AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“My parents passed away about five years ago.”
“Oh.” She lowers to sit next to me, as close as I sat next to her earlier. Her fingers twitch but she doesn’t reach for my hand. “Do you have any other family around here?”
“Yeah.” I leave it at that, and she takes the hint, her brown eyes softening on my face. Her skin is satin smooth and porcelain pale. Her eyes ringed with lashes, her mouth full and expressive.
“You are so beautiful.” It’s out of my mouth before I mean to say it, but like most things I don’t mean to stay, I commit to my path. “North was crazy to let you go. Gorgeous, smart, and able to administer acupressure.”
I roll my shoulder and a dart of pain shoots down my arm. It must show on my face because next she hops up and offers to make me an ice pack. I watch her moving around my kitchen and accept that whatever chance I thought I had at kissing her tonight has been quashed by talk of dead parents and/or her ex-boyfriend.
Sure enough I’m left with nary a hug upon her departure. What she does leave me with is advice dressed up like a command.
“Don’t stretch the truth in your column, Fox. Readers can tell.”
“So don’t mention sex in Marge’s office or the serious hot and heavy make-out session we just had on my sofa?” I joke.
She cocks an eyebrow in answer, and then turns for the laundry room.
“Walk you out?” I offer, standing from the couch.
“I’ve got it.” She calls without slowing.
I lean on the doorjamb and watch her exit via the stairwell, admiring that fine ass as much as the confidence that straightens her small shoulders.
Chapter 11
Catarina
Tuesday afternoon. Two thirty. My eyelids are heavy. A case of “the slumps” has plagued the entire office. There’s no sign of anyone bustling about. Likely everyone is at their respective desks riding out the sleepy afternoon hours over a mug of super strong coffee.
Barrett’s cubicle is empty. He came in yesterday, so I don’t expect to see him today.
I open a new page on my web browser and rest my fingers on the keyboard. My index finger hovers over the B. I indecisively tap the A key with my pinky’s fingernail. I’m tempted to research Barrett Fox—beyond the video he’s infamous for—but not for his past accolades as a Miami Dolphin’s quarterback. I’m curious about his parents. Specifically, how they died.
Morbid, right?
I can’t help it. I’m a journalist. I’m hungry for facts. The problem with the Internet is that you can’t know for sure if what you’re reading is fact. Plus if we were actually dating, looking up his parents online would be an invasion of privacy.
But we’re not actually dating… I shut my laptop and rest my hands on the lid. I’m not doing it.
Saturday felt a lot like a date. We had drinks. Food. I went back to his place. He held my hand. Complimented me.
All factoids I plan on seeding into my column. It’s important to remember that Fox is focused on gaining public favor. He knows I’m going to be writing about my experience. The better he treats me, the better he’ll be perceived. As far as I know, he could be orchestrating each and every element of our dates with public reaction in mind.
I quirk my lips to one side, doubting my jaded prognosis. If Fox is anything, he’s genuine. Genuinely a horse’s ass at times, sure, but he’s also the real deal.
When I first met North, I was taken by the air of propriety surrounding him. By the regal way he held himself. The way the wind on the golf course lifted his thick brown hair. On paper, he was perfect. He was attractive. He had direction. He liked me. He was romantic when we started dating. I recall the delivered roses and expensive dinners less fondly than I used to. Did I really enjoy the pomp and circumstance? Lately I’ve had more fun with Barrett.
At least if Barrett became bored with me he’d tell me. North was bored for several months and yet kept it to himself. He could’ve said something and saved me—hell, saved us both—a lot of wasted time.
I open my laptop again as an email from Mia comes in. Attached is the column for Barrett’s and my first date. I peruse her comments and type a quick reply asking to read his side. I press SEND and drum my fingers while waiting for a reply. It comes sixty seconds later.
Sorry, Cat. That’s between the NFL hottie and me! Great work as usual. Keep ’em coming.
Drat.
I’m about to type out a stern reply to convince that her I need to see it when a paper coffee cup appears by my right arm. My eyes travel past the cup, over the masculine hand, and up a bare forearm to the rolled sleeve of a white button-down shirt. It takes more than a little control to withhold my excitement.
For the coffee, of course.
