Intercepted

“No.” I steady myself on my feet, pull out of his grip, and grab another dish. “Thank you, but I can handle it. Do you want me to show you where the guys are?”

“No. Thank you, but I can handle it.” He mimics my words and actions and grabs a dirty plate off the counter, walks around me to the sink, and sets about washing it. “Let’s go, Marlee. I’ll wash and you dry. It’ll be way faster than you doing it alone.”

I take the plate out of his hands and dry it with the towel. “You’re our guest. Chris would flip if he thought I had you stuck up here doing dishes.”

The words come out of my mouth sounding strong and confident, but inside I’m lacking every last morsel of conviction. I don’t want him in the kitchen with me, but at the same time, I think I might pull a play out of the Mustangs’ playbook and tackle him if he tries to leave . . . and not just because I’m getting tired of the dishes.

“After a dinner like that, I don’t mind at all. TK wasn’t lying, your lasagna was amazing.”

“Thanks, it’s my nonna’s recipe. She used to make it for my birthday every year growing up. But now that she’s getting older, I make it for her.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. He makes me nervous and comfortable at the same time.

“You’ll have to let me know when her birthday is so I can get in on the next round of pasta.”

The idea of Gavin showing up to my family home sets the butterflies in my stomach free. I have to remind myself he doesn’t remember me, he’s just being friendly to a teammate’s girlfriend. End of story.

“Don’t you wish. Chris isn’t even promised a seat. Quarterback or not, my family doesn’t share well when it comes to pasta.”

“Well, I’m awesome, and Chris is questionable. Your family would love me.”

“Maybe they could find a seat for you, but I’m not sure the room is big enough for your ego to tag along.” I ignore the jab at Chris, handing Gavin the final plate.

“Damn. You got jokes?” He acts insulted, but there’s a smile on his face when he says it. I shrug it off and give him a hand towel. I tend to forget not everybody knows my sense of humor. Something I should try harder to remember when it concerns my boyfriend’s coworkers.

He hands me the last plate to dry, and his fingers graze mine. The contact is so minimal, I shouldn’t have noticed it. But when it comes to Gavin, I notice everything. “Thanks for helping, but I really do have work to finish.”

I hang the towel from the stove and try to play it cool. I’m not a relationship expert or anything, but I’m pretty sure I’ve watched enough reality shows to know crushing on your boyfriend’s coworker is generally a no-no.

“TK told me you did his website. I checked it out and it looks fantastic. Are you taking on new clients?”

When I turn away from the stove and face him, he’s in the same spot, watching me with what I think is either curiosity, mistrust, or kindness.

Yes, I’m aware those are all different, but I’ve never been very good at reading people.

“Always. It’s rare for me to ever turn down a client.” I look for something else in the kitchen to keep me busy.

“Good, because my website needs an overhaul since I switched teams.”

Oh no. Not gonna happen. Seeing him on occasion is one thing, but working for him is on a whole other level of asking for trouble.

“Your website? Didn’t you already have somebody design your website?” I scramble for any excuse to say no. “I doubt you need a new one, just a few tweaks, and I don’t like messing with other people’s work.”

“You just said you rarely turn down a client. I want a new website. I’ll have Madison email you some pictures of me in Mustangs gear and shots of my charity events.”

Oh lovely, Gavin and Madison. This keeps getting better and better.

“Your girlfriend is your secretary? How very old-school.”

“Madison isn’t my girlfriend. She’s an old friend who happens to work in PR.” He shakes his head, acting like the idea of him with the leggy beauty is outrageous. “Think about it for me. I’d really appreciate it, and I promise to recommend you to everyone I know.”

Dammit. Doing this would be huge for me. I got my degree in graphic design from the Art Institute five years ago and started doing some freelance work to keep me busy. Business has been growing slowly over the past five years . . . which is fine. Chris gets all offended when I offer to pay for anything so I shovel all my money into savings and paying off my student loans.

I graduated with my masters in marketing last spring and have spent all summer (unsuccessfully) trying to find an adult job complete with medical. Unfortunately for me, the closest I got to medical was the marijuana dispensary next door to an interview I went to. So while I wait to find the apparent unicorn job I’ve spent my entire life preparing for, I might just have to build a website for my ex-fling turned current boyfriend’s coworker.

I’m about to agree when the intercom buzzes and Chris’s voice booms through the kitchen. “Marlee, can you go find Pope for us?” he asks. He hangs up before I have the chance to answer.

“I guess that’s my cue.” Gavin starts walking out of the kitchen but stops before he makes it all the way out. “By the way, I think you dropped this.” He pulls something small out of his pocket, tosses it to me, and is gone before I even realize what I’m holding.

My grandma’s necklace. The one my dad gave me after she passed.

The one I lost four years ago in a Chicago apartment.

Holy shit.

He kept it?

Holy shit.

He remembers me!

Six

“Can I have two orders of the grilled cheese and two Moscow mules, please?” I ask the waiter and draw the eyes of everyone at the table.

“Oh sweet lord in heaven, please don’t tell me you’re eating for two before marriage?”

Before meeting Dixie, I would’ve never believed that loud could be part of an accent. But it’s the only way she ever talks. So when she yells, like she just did, people three blocks over hear her.

“Yes, I’m pregnant. That explains why I ordered two cocktails.” Each word drips with sarcasm before I stand up and turn to all of the other patrons. “Vacant uterus, people. Please carry on with your meals.”

“Really, Marlee? Why do you always have to cause a scene?” Courtney asks. But by the way her overfilled lips thin and her arms cross, I don’t think she actually wants an answer.

I still put as much sugar as I can in my voice when I respond, “The spotlight loves me, Court.”

My smile grows even larger when she rolls her eyes to the back of her head and turns her attention to Amber.

“Why did you order so much?” Naomi asks. She must’ve missed the conversation between me and Courtney because the waiter took her order after mine, and she has so many requests, it always takes her like five minutes. A Diet Coke with three lime wedges—not two and definitely not four. Salad with olive oil and balsamic vinegar—but only a drizzle of oil and heavy on the vinegar. No! Wait. Bring both to the table. Could you substitute blue cheese for gorgonzola . . . no, blue cheese is fine. No. Definitely gorgonzola.

Listen, if I didn’t love her, I’d throttle her, and I’m sure she’s had plenty of extra, undocumented additions to her food over the years.