Page 15 of The Right Player
I cleared my throat, stepping past her and back into the kitchen where it was at least twenty degrees cooler. “So, Belle Monroe, interior designer,” I said, picking up where I’d left off working on our salads before she’d arrived. “How did you end up owning your own firm?”
“I think I learned relatively quickly when I was interning that I didn’t like working for anyone else,” she answered, opening the first box against the wall and sifting through it. She balanced her wine in one hand while she looked with the other. “It just felt stifling, to be told what I could and couldn’t do, which jobs I could take on, to have all these limitations. And not just as an intern,” she added. “Even the associates had to work within parameters.”
“Something tells me you’re not the kind of girl who colors inside the lines.”
Her eyes sparkled when she flashed me a smile. “Far from it.” She took a sip of wine, setting her glass down long enough to move that box to the side and open the next. “So, as soon as I graduated, I took out a business loan to start my own firm. I already had clients lined up at the door, so it wasn’t long before I was able to pay off that loan and start netting a profit.”
“That’s really impressive,” I commented, genuinely, my hand hovering over where I’d been mixing all the salad ingredients in a mixing bowl.
“Thank you,” she said, and then she whipped a blanket out of the box she was digging in, smiling at me victoriously.
At least, until she recognized the logo on the blanket.
She wrinkled her nose as my heart stopped and kicked back to life. “The San Francisco 49ers,” she read, heaving a sigh. “God, you’re a sports nut, aren’t you?”
Relief found me in my next breath.
She really didn’t have a clue.
I lifted a hand. “Guilty. Not to mirror your question yesterday but… is that a deal breaker?”
“No,” she said on another sigh, but this time it was with a smile. “Just seems to be the kind of people I surround myself with. Although… is this a football team?”
I chuckled. “It is.”
“Well, we’re going to have to convert you to a Bears fan. I say this only because my best friend — you met her, my assistant, Gemma? — well, let’s just say she might be the biggest Bears fan, and she’d have a fit if I was hooking up with a guy rooting for an enemy team.”
Shit.
I poured the salad into two bowls, lightly mixing in the dressing. “Well, lucky for us, they’re not in the same division,” I said with a smile. “And we haven’t hooked up yet.”
There was something in her smile at the word yet.
Still, my attention was still on the fact that her best friend followed the Chicago Bears. That could potentially be an issue in my little plan. I tried not to sound too interested when I asked, “So, Gemma’s a big fan, huh? Does she keep up with all the players?”
“Oh, I’m sure she does — not that I ever ask. But the girl has at least half a closet of jerseys with different names on the back,” she said with a laugh, draping the blanket around her shoulders before she picked up her glass of wine again. “Although, she’s been a little pre-occupied planning her wedding that’s in a few months. Haven’t heard her talk much about football this season.”
“Ah. Tying the knot,” I said, telling myself to be cool. The chances of her friend knowing a trade from a different division who barely had any playing time on the field was slim.
At least, until training camp.
Deciding I’d cross that bridge when I got to it, I set our salads down on the tablecloth-covered boxes, gesturing for Belle to sit with me. “Are you the Maid of Honor?”
“I am, indeed,” she said, taking a seat and covering her lap with the blanket.
And damn if she didn’t look good wrapped up in my old team’s colors.
“Excited?”
She smirked, but something in her eyes told me that wasn’t the word she’d use. “I guess. I mean, I’m happy for her, I really like her fiancé, and I know she’s happy — which she deserves to be after all the shit she’s been through. But… it’s just hard. Everything is changing. I can’t just show up at her place and demand she go out with me, or surprise her with a bottle of wine and some popcorn for a girls’ night in.” She shook her head, like she’d already said too much. “I’m sure that sounds selfish.”
“No,” I said quickly. “It sounds honest.”
She smiled, shrugging as she picked up her fork and stacked her first bite of salad on it. “Honesty isn’t as shiny as everyone makes it out to be.”
