Page 16 of Dear Rosie

And horny.

And I’d seen his stupidly handsome face on a magazine in the checkout lane at the grocery store.

And sue me. He’s fucking hot. So… I thought about him.

“And…” Presley leans closer. “Do you know who it is?”

Her question reminds me that we’re talking about a different athlete.

“Maddox Lovelace,” I tell her—the name that doesn’t mean anything to me.

Her mouth drops. “This is Mad Dog Maddox’s house?”

“Mad Dog?” I scrunch up my nose at the silly nickname.

I didn’t look him up. All I needed to know was that his last name wasn’t Waller.

“I thought he got married like last year or something.” Presley tilts her head. “I forgot you said this was some sort of belated wedding reception.”

“How do you know this stuff?” I hate to stereotype, but Presley, with her French-braided hair and full-sleeve tattoos, doesn’t strike me as a football fan.

She rolls her eyes. “Because he’s a hot-as-fuck professional athlete, and I’m not dead.”

I can’t help but laugh.

“I take it you don’t watch?” she asks.

“Never had time.” I tell her the truth.

There were times I was tempted.

Times I wanted to look up my old friend, find out when his games were… But I always stopped myself. I had to stay focused.

Had to work two jobs to support my third one.

Had to spend every spare moment cooking and baking once I quit those other two jobs.

Had to put my all into this company. Because I had to make it work.

Because I didn’t want to spend my life working for someone else. And I couldn’t spend another second working for another man. They’d controlled my life long enough.

Presley sighs. “You gotta get a life, Boss. And trust me.” She fans herself with her hand. “After you see this man, you’ll understand my obsession.” Her eyes widen. “Do you think he’ll have his teammates here? Oh, or his brother?”

Presley sounds so excited, but I have no idea who she’s talking about.

The doorbell rings, saving me from a reply.

I step back from the island. “I’ll go let the hair person in if you want to get started on the meatballs.”

“Hair person.” Presley snorts, then moves to the sink to wash her hands.

As I walk through the large home, I glance down at myself, hoping I’m not covered in bacon splatter.

We’ll change into all black for the event, but for prep, I wore my usual comfy jeans and a forest-green T-shirt under my canvas apron, which seems to be free of major stains.

The doorbell rings again.

Rude.

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