“You are my dessert.” I press a soft kiss to the center of his chest. “My healthy breakfast.” I kiss the column of his throat. “My afternoon cup of tea.” His chin. “My vegetables.” The corners of his mouth. “All the things.” The center of his forehead.
“Fuck it.” With swift movement, he drives to his feet and carries me out of the kitchen. “We can be late.”
I was onlytwenty minutes late for work, which isn’t a big deal since I’ve never been late. However, Rowan hit the tail-end of L.A. rush-hour traffic, making him forty minutes late for practice, which means he could be fined. Something he insisted was worth it as he bent me over the side of the couch and drove into me.
Me: How much is that second round in the shower going to cost you?
Rowan: No fine.
Me: No punishment? Relieved emoji.
Rowan: I didn’t say that. Carlson is old school, so I have to stay late to run drills and clean the locker room.
Me: Still worth it?
Rowan: Fuck yes emoji.
A loud giggle rolls out of me with his totally made-up written-out emoji. I wrap up my text exchange with Rowan whose break is ending.
His penance will have a ripple effect, meaning he won’t be home for dinner tonight since he’ll need to stay later than planned for a meeting with Gillian and Yasmine, Axel’s manager. Gillian arrived two nights ago and starts as Axel’s chef next week.
“Can I get this signed?” Devon plops something beneath the closed circuit TV on the small table next to my desk.
“Sure.” I swivel in my chair towards the screen and roll my eyes. “Seriously?”
A print copy of theLA Presssits on the tray and is magnified in high contrast white on black. A headline readingLove at First Sight?runs above a picture of me and Rowan.
There’s been moderate interest in our relationship. After the initial social media post, a few outlets requested interviews. It’s still strange to us that anyone would be interested, but Sasha says we have all the makings of a romance that the public loves to root for. He’s famous. I’m not. I’m a disability advocate. He’s famous for being an able-bodied athlete.
Most of the attention was supportive. There’d been a few stories speculating that the relationship was a ploy to revamp Rowan’s reputation until pictures from the MVP Foundation event of Rowan, his arms around me, as we walked to his car and some of us kissing outside the Lawson Agency taken before our appearance in Toronto surfaced. A pissed-off Sasha found out that the pictures were taken and leaked by Greg’s assistant, who’d also been the person to tip off reporters that Rowan Iverson and his new social media influencer girlfriend would be arriving at LAX. They’d thought they were helping protect one of Greg’s clients.
It solved the mystery and Greg’s assistant was fired. Despite me and Rowan protesting, Greg explained that he needs to have complete trust in his staff. Even if the leaks helped, it violated our privacy, which the Lawson Agency has zero tolerance for.
Continuing with our “on our terms” stance about our relationship, we declined all the interviews. We’re not hiding or pretending, but just living our lives. We post things to social media. Not a lot, but some things. We go out in public. I plan to be at all Rowan’s home games and a select few away games. We get some attention, but nothing too destructive to our daily life together.
Despite our declining interviews, several outlets ran stories about us, but that’s died down after the Dodger’s star pitcher proposed to his famous popstar girlfriend last week after she’d sang the national anthem at his game.
“Aren’t we old news, now?” I groan. “Also, this article is like two weeks old.”
“True, but one of our older volunteers had it and asked me if you’d sign it,” Devon says sweetly, handing me a twenty/twenty pen from my desk organizer. “Make it out to Hazel.”
“Isn’t Hazel your grandma’s name?”
“She volunteers to make me dinner twice a week and I work here, so she’s a volunteer,” he deadpans.
Laughing, I sign the newspaper before I head to my next meeting. The day drags just a bit as I go from meeting to meeting. Besides a quick drive-by chat with JoJo as I grab a tea at the coffee cart, the other bright spot is texted photos of GB from the dogwalker that Rowan hired for while we’re at work. As I slip my phone back into my blazer pocket, it buzzes with an incoming message. I take it out.
Devon: Where are you?
Me: Leaving the social work office. What’s up?
Devon: Nelson’s looking for you. Cortes is in his office.
With that my pulse quickens. Nelson reports to Mark Cortes, associate director. Before any directors are selected, the VP will always run it by their senior leader. If they’re looking for me, it’s either to tell me I got the job or, which is customary for inside candidates, to inform me in person that I wasn’t selected. It’s not required but it’s the polite thing to do and part of the culture here.
Me: On my way.
Reaching the suite that houses the department of major gifts and donors, I suck in a steadying breath before pushing through the glass doors. I find the reception area empty. Devon must have stepped out. Heading past Devon’s desk, I move down the narrow hall towards the voices drifting from Nelson’s office in the back of the suite.
