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My mouth went dry. “He plays football?”
“Mmm-hmmm.” He kept working on my face. Another person was smoothing my hair because I had messed that up as well. “He’s one of those big, burly guys who tackle the quarterback.”
The hair guy laughed. “You think every football player tackles the quarterback.”
“They don’t?”
Both laughed.
“Or maybe that’s just what I would like to do,” Makeup Guy clarified. “Colby Doubard. Hmmmm mmmm mmmm. Either way, this one is the newest sports celebrity in town. Brett Broudou is here to promote a charity.”
Brett Broudou.
I couldn’t believe I hadn’t recognized him.
I started to nod with them, dazed.
He made a disapproving sound. “Don’t move, sweetie. They switched your segment so the football hottie is going on first, in your place, but we don’t have a lot of extra time.”
“Right. Sorry.” I was horrified, but still… Football. It’s one of the few things I knew. I enjoyed watching all the trades, seeing how the teams worked together with new players on the roster. The trash talking. The egos. The politics. The continuously evolving door of all the coaches going from one team to the other. The personal relationships too.
And the Kings had won the Super Bowl last year.
I’d been on a high for two weeks after the game. I’d even indulged by ordering pizza and Chinese food the next day because I was still celebrating. I almost immediately regretted it, but it’d been worth it. It’d been my own little personal party that lasted two days, or more if the diarrhea counted.
I was kicking myself because I should’ve recognized him when he spoke.
I was glad I hadn’t in the moment. My reaction would’ve been worse. I’d already made a fool of myself. He thought there was something wrong with me. The first guy in ten years who’d made me feel something though… I didn’t know what he thought. Nothing good, I’m sure.
“Okay, sweetiekins.” The makeup guy stepped back to admire his work. “You are back to being gorgeous! And you’re just in time for your segment.”
“What?” But we were moving, a staff person drawing me along—off the chair, down a hallway. I heard the audience applauding, and I saw him again.
Brett Broudou.
A shiver went through me.
He was delicious.
He stood to the side, off-camera, talking with a bunch of the show people. That made sense now. That had probably been his agent or manager next to him, the other guy in a business suit.
The staffer brought us to a stop.
I felt Brett’s eyes coming my way.
I felt the punch of them landing on me, and oh boy, my body heated all over again.
This wasn’t good. Just a look and I was hot and bothered?
“Okay!” The staff person touched the small of my back and pushed. “You’re on, Willow.”
I started but looked back. “My name isn’t—” I didn’t go by that name. I went by Billie. It was the nickname my little brother gave me. He could tell the host through their earpieces, and I wouldn’t have to endure being called Willow during the whole interview. Only when I tried to tell him that, my feet weren’t paying attention.
One kept going.
The other started to turn back.
They twisted and slam! Down I went.
