Romancing the Running Back (6 page)

He wasn’t even listening, because who cared? One place was as good as another, as far as he could tell. Pick the cheapest one that had your available date and move on.

Anya did look pretty, though. Maybe it made him a typical pigheaded male to admit it, but she was a hot number, even if he couldn’t understand half of what she blathered on about with accessories and color coordination. Today’s outfit was more professional than her deli lunch ensemble. Skin-colored heels showed off nice legs, where a teal pencil skirt stopped just at knee length, leading into a dull-yellow, silky blouse. Her hair was braided again, but more tightly than he’d seen before. No wisps pulling out here and there to frame her face. He realized he kind of missed the messy braid, which had given her a less studied feel. More approachable.

“And you said this hall can seat up to how many?” Anya asked, jotting notes down in the little notebook she’d showed him while waiting for the manager to appear. Hummingbirds. She had said something about how she loved the hummingbirds all over the cover, and at the corner of each page.

His life could be much simpler if all he had to worry about were hummingbird notebooks.

“This is our largest hall,” the manager said, straightening his tie. The guy was probably in his late twenties, and had that overly polished look that screamed
fussy and self-involved
. He’d barely given Josiah a second glance, clearly knowing where the final decision would come from. The fact that Josiah hadn’t removed his cap indoors likely made him look like an asshole, to boot.
Not my choice, buddy.

“Hmm” was all Anya said to that.

“We’ve yet to host a wedding that this hall couldn’t accommodate.”

“Hmm,” Anya repeated. Josiah shifted from one foot to the other. “Well, we do have a rather large guest list.”

“How large?” the younger man asked, looking like he’d rather be on a coffee break than doing the tour.

“Five-hundred-ish, give or take.” When the man’s eyes widened, she grinned and looped an arm around Josiah’s, hugging him tightly. “We both come from big families.” She lowered her voice to a not-so-hushed whisper. “My sweetie here is the youngest of fourteen.”

“Fourteen,” the manager repeated, looking both horrified and intrigued. “That’s . . . wow.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Anya went on, snuggling up against Josiah. When he stiffened, she pinched his arm until he lifted it and draped it around her shoulders. He fought against his natural instinct to pull her tighter against him, feeling her curves pressed to his body. “I’m only the oldest of nine. Seems small when I get around his family. So you can see we’ll need some
space.”

“Of course. Well, ah, as I said, this is our largest venue, which caps out at five-fifty, so you’re right under the wire there.” He glanced between them, but Josiah couldn’t help but stare down at his “fiancée.”

What the hell?

“Well, then, Aaron, let’s talk price, and other details. We do have other venues to see today.” Pulling away from Josiah’s side, she took the manager’s offered arm and started walking back toward the office.

How did she do that? How did she go from one minute, cooing about cute little birdies on a notebook, to the next, circling like a shark looking for a discount? Because he’d bet his favorite bike helmet that’s exactly what she was doing. Mention Trey Owens and Cassie Wainwright and suddenly the convention center’s rates magically shoot up. But if she got their rates pre-name-drop, she’d get the normal pricing for your average Joe. She’d thought ahead and had him shade his eyes so he wouldn’t be easily identifiable.

She was smart. Smarter than she seemed to let on. Or was the brilliant business move a fluke?

Damned if he could tell.

But more importantly, why did he care?

Four more convention centers-slash-reception halls later, Anya was ready to burst out laughing.

“How is it,” Josiah asked mildly as he pulled out of the parking lot of option number five and swiveled his baseball cap backwards again, “that with every retelling of that story, my family grew a few extra siblings?”

“Everyone knows a tale gets bigger in the retelling. It’s science, or something.” She waved that away. “We’ve narrowed it down to the two most likely options.”

“Have we?”

“Well, I have.” She set her notebook on her lap and grinned at him. “You were a very convincing diversion.”

“And what, exactly, was that diversion again? Other than amusing for you?”

“Okay, so part of that was amusing.” Very, very amusing. After gritting his teeth through it the first round, he’d gone along with the plan a lot faster the next few times, until by the last reception hall, he’d willingly held her close and played doting groom, surprising her.

She cleared her throat. “But mostly, it was keeping them from knowing who the venue would really be used for.” He raised a brow, but kept his eyes on the road. “Think about it. I have to give them a date to see if it’s available. We checked out five different places. That’s five different staffers who have that information now. Tell one nosy, underpaid secretary you’re looking for venues for the wedding of Trey Owens and Coach Jordan’s daughter? Suddenly their wedding date is blasted all over freaking Twitter and there’s no hope of keeping it quiet. When you are looking at options, you’ve increased the number of people who know, increasing the odds of a leak. At this least way, she can choose her venue in peace and know which halls are available what days, which ones will actually work, and what the
reasonable
prices are.”

“It won’t keep the press from finding out.”

“No, but it delays the inevitable. Anything I can do to keep Cassie from feeling the stress, I will.” It was the least she could do for her best friend, and her best friend’s fiancé, who were letting her crash and not asking questions. Or, well, not
too
many questions.

He nodded slowly. “Okay, I’ll buy that. It was impressive, I must say. You have a knack for negotiating.”

That warmed her a little, and she looked down, flustered, at her notebook. What had she been about to say? Oh, right. “I’m starving.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, “Oh, that’s my cue?”

“You’re driving. Unless you wanna tell me you carry around a concession stand in this eco-friendly SUV of yours, then yes, your cue.”

“I suppose you want me to make a pit stop for lunch.”

Grouchy. “I’m not asking you to buy me lunch. Just asking you to at least slow down around the curve of a drive-thru
so I can get something for myself.”

His lips twitched into what might have been a smile. “I think we can do better than that.”

“I figured as much.” Satisfied, she watched as he drove them past the turnoff for Cassie and Trey’s home and toward the other side of Santa Fe. “Somewhere new for me, looks like.”

“Usually new for most people.”

“Hmm” was all she said. Twenty minutes later, she knew exactly why it was new for most people. He drove through what looked like an industrial park, with few open stores. “They serve food around here?”

“Sort of.” He checked his watch as he pulled into a parking spot beside a few other cars at the back of what looked like a warehouse. “Ready? We need to hustle.”

“Hustle?” She checked her watch, not entirely sure why they were in such a rush for food. “I’m sorry, did you make reservations with telepathy while driving? I—whoa!” she gasped as he grabbed her hand and yanked her from the SUV. Her bag thudded against her hip as she struggled to get firm footing on the uneven gravel in her heels. “What’s the deal?”

“They’re starting.” He waited for a moment, then sighed and looped an arm around her for support, all but dragging her toward a doorway.

“This is . . . not what I . . . Okay, are you bringing me back here to dispose of my body? That isn’t a very eco-friendly solution, you know.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” he wondered out loud, opening the door and directing her into a darkened hallway, lit only by emergency lights. They could have been in a school, an abandoned office building, or a dungeon, for all she could tell.

“You might not believe this,” Anya said, straightening her skirt, “but before I met you, I was considered sort of quiet. Unless I’m driving.”

That stopped his long-legged stride down the dark hallway. “Unless you’re driving?”

“I have an unapologetic case of road mouth. I curse a lot when driving,” she explained. “Nobody else knows how to drive around Atlanta. Or anywhere.”

He just smirked, then propelled her faster than she’d have liked on heels that tall. “Right through here and . . . good. They haven’t started yet.”

He opened a set of double doors and she followed slowly behind, cautious, wondering if she should be digging for her mini can of pepper spray. But the room she walked into was light, and almost resembled a restaurant, complete with a hostess stand.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Walker. How many today?”

“Two, Tess, thanks.”

“This is a restaurant?” Anya asked in a whisper, following him. They walked through a room full of tables, about half of which were occupied. On the tables were prep items—knife, large spoon, cutting board, that sort of thing—but no actual food. Everyone sat quietly while they were seated at their own tables. She settled her purse beside her and stared at Josiah.
He merely gave her a bland smile. “Really. Not going to give me any hints?”

“It’s a restaurant. Sort of. You just have to work for your meal.”

“Work for my . . .” Taking in the stage in front of them, where a black man in a chef coat and hat stood, giving them the evil eye for—she assumed—being late, understanding dawned. “It’s a cooking class.”

“Yes and no. Shh,” he said, silencing any questions she might have had. “It’s starting.”

Before she could ask another question anyway—she didn’t care for being silenced, and would have thought of one just to piss him off—the man at the front began to speak.

It sounded remarkably like instructions, but she had no clue what was going on. “What?” she hissed at Josiah when people started to get up and move around. “What’s going on?”

He raised a brow. “Do you have a problem with your hearing?”

“Apparently. That sounded like gibberish.”

“It was instructions for our first course.”

Huh. That explained it. She had less than no cooking experience. Opening a can was considered a dangerous and rare feat for her. “Uh, how about you do that and I’ll stand off to the side, out of the way?”

“No way, maid of honor.” He hooked an arm through hers and tugged her over toward the line to the side where an industrial sink sat. People washed their hands and moved on to the fridge to pull out ingredients. She washed her hands alongside Josiah, watching as he relaxed for the first time since he’d picked her up that morning. Then she wandered over and slid out a tray from the glass-front refrigerator, holding what she assumed were their ingredients for the first course.

They wandered back to their table, where Josiah started laying out the food. “What’s the first course?”

He sighed and said, “Summer soup. Here, chop this.” He put a cucumber in front of her, set a knife beside it and went at the eggplant he was skinning.

Was it called skinning? Peeling? Grating? Who knew?

“I . . .” She glanced toward the other tables, watched as a few of them began to peel—skin?—their own cucumbers. “Okay, then.” If she wanted to eat, apparently she’d work for it. “I have to warn you, though, I’m not really dexterous. I might lose a finger doing this.”

“Don’t,” he warned in a tone that suggested she’d get no sympathy from his camp if she did.

*   *   *

Josiah watched her struggle with the cucumber from the corner of his eye. It was sort of sad, in a comical way, how out of her league she was just because of a vegetable. Living alone himself, he knew it was easier to open a can or nuke a meal than to cook something for one, but still. You should be able to handle a knife, right?

As he thought it, the knife slipped and she nearly lost the tip of a finger as it slid across the wet surface of the cuke and clattered onto the table. His heart stuttered, and he quickly grabbed the cucumber and her hand in one of his. “Did it get
you? Any blood?”

“No,” she said, hand shaking a little inside his grip. “I don’t know what—”

His entire system relaxed fractionally once he’d assured himself she hadn’t sliced off anything important. “Try again.”

Her face turned mutinous. “Can we just call that a sign from the kitchen gods that this wasn’t a good part to start with?”

“No. Let’s do this once more.” He showed her a better way to grip the vegetable, then picked up the knife. “Slide it this way. See how your fingers are protected?”

“No. It’s backwards to me.” Her eyes were nearly crossed trying to figure it out.

With an internal groan, he wrapped one arm around her and held the cucumber and her hand in one palm, showing her how the knife scraped up the skin with the other. “See now?” When she said nothing, he brought her other hand up, placed the knife in her fingers properly, and guided them up the cucumber a few times. Thin ribbons of green curled and slid off to fall harmlessly to the table below.

“And one more.” He slid the knife up once more, waiting until the newest slice of skin fell.

“Oh.” Anya’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “I think I’ve got it now.”

He nodded, then wondered why she wasn’t trying a slice of her own.

“Uh, Josiah?”

“Hmm?” She smelled amazing. How was it, with all the delicious smells competing in the small space, her scent was still the best one? Every time her head moved a fraction of an inch, it was like releasing a burst of new scents that enticed him to lean in a little closer. Nuzzle into that bright sun streak of hair.

“I can’t try if you’re still holding my hand.”

“What? Oh.” He let go of her hand and retracted his arm from around her. “Sorry. Just don’t try to kill yourself again, okay?”

“Sure,” she said quietly, and he watched her for a moment to see if she was upset. But if she was, she didn’t show it. Just kept carving away at the cucumber, albeit slower and with more hesitant strokes than he had been, until it was ready to be sliced into thin layers.

“Keep yourself in one piece. Cassie will kick my ass if I let you chop off any appendages,” he joked after a few minutes of silent working. What the hell was that? Silence had never bothered him before. Suddenly he was rushing to make lame jokes?

“Wouldn’t it be Trey kicking your ass?” she asked, sharing a small smile with him. For some reason, that smile made him share back one of his own.

“Nah. Trey’s nothing. Cassie? Now she’s the one you’ve gotta watch out for. My mama always used to say it’s the women who can wield a frying pan with deadly accuracy.”

That made her laugh, and Josiah was determined to enjoy the rest of his lunch with Anya.

*   *   *

“I’m not sure I agree with the concept of working for my food,” Anya said, spooning up some soup, “but the result is pretty nice.”

Josiah shot her a smug look as he made quick work of his own bowl. “And everything was locally grown. Nothing traveled more than thirty miles to land on our plate. Pretty cool, right?”

That explained why they weren’t eating meat or seafood. Vegetarian all the way, but she didn’t mind. “Are you a vegetarian?”

He paused with his fork, holding a healthy bite of salad, halfway to his mouth. “Hell, no. Why? Because this meal happens to be vegetarian?”

Anya shrugged. “Seemed like a logical question.”

He chewed, took a swallow of lemon water, then pointed out, “You saw me eat meat at Trey and Cassie’s cookout.”

She had, hadn’t she? Then again, she’d been so preoccupied with hating him for his
I can wash a vegetable better
routine she hadn’t taken much notice of what went into his mouth. “Uh, sure.”

“Or maybe you were too busy flirting with Matt.”

That made her blink and miss stabbing the clump of hard-boiled egg in her salad. “What? Oh, come on. I wasn’t flirting. Matt was being nice.” Which was more than she could have said for Josiah that day.

“Matt will chase anything that looks halfway decent in a skirt.” He said it seriously, but without any heat. “I love the guy. He’s a great teammate. But he’s not someone I would aim for, if you’re looking for romance out here.”

“Well, good thing I’m not looking for romance at all,” she snapped, letting her fork fall to the plate. She wiped her mouth and settled back in her seat, too annoyed to eat another bite of the surprisingly good salad with fresh-made vinaigrette dressing. And by
fresh-made
, she meant she’d freshly made it herself, ten minutes ago.

With her track record at picking long-term lovers, she wasn’t even remotely interested in finding a new man to stay in her life permanently. And it irritated her that Josiah would automatically assume that was her goal. As if all women walked around waiting for a prince to fall out of a tree and beg to marry them.

Josiah merely shrugged, as if it didn’t matter one bit to him what she did with her life.

“Why do you hate me?”

The question was out before she could think twice. She wanted to wince at the abruptness, the sheer ballsiness of it. Cassie was the one who spoke her mind, who didn’t back down, who jumped first and asked questions . . . eventually. Not her.

What was it about this southern drawlin’, backwards-cap wearing, conservation nut that had her feeling both defensive and antagonistic at once?

He set his fork down much more gently than she had and took another drink of water. “I don’t hate you. I don’t know
you well enough to hate you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He raised a brow at that. “I can’t say that I respect your job all that much,” he added, otherwise ignoring the attitude. “I don’t really get the point of fashion, and yes, I see it as a bit shallow and wasteful. But if you love it, whatever. No skin off mine.”