered through the bamboo blinds over her front window, painting stripes of gold over Colton’s sleeping form.

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” she whispered. “You’re a good man, Colton Greene.”

She bent over and nudged him until he woke up. His eyelashes fluttered as his eyes opened. Oh, this man put to shame every mascara model she’d ever seen. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

“Don’t wanna.”

She was tempted to plop beside him on the couch, muss his hair, and tease him into consciousness. But there wasn’t time. “Rise and shine. The day’s a-wasting. Time to hit the ground running. Early bird gets the worm.” She jiggled his arm. “I’m running out of clichés.”

Suddenly his feet thumped to the floor and he sat up straight. “Wait, is it Breydan?”

His hair stood every which way, and a night’s worth of stubble covered his cheeks. “I haven’t heard about Breydan yet. You need to get up and change and get to your interview.”

She grabbed his hand and jerked. Nothing—dead weight. “Gonna need a little help here.”

“Interview?” he repeated, still holding her hand.

“Your manager called just now. He wasn’t in the detail-sharing mood, but I got the gist. And apparently you’ve got an interview. In about an hour. You are not missing this, Colton Greene.”

And suddenly he was on his feet, grim expression on his face. “Nope. Not happening.”

“Yes, it is, but you have to hurry. Taxi’s already on its way. I’d take you myself, but even after this many years of living here, I’m the worst at navigating traffic.” She ran her hands through the knotty tangles of her hair.

“Kate, I said no last night to Ian, and I meant it. I want to be here for you. We can reschedule the interview when—”

“You don’t know that.” She pushed his duffel bag at him. “Go change.”

“I’m not abandoning you.”

She paused, his words sinking in, sweet to the taste, like hot chocolate warming its way down to her stomach. She stepped back around the couch, stood right in front of him, and lifted her palms to his cheeks, like a mother to a child.

Only with the way she had to tip her head to look up at him, with every nerve in her body suddenly alert, motherly was about the last thing she felt at the moment. She swallowed.

“Colton, you are not abandoning me. You’re walking through an open door.” She waited, hoping her words sank in. “Now go get dressed.”

Something in her tone must have convinced him. Because even
though he opened his mouth to argue once more, he closed it just as quickly, then disappeared into the bathroom.

While he changed, she gathered up his things—the book from the library, his phone, his wallet. He emerged from the bathroom in less than ten minutes, wearing the same jeans he’d worn yesterday and a polo. “All I had with me,” he said as he met her near the front door.

“They’ll understand.”

She dumped the library book into his duffel bag.

“Kate—”

“Cab’s here.” She handed him his wallet, his phone.

He stuffed them in his pocket. “Kate.”

“Oh, your sweatshirt.” She shrugged out of it, tucked it in his bag, then reached up to straighten the collar of his shirt, brush his hair off to the side. “All right, you’re all ready to go.” She slung his bag over his shoulder for him.

And then stood on her tiptoes.

And kissed him.

And froze, lips pressed against his and brain screeching.
What. Are. You. Doing?

She jerked back and landed on her heels, the surprise plunking through her matching Colton’s wide eyes. “I don’t know why I . . . I was just caught up in . . . it was . . .”

His grin could have melted an igloo.

The cab honked.

And with a “Good luck” that came out in a squeak, she pushed him out the door.

11

A
nd this is where you’d spend the bulk of your time when you’re actually in the studio.”

The kid showing Colton around the Sports Circle studio couldn’t have been older than twenty-four, and next to him, Colton felt ancient.

“You said when I’m actually in the studio. So most of the time I’d be . . . ?”

“Out covering stories. At games. It’s a travel job, for sure. The dude you’d be replacing—Carlton Jennings—he always said there were two things he could count on in life: tax season sneaking up on him and being gone on weekends.”

Colton glanced around the studio’s main room. It was so small. The blue desk with the sprawling glass surface filled up most of the room. A matching blue background with the gray-and-white Sports Circle logo covered one wall. Lights and camera equipment crowded the rest of the space.

“It’s no ESPN, but it’s not a bad place to work,” the kid said. When he fiddled with the security badge he wore around his neck, Colton caught sight of his name. Landon.

He still couldn’t get over how fast this had all happened. Ian’s call last night. Kate waking him up this morning, insisting that
he take the interview. The missed night of sleep as they drove to Chicago and the rush of this morning meant his brain was more fuzzy than focused.

Well, if he was honest, it was actually Kate’s kiss that had him less than attentive now. So hilarious, the shocked look on her face when she’d pulled back, as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just done.
Hilarious and awkward and . . . awesome.

He grinned now, just thinking about it.

And if that taxi hadn’t been waiting at the curb, if she hadn’t practically shoved him out the door, it wouldn’t have ended with that one little peck—that was for sure.

“So anyhow, our core viewership is Chicagoland, but it’s a regional show, so we’ve got viewers in a six-state area.”

Colton gave his head a small shake. Forced his attention back to Landon.

“We hit a ratings record last month. We’re hoping to keep holding strong this month. Of course, with Carlton Jennings leaving us, that’s a concern, but if
you
come on board, that could shoot us higher than we’ve ever been. Do you have any questions?”

Yeah, how did the guy breathe when he talked that fast? “Hmm. I guess . . . what’s your role exactly on the show?”

Landon fiddled with his security badge. “Oh, ha, probably would’ve been nice to tell you that. I’m an intern—at this point little more than a glorified fact-checker for you—well, if you get the job, but come on, how could you not?—and your co-host. Her name’s Stella. You’ll like her. Just never do a Marlon Brando
Stella!
yell around her. She doesn’t take it well.”

Colton looked around the studio again, caught sight of a promotional poster with Carlton and Stella’s faces smiling back at him. She looked nice enough. He tried picturing himself in Carlton’s place. Tried imagining weekends spent on sidelines,
instead of out on the field. Evenings in the dim lighting of the studio, chatting with an audience he’d never see.

He could do this job, couldn’t he? So maybe it wasn’t what he’d ever imagined—talking about the game he loved rather than playing it. So maybe he’d never warmed to talking to a camera. That didn’t mean this couldn’t work.

And in the past hour, somehow he’d come to want it to work. Much more than he had before. And the reason had nothing to do with abstracts like success or fame or career . . . and everything to do with a woman who’d kissed him an hour ago.

Maybe the thought should worry him—considering his recent past. Considering Lilah, how all that had ended for him, and not all that long ago.

But Kate wasn’t Lilah. And he wasn’t the same person he’d been a month ago.

“Colton Greene?”

The voice came from down the hallway, and both he and Landon turned. A lanky man with a wiry frame, something like impatience clinging to his features. He held out his hand. “Jerome Harving, executive producer for Sports Circle.”

Colton accepted the handshake. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Landon, thanks for giving the tour. Much appreciated.”

The intern picked up on the dismissal in Harving’s tone. “Cool to meet you, Greene. Uh . . .” He glanced at Harving. “Can I get an autograph before you leave?”

“Sure. I’ll stop at the front desk before I head out.”

Landon retreated, leaving Colton and Harving alone in the main studio. Glass windows along one wall peeked in on dark offices, and quiet permeated the space.

“Midday is always the slowest around here,” Harving said.

“I appreciate you fitting me in so last minute.”

“Yes. Well.”

Okay, Colton wasn’t imagining things, was he? Harving seemed about as interested in this interview as a restless kid in an art museum.

“Let’s sit,” the man finally said, motioning to the cushioned swivel chairs behind the anchor desk. When they were seated, he laced his fingers together atop the desk. “Why do you want to be a sports analyst, Colton?”

“Well, I love the game of football, Mr. Harving, and—”

“Jerome.”

“Jerome. And I believe I have the experience at all three levels—high school, college, professional—to be able to talk about it intelligently and add value to the conversation.” It was a canned answer, courtesy of Ian’s email. But it was the truth. If Colton could talk about anything, it was football.

As long as he could get over the stare of the camera.

Jerome seemed to study him for a few moments. And then, “I’m going to level with you, Greene. We’ve done a slew of interviews, and I was literally a few minutes away from calling our lead candidate to offer him the job when your manager called. He’s got the looks, the appeal, and the talent to fill Carlton Jenning’s shoes.”

So was there a point to this interview? “I understand—”

“But you’ve got one thing he doesn’t. Name recognition. I wasn’t sure that was enough to go back to ground zero, but I’m smart enough to listen to a studio head when he gives a direct order.”

Not one for subtlety, apparently. Colton was here because the studio head wanted him here. Not this producer. No matter. “Well, like I said, I appreciate the opportunity.”

Jerome glanced around the room. “I already know the facts about you. I know you don’t have much experience with this kind of thing, save a pregame appearance last week in Iowa.”