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What.
The.
Ever-loving.
Fuck.
My phone rings before I have a chance to fully digest what I read. The screen reads “Kitty Cat.”
My blood boils. I ignore the call. If I answer nothing but yelling will exit my mouth. Better yet, I shut off the phone.
I blink blindly at the windshield and take a shallow breath that barely fills my lungs.
The world knows I have dyslexia. A secret I kept from everyone, save Catarina. A secret I never chose to share with anyone—not even Beth. I let her believe I was tired of socializing whenever I needed an excuse to finish studying or writing a paper.
And Catarina, the woman I am developing deep feelings for, sold me out.
“Fuck!” I slam a palm on the steering wheel before gripping it with both fists. I stare at my white knuckles for the count of three, and then close my eyes and force myself to calm down.
When I’m confident I can drive without mowing down a pedestrian, I back out of the parking spot.
Chapter 29
Catarina
I tried calling him and then I tried texting him and then I repeated that process for most of the afternoon. What I didn’t do was stick around the office. I took a cab home to retrieve my car, and then drove to his apartment. The security desk swore to me (after I palmed the guy twenty bucks) that Barrett wasn’t home.
Then I drove around town like a lunatic looking for his car.
Now I’m home, pacing and doing a fine job of wearing a rut in my patterned rug between the television and couch. I’ve nearly gnawed my fingernails to the quicks.
Either he read the article and has decided he hates me, or a less likely scenario: he doesn’t know. We planned on seeing each other tonight, so I pray that when he does check his phone, he reads my texts first.
My heart emits a dull ache. I received several calls from ESPN today asking for a response from me or Barrett. I’m 99.9 percent sure they called Barrett first.
If that’s how he finds out... I shake my head, unable to stay here and worry and pace the floors any longer. I’m trying his house again.
I step out of the elevator of my apartment building, head down as I dig through my purse for my phone. A few text messages sit on my screen but not one of them is from Barrett. I know it’s futile, but I can’t help trying his phone again as I step into the summer heat.
That’s when I spot him climbing out of his convertible. I’m relieved to be looking right at him. I can explain in person. When he pins with me a glare, I stop advancing toward him, my skin prickling in spite of the humid air. He doesn’t look happy to see me.
In fact, he looks angrier than I’ve ever seen him—including when he threw away his on-air career as a field reporter. I rush to him, but he speaks first.
“Don’t come any closer.”
“You know.”
“When Dax’s wife, Becca, referred to me as a charity case, I knew she was kidding. Apparently, you didn’t.”
“Barrett, listen to me.” My voice shakes.
“Wasn’t it enough for you to tame the ‘Bad Boy of the NFL?’ Or did you use my dyslexia as an excuse to help explain why you’d date an asshole from the wrong side of town?”
“That’s not what I think, and you know it! I told you how I felt yesterday. I showed you this morning.”
Some of the rage bleeds from his face, hurt replacing it. “Did you mean any of it? Or was this for the article?”
“Fox.” My nose tingles as tears press the backs of my eyes. “None of it was for the article.”
