The Catching Kind (21 page)

"Ready?" He was looking back at me as if I'd lost my mind. 

How long had I been staring at him? The last thing I needed him thinking was that I was
interested
. Because, I definitely was not
interested
. 

I was just—intrigued. 

It wasn't very often you found out someone was nothing like you thought they were. I had several close friends, but generally we didn't surprise each other anymore. And even those surprises weren't the types that made you stop and stare.

But, as we stood there in my doorway, Connor dressed in a Hugo Boss suit and looking like he could take over a corporation instead of just field a grounder, my whole world shifted.

Okay. Melodramatic much? 

But, my whole idea of Connor shifted. What if he really was what he claimed instead of how he was portrayed? It wasn't like it was his fault he was a good-looking, rich, successful celebrity athlete.

He was just doing his job. 

And, I couldn't forget all the nasty reviews I got when I hit the USA Today bestseller list. I knew in my heart that was the best book I'd written. If I was ever going to make the Times, it would have been with that book. No. More than that. It
should
have been with that book. But, as soon as it was listed, my reviews took a nosedive.

Every YA hater in the reading world decided to tell everyone why it was the biggest piece of trash ever written. I could never help but think if I'd just stayed under the radar, if I'd just written for those people who liked my style and genre, I'd never have read about how I must be stupid and fat and all the other words people throw around. It always confused me why people would hate a book for the sole reason that it was written for teens. As if teens didn’t deserve books and were too dumb to understand complex sentences.

Jenna had to talk me down for two weeks straight and then threatened to child lock all my internet access points.

Was Connor's world as toxic? How much was truth and how much was just the celebrity laid over the man—so they could sell magazines.

"Hailey?" His curiosity was beginning to look like worry.

"Sorry. I was thinking about my story."

"Oh.” His shoulders dropped back to relaxed mode and a small, little smile stretched, softening his lips. “Do you want to make some notes real fast before we leave?"

It took everything I had not to drop the bag in my hand. Only Jenna—and now Kasey that we'd trained her—knew that when an idea hit, I had to write it down. Write it or lose it. That was the way my stories worked. 

"Um. Yeah." Because, what was I going to say.

I crossed to my desk, took out my notebook, and wrote in block letters Do Not Fall Prey To Charm. 

I should have it tattooed to the inside of my eyelids.

Shoving the notebook back in the drawer, I took a deep breath. This was going to be a fun night. I was going to a home that cost more than my entire block. I'd never have another chance to go there or drink what was most likely three hundred dollar champagne.

"Thanks.” I turned back to him, readjusting my inner sanity-meter. “All set."

Connor pulled the door open and held it for me. I listened to him give me a run down again of the people who would be there.

"It's one of the few reasons I've considered buying a house in Europe. I couldn't be expected to fly back from Europe just for this party every year."

The idea that
that
idea would even cross his mind was absurd. Most people just got headaches. Connor considered foreign property.

"But, then I realized,” he continued, “what a jackass I sound like just saying things like that out loud. What do I need with a house in Europe?"

And there went my clever quip opportunity.

"Skiing?" I started down the stairs, listening to his footfalls behind me.

"I can ski here. My brother and I used to ski all the time." There was something in his voice. Something...wistful?

"Why don't you ski anymore?"

"Can't. It's in my contract. No skiing, parachuting, rock climbing, car racing. Nothing that puts my knees or shoulder at risk."

That seemed excessive. I mean, no one had ever told me I can't cook because I might cut my fingers. 

Of course, I wasn't making millions a year and costing other people millions a year if I didn't come out with a book. Who would have considered celebrity to be that limiting?

"Hey. Don't feel bad for me.” He slipped his arm around my shoulder. “I have the best life. I just have to let my brother know he needs to keep in shape because as soon as I'm retired we're hitting every extreme sport venue in the western hemisphere."

I stepped into the cold night air and glanced around for the cab. Instead, as we stood there, a man dressed in a black suit stepped away from a Town Car and opened the back door. Connor steered me toward it, his hand finding its spot on my lower back. 

"Thanks, Mac."

"No problem, Con. Miss." The driver winked at me as I slid in, trying not to let my high-slit skirt ride up too much in front of the two men.

Once we were all settled, Mac pulled the car away from the curb.

"So, Mac,” Connor called as he let his hand fall over mine and wrap around it. “Did you end up driving that rock star guy while he was here?"

"Yep.” He adjusted his rearview mirror so he could see us. “Be glad you hadn't rented the car the next night. It reeked of booze and cheap perfume."

"Really?" Connor leaned forward, obviously fascinated by the idea of car gossip. 

This was definitely a human chink in his armor I didn’t see coming.

"Yep. Nothing like driving you. Two women, three bottles. He kept lighting up no matter how much I reminded him there's no smoking in my car. Said he'd buy me a new fu—um, new car." He glanced in the rear-view mirror, meeting my gaze. "Excuse me, Miss Tate."

"Don't worry, Mac.” Connor waved the apology meant for me off. “Hailey puts up with me so she can put up with just about anything."

"I believe that must be true." Mac winked at me again, letting me know this was an ongoing joke between the two men.

"So,” Connor got the conversation back where he wanted it, “you pick him up after the concert, and…?"

"Yep. He's an hour late, which isn't a surprise. We build that into the bill with musicians."

This was fascinating. I was glad Connor was just as interested because otherwise I'd feel like a nosy fan…and I didn’t even know who we were talking about. Still, I asked, "Why?"

"There are...backstage activities that often slow them down from getting right to the car."

"I assume you're not talking about encores?" When Mac just snorted, I gave him a little grin. "How late do ballplayers usually run?"

Mac had one of those big laughs. Not the kind that forces your attention on him. But the kind that makes you want to smile. As if just knowing he was laughing was part of an inside joke.

"Con, you better keep an eye on this one. She's a hot ticket."

"She could also kick my ass.” He gave my hand a squeeze. “I learned to never go near her when she's hung over and has her sparring gloves on."

A little bit of warmth rose up my neck at the compliment. From any other guy to any other girl it may not have been one. But I knew in his athlete's mind, allowing that I could beat him at anything physical—whether it was true or not—was the biggest compliment he could give me.

It was better than the
Wow
he'd handed me earlier.

I pictured the notebook shoved in my desk and repeated the words again.

TWENTY-TWO

We climbed the stairs to the foyer of a home I may have seen featured on a show about a billionaire and I questioned every single thing I was wearing right down to my underwear. 

This was one of those times the binder of outfits hadn’t been enough. Becca had been in heaven. She even offered to come over and help me dress and I nearly took her up on it.

But, between the phone call and a slew of emails with step-by-step for a simple hairdo and makeup that was just a touch more than I'd been wearing lately, I felt like I could almost pull this off.

And wouldn't that be a miracle.

But, Connor had a great point. Tonight would bring us a long way in finishing this whole thing. Half the reason Dex had him doing this was to get his bosses to chill out. Unfortunately, I was learning that if you're a pro-athlete, your bosses consisted of owners, managers, coaches, agents, fans, and who knows how many other groups of people.

Since I was the perfect girl-next-door and I was on the job, this party was the right opportunity for us to hit most of the key players and make them believe this social mirage we were creating.

Just inside the door, I'd done a quick scan of the room to make sure that not only did my clothes look good on me, but they weren't too formal or flashy or too under- or over-done.

Now, I needed to remember to send Becca flowers. Not only did I look good, but I looked right. 

Connor slid his hand from my back to my waist, giving me a little pull into his side.

"Don't worry,” he whispered. “Most of the girls have been where you are. The majority of them seem pretty nice from what I can tell." He pulled us out of the doorway and scanned the room with me. 

Was I that obvious?

"See that one in the red with the slit that goes way too high up her leg?"

"How could I miss her?"

"Trust me. You want to. If you see her heading toward you, divert. Fast."

"Got it."

"That older man, the one actually wearing a tux with a cummerbund.” He nodded to the man picking up two champagne glasses off a tray as it passed. “Jason's wife says he's handsie, so keep a safe distance."

"Handsie old man. Distance. Check."

"See that—?" Connor's hand stiffened, his fingers biting a bit into my hip.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Yeah. No. Not nothing. What?"

"The blond in the black dress with the really big bracelet?"

I glanced toward the way he'd nodded his head. Oh.

"Yeah?"

"That's Ackerman’s girlfriend."

"The one you hooked up with?"

His step faltered. Not enough that anyone would have noticed, but with his arm around me, I couldn’t help but feel it.

"The one who told him we hooked up. Unlike the reports, no one caught us. No one caught us because nothing happened. She came onto me in an elevator. I said no and the next thing you know I’m getting my nose checked to see if it's broken or not."

I tried to ignore the way his arm had tightened around me. How angry he sounded.

“And?” Because, I couldn’t imagine that you got from a pass in an elevator to a nationally televised brawl in one step.

“And, she went to Ackerman right before the game. She played it up, cried. Made it sound like I was hitting on her and was making her uncomfortable with my inability to take no for an answer.”

A part of my heart raged at that. At the fact that anyone would do that, let alone to Connor.

“He held it together for most of the game,” Connor continued, his voice even lower now. “But toward the end, as it was clear we were going to be out for the post-season, he started throwing little barbs my way. I didn’t even know what they were about until right before he came at me. And, who would you believe?”

I felt horrible. Guilty. I'd assumed it was true. No matter how much I learned about Connor, I still thought it was true. Part of me, even as I was berating myself, still questioned it...wondered if he'd caved for one night. One hook-up. One kiss. Maybe just one flirtation. Just something that put him in that situation. That he wasn’t just the victim, he was one of the players.

"Why would she do that?" I knew as soon as the words came out of my mouth that I’d messed up. It wasn't the question. It was the tone of my voice. Even I could hear the doubt tinged with sarcasm. "I mean—"

"No. Don't worry about it.” He moved to step away, but I grabbed his hand at my waist. “Why would you not wonder what everyone else has? It's her word against mine. We don't want to ever believe the woman in the relationship. It must be the jock. He gets around, right?"

So much bitterness. And I caused it. Well, not all of it. But tonight's version. I did that. Before we were even officially in the party I'd ruined our night.

"Connor, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that." And, just like that I realized I hadn't. It wasn't that I was judging him or calling him a liar. It was that I was afraid that he was
that guy
. Because of how desperately I needed him not to be. "I swear. I didn't."

He shifted, his arm still around me so I stood in a half-embrace as he bent to come closer to my height.

He studied my face, his free hand lightly cupping my chin to force my gaze up to his. "I believe you."

It's what I should have said. But, I was glad one of us had gotten a chance to.

"Good."

We stood there, grinning at each other like idiots. 

"That's our first fight.” He winked, that cocky grin coming back. “We should find a broom closet and make up." 

My heart skipped a beat at the ridiculously over-the-top pick-up line my fake boyfriend just threw at me.

"I think our first fight was the moment we laid eyes on each other and you wouldn't get out of the elevator so I could get to my meeting."

"Doesn't count. We hadn't met yet."

"Or maybe the second moment we laid eyes on each other when you said you’d never be caught dead with me on your arm.”

"Doesn't count. We weren't dating yet."

"Or the time at the farmers market."

"Doesn't count. That was a misunderstanding. Not a fight."

"You have an answer for everything."

"It's a gift."

"You're a nerd."

"Only secretly."

I grinned, absurdly happy at the way he had a comeback for everything I said. The flow of give and take. Amazed at the sweet silliness he was willing to show when it was just us.

His eyes crinkled as he bit off a laugh. "So, about that broom closet..."