Page 17 of Quarterback Sneak

“How’s the menu coming for the segment on Seasoned Chef? It’s next week, right?”

“Yes.” On the day of the magazine shoot, Ivy would be tasked with creating three courses for the photographer’s pictures, and then she had to re-create the items for the food critic’s video segment airing on their website. “I’m making toasted ravioli for an appetizer, and seafood risotto for the main course.”

“And for the dessert?”

The first two courses she was confident in; dessert had always psyched her out. “I have no idea. It’s not my strongest skill. I can’t make up my mind.” The theme with her of late.

“You should make the crème brûlée you fed me the other night. That was good, but then everything you cook is delicious.”

Yet another reason to date the guy. He always said the right thing.

Howler’s distinctive voice sounded in the background. Ivy swallowed a groan of protest after she caught a snippet of conversation signaling the end of her own with Sam.

“Ivy, I’m sorry, I have to go. Can I call you tomorrow?”

“I’m off at eight.” Ivy’s mom walked past the window toward the kitchen, an empty glass in hand. Movie night would be starting soon. The two days she’d spent with Sam mimicked the premise of some rom-com movie plot. Up-and-coming chef meets star jock. Would it end with a happily ever after, or turn into a black comedy, where her heart got ripped out at the end? “We’ll talk.”

“Ivy, I promised to give you space, but I hope we can continue seeing one another. I miss you, and I want to be with you, nobody else.” He sighed, the sound a gentle embrace to her strained nerves. “Have a good night.”

“Good night.” She stood rooted to the spot, stunned by the sweet sentiment. A fat drop of rain hit her arm, signaling an impending deluge, as if nature was trying to give her the cold shower she needed to make a clear-headed decision. She returned to the family room through the French doors, even more torn than before. There was no denying she desired him. If he were a normal guy, things would definitely be easier. Was his fame the thing stopping her from committing, or was it her reservations toward men in general? She wanted to trust him, yet the prospect frightened her to no end.

Her phone vibrated again and she glanced down to see a text from Sam. Attached was the picture of them on the boat and in the message he wrote: I forgot to send this to you. Ivy gazed down at the tiny photo of them, mesmerized by his face, recalling the minutes after he’d snapped the shot. She leaned against the wall connecting the kitchen to the large family room. Biting her lip, she traced the picture with her thumb before she answered back: Thank you for the picture.

Beth came out of the kitchen, an unopened beer in hand. “Your cheeks are bright red. Are you sexting Sam?”

She glared at Beth. Ever since they became best friends in junior high school, Beth read her moods well. Ivy absentmindedly twisted the chain of the pendant at her neck. Since the day the vendor had given it to her, she’d used the jade like a worry stone, the smooth surface soothing to the touch. “Shut up, Beth.”

Beth offered a sly grin and popped the top of the bottle she held. Ivy was the one who needed liquid courage at this moment. “You are.”

Ivy’s mom peeked over the breakfast counter, a glass of wine in hand. “What are you two bickering about now?”

In her mid-forties, Ellen Turin had dark hair that brushed her shoulders, and her face radiated a youthful glow. An avid outdoors enthusiast, Ivy’s mother ran circles around women half her age. Ivy resembled her in looks and personality. They were close, and Ivy found it just as hard to get anything past her mom as Beth.

“She’s sexting her new boyfriend,” Beth said.

“What are you, sixteen?” Ivy stole the beer out of Beth’s hand and took a healthy swig.

Her mother exited the kitchen and linked arms with Ivy, steering her toward the television room. “You’re seeing someone? Frank, Ivy has a boyfriend.”

“Don’t sound so shocked. I’ve had a few before.”

“We know, dear. We’re just glad to see you out there again. You deserve to be happy. Now tell me all about him.”

Her mother dragged her onto the loveseat across from where her father reclined in a brown leather La-Z-Boy. As usual, he had the television turned to ESPN. Beth followed without being invited and balanced her leg on the arm of the loveseat next to Ivy. Ivy shoved at her hip, trying to dislodge the brat from her perch. Beth looped her arm around Ivy’s neck and kissed the top of her head. “You know I love you, now stop being a bitch, and tell your parents all about your boyfriend.”

“You are so not my friend,” Ivy said.

“Frank, turn the T.V. off. Ivy has something to tell us,” Ellen said.

He glanced up, frowned at his wife, and sighed. Picking up the remote, he muted the T.V.

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense. Who is he?” her mother asked.

“His name is Sam, and we met at the restaurant. We’ve only gone on two dates, so it’s a bit early to call him my boyfriend. Not much to say really.” She tightened her grip on the longneck in her hand and took another comforting swig. If this cross-examination by her family was stressful, how would she be able to handle the press? Ivy imagined herself at some press junket, dozens of microphones pointed at her face and bright lights hiding the faces of all her interrogators.

You have until tomorrow night to decide, and you’d better do it quick.

“Is he a chef like you?” her mother asked. “When do we get to meet him?”

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