More Than Love You Page 7

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Two can play games, and I didn’t survive league and team politics by not being aware of the people around me. Across the table at the seaside steakhouse, Harlow sparkles as she smiles like she doesn’t have a care in the world. She flirts like a pro as the wind ruffles the loose tendrils of her dark hair around her face. She’s stuffed the rest in an artfully mussed bun and tossed on a maxi dress and sandals, yet somehow manages to look both casual and put together.

  “So there we are, ten sorority girls and a dead hamster named T-Rex, who had lived a grand life. We’re giving him one hell of a Viking-style funeral on a raft in the pool at, like, two in the morning. We saluted him. One of my sorority sister’s boyfriends had been a priest for Halloween, so he came over all dressed up to preside over T-Rex’s funeral. I delivered a eulogy we all tossed together on a napkin at the last minute. I held the little speech in one hand and a bottle of Wild Turkey in the other. We literally couldn’t stop laughing the whole time because it was so absurd. And we all needed the break from studying for finals.” She sips her wine. “So while the raft is on fire and we’re singing Sarah MacLachlan’s ‘I Will Remember You’ at the top of our lungs, the raft that was supposed to send this hamster to Valhalla turns into a floating bonfire. Actual heat flared off the sucker. The smell of melting plastic was awful. Yes, we were young and stupid. But the elderly woman who lived in the house behind us woke up and called the fire department. I kid you not, they rolled two trucks with ladders, thinking they had a serious blaze on their hands. When they arrived, they scolded us for being careless—which we totally were. But a few of them stayed behind to hang, and one of them asked out my roommate. They’re married now. I was one of her bridesmaids, as was Masey, the friend whose pet crossed the rainbow bridge that fateful night. The bride was originally from Texas, where they do a groom’s cake for the reception, so theirs was in the shape of a hamster. Hardly anyone got the inside joke, but it was hard to keep a straight face through some of the pictures.”

  I laugh because I can imagine how ridiculous the fiery hamster funeral probably was. Of course, my frat brothers and I did stuff way worse than that. We were a bunch of jocks with something dangerously close to carte blanche from the university’s dean and board of directors, as long as we won games and kept the alumni money flowing. But this swapping of tales isn’t a competition. I’m not about comparing pasts, either. I just want to keep Harlow talking so I can learn more. I especially want to know what’s up with her.

  “You’re lucky no one got arrested,” I point out.

  “I know! And poor Masey really was broken up about losing T-Rex. So we got her plowed and rigged up the funeral to give her closure. She aced her finals after that. And her boyfriend said she started putting out again. So the girls and I considered it something close to a public service.” She winks. “Probably not as crazy as things you’ve done. Aren’t you professional athletes all ridiculous party animals? Booze and drugs and girls everywhere?”

  I shrug. “There was a time. I was no saint in college. I went from being the hero of my high school football team to the starting quarterback of my college team. So yeah, we partied hard. But we were a team in the middle of rebuilding. In four years, we managed to turn the program around and ended our senior season ranked number four in the nation. If we’d had a defense, we might have won it all. But sports were easy then. The NFL was much harder. Everyone was bigger and faster and smarter. Football went from being the sport guys played because it got them a free ride through college and got them laid to being the career they took very seriously. I almost wiped out my rookie season because I didn’t get that. But after having my ass sacked over and over that year, I starting hitting the gym, working on drills, and paying attention to film a lot more. I devoted more effort to practices and mental preparation out of self-preservation and it paid off.”

  That rookie season also saw two of my concussions, one of them the most serious. I was unconscious for nearly twenty minutes. One moment I had a Detroit defensive back in my face, plowing me to the turf. The next I woke up in one of the Motor City’s ERs with a member of the team’s medical staff trying to calm my mother over the phone. In the last few months I’ve wondered if I had started taking my job and my health seriously a few months sooner, would I have saved myself that concussion and some of the crap I’m going through now?

  Harlow props her chin on her palm and stares at me across the table. “That’s amazing. I can’t imagine my job being that physical. The craziest thing I do now is crouch down to find the right toy or exercise to help speech-impaired kids learn whatever I’m trying to teach them. It has to be daunting to be on the field with a bunch of well-trained maniacs bent on your destruction.”

  “When you put it like that, what was I thinking?” I laugh. “Actually, I’m grateful to football. It kept me out of trouble as a kid and gave me a future I never imagined growing up in Honolulu’s poor neighborhoods. You wouldn’t get it, being one of those rich kids.”

  She tsks at me. “Why would you think I grew up wealthy?”

  I snort. “Are you kidding? Privilege drips off you. You have this easy air of assurance about the world, like you’ve never wondered where your next meal would come from, like you could take or leave money. But I’ll bet you’ve never been without it. You’re accustomed to nice houses and fancy cars. Not in the ‘I could get used to this’ sort of way, but as if having them is completely normal in your world.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “It’s not a bad thing,” I assure her. “But I know because I was a kid who didn’t have air conditioning until I went off to college. We had one old TV. I didn’t even have a cell phone until after I signed my first pro contract. When I bought my first house in Dallas with my signing bonus, I kept walking in and staring in awe because I couldn’t believe I had a place with marble floors and didn’t have squawking chickens in the backyard I was waiting to get fat enough to eat. The way you look at the world is different. I want to hear more about your past.”

  That’s what started this discussion. So far, Harlow has regaled me with tales about her sorority sisters and the hamster funeral, along with a couple of stories about her brothers’ childhood antics. Nothing about her parents, her childhood, or her romantic history. She’s only sharing the pleasant parts of her life. Because she’s giving me only the easy-breezy bits she wants to think about?

  She cocks her head as she swishes the wine. “Not much to tell that you don’t know. My dad is a workaholic, and he was always good at making money. My mom pushed me into group activities the other kids did, forever sucking me into this dance studio or signing me up for that beauty pageant. I think she lived vicariously through me sometimes and never wanted to hear that I wasn’t interested in cheerleading or modeling or whatever she thought I should be for appearance’s sake.”

  “She must be proud of you now. A master’s in a degree that can really help people, and especially if you’re focusing on children who really need you…”

  Her smile turns stilted. “I think she would rather me make something of those acting classes she dragged me to. Or at least marry well. Since I’m disinclined to do either, I’m pretty sure she’s disappointed. What about you? Your parents must be extremely proud of all you’ve accomplished. And your siblings. What do they say at family gatherings?”

  “They treat me like they always did. Trace tries to be bigger and badder, so he gets into these mock wrestling matches with me. Samaria still rolls her eyes at me and tells me to make myself useful. When we had Christmas dinner at her house last year, that meant doing a mountain of dishes. Mom clucks around me, like always. Still protective, as if I’m nine, not thirty-four. Dad passed away a couple years back. He always struggled with asthma. He had an attack when no one was home and he couldn’t get to a phone.”

  Compassion softens her face. “I’m sorry. That must have been heartbreaking for you and your family.”

  Harlow means
that genuinely. And I realize that’s the dichotomy about her I don’t understand. She can be so warm and genuine and easy to be with. But when I ask her about herself, she dodges and deflects. If I get too direct, she shuts down. She’s not cold…but she’s also not forthcoming.

  Suddenly, I’m actually looking forward to having dinner with Maxon and Griff and their brides. Maybe I’ll get some answers. Because as much as Harlow and I have sex—and we had a whole afternoon of it today—she’s let me have full access to her body, no problem. But I don’t feel as if she’s let me any closer to the woman beneath all that gorgeous glowing skin.

  It’s bugging the hell out of me. Normally, I’d be high-fiving all the awesome, no-strings nookie. Not now. Not with Harlow.

  I’m not even sure why. Maybe I’m bored and I have time on my hands?

  “Thanks. Holidays are hard, for sure. I regret that none of us gave him the grandchildren he really wanted before he died, but I was too busy playing football to get domestic. Trace was too immature. Samaria was just finishing college. But now that my sister is married, I’m sure she’ll make up for her deadbeat older brothers. That will make Mom happy, and I’m sure Dad will be smiling down on her, too.”

  “Don’t you want kids someday?”

  I haven’t actually given it much thought. “I suppose.” But the tone of her question makes me pause. “I take it you do?”

  “Yeah. I’ve wanted them forever. A bunch of my girlfriends are already married and have babies. They all say motherhood is the purest, most enduring form of love.”

  If a picture is worth a thousand words, I wish I had a camera so I could snap her face right now and capture that look of longing. I don’t know if she’s interested in romance or marriage or she simply wants a baby. But clearly standoffish Harlow craves love.

  I never would have guessed.

  I’m still turning the startling realization over when the waiter comes by to inquire about dessert. I pass. So does Harlow. Within two minutes, I’ve paid the check and we’re heading out the front of the restaurant to wait for the valet.

  As the trade winds blow gently and the sun takes a graceful bow over the horizon before disappearing, I take her hand in mine, liking how good it feels to just have this simple connection with her. Nothing about her tells me she’s disappointed or lonely, but I sense she’s troubled.

  “You’ll make a great mom someday,” I tell her.

  I think of her filling out and rounding with our child. My desire for Harlow, which is always hot, blazes to something shocking and scalding and insistent. I actually…like the idea of her being pregnant? Whoa, that’s totally a new development for me.

  “Thanks. I’d hoped to be one sooner rather than later. But…” She shrugs. “That’s life, right? Unpredictable.”

  “Yes, it is. Just like meeting you.” I lean in to kiss her. “But I’m glad I did.”

  I can’t stop myself. Usually I’m not one for PDA because the press can take my first conversation with a woman and make it into the most dramatic breakup argument ever, but I don’t know how to not touch Harlow. I’m still embarrassingly revved up from thinking about her pregnant. But an air of sadness lingers around her. I can’t ignore it. I realize that’s what’s been snagging my attention over and over. She says things that are funny and light. Since we met, she’s been the life of my party. Definitely the lay of the century. But it all feels like I’m barely scratching her surface. What pain is she covering up?

  I palm the back of her neck and bend to kiss her. It’s gentle and reassuring. Consoling. I don’t think I’ve ever kissed a lover this way. I know that if I try to dig deeper into whatever she’s hiding now, she’ll just retreat behind her walls, but it’s harder for her to evade me when our lips are pressed together.

  Harlow clings sweetly, not rejecting my kiss or the comfort I give her. Moments later, she melts into me with a soft moan. I bring her closer.

  Then several bright flashes of lights around us kill the moment. A small crowd of reporters and gawkers have gathered around us, some frantically texting pictures they’ve just taken of Harlow and me.

  “Mr. Weston, how’s retirement?” some random dude shouts nearby as I tuck her behind me.

  “Are the rumors about you starting a second career in the broadcasting booth true?” asks a forty-something woman who looks like a shark seeking a scoop.

  “How do you feel about being hailed as a hometown hero made good?” queries a seasoned sports reporter from the Honolulu Star-Advertiser whose name has escaped me.

  “I gave statements to the press when I retired, folks. I’m just enjoying an evening out now that I’m back in Hawaii and I’d appreciate some privacy.”

  “Who’s your date?” the woman demands to know as if I didn’t just ask politely for them to shut the hell up. “Is it serious? Will the hearts of female Noah Weston fans be broken by an engagement announcement soon?”

  I grit my teeth and smile, but when they start trying to snap pictures of Harlow, I’m genuinely annoyed. I turn to ask if she’s all right and realize that, unlike most of my dates over the last twelve years, she’s not seeking camera time. No, she’s hiding her head and desperately trying to avoid it.

  I search around the parking lot for any sign of the valet, but I see nothing except the starry Hawaiian evening and these shitheads ruining it. I wrap my arm around Harlow protectively. I’m sure the press will make all kinds of assumptions about that, but whatever. Right now, distress pours off Harlow as she buries her head in my arm.

  “What’s your name, miss?” asks the sports reporter. “How long have you been dating? Are you the reason Weston retired?”

  “No comment.” Her mutter is muffled by my sleeve and her refusal to show her face.

  “You heard the lady. She has nothing to say. Neither do I. Have a good evening.”

  Finally, I see the lights of my rental approach. I’m looking forward to having my own car shipped over, but that will take a few weeks. This SUV will do until then, and I hustle halfway across the lot to meet it, Harlow in tow. Finally, the valet catches on to our dilemma and stops as we approach in the middle of the lot. He hops out and dashes around the car to open the door for her, but I’ve already beaten him to the punch. As soon as Harlow is settled inside, I shove a bill in his hand, then burn rubber out of the lot, leaving the small gaggle of gawkers behind us.

  “You okay?” I cup her knee and will her to look over at me.

  Instead, she nods, head bowed. “Fine. Can you just get me home?”

  I notice that she considers my place her home. I’m not bothered. “On our way.”

  “Thanks.” She looks up and sees we’ve left the restaurant behind, then exhales in relief. “How do you put up with that?”

  “Reporters and nosy people?” I shrug and turn left. “Comes with the territory. In truth, I’m a little surprised to find them here. I’ll bet someone in the restaurant tipped them off. Sorry if it upset you. I didn’t expect this crap to last into retirement, especially after I moved closer to my old stomping ground. After all, I won’t be dazzling fans anymore by breaking new touchdown or passing-yards records. Now I’m just a regular guy.”

  She scoffs. “I don’t know that you’ll ever be just a regular guy. I get that you want to move on with your life. I don’t know if they ever will. Blood-sucking assholes.”

  I study her a bit closer as I stop at a red light. “You seemed kind of freaked by their intrusion. Have you had trouble with people barging into your personal life or something?”

  Right on cue, here comes her plastic smile. “I’m not as important as you, fancy pants. Sure, I like attention as much as the next girl, but not when a bunch of vultures are trying to give it to me. Do you think they’re so fascinated by everyone else’s exploits because they’ve done nothing noteworthy in their own lives? What drives sad little people to care more about someone else’s achievements than their own?”

  That was a skillful deflection, and if I wasn’t already
on to Harlow, I probably would have fallen for that juicy question. “I don’t know and I don’t care. I’d rather know why they upset you.”

  She blinks at me as if I’m crazy. “Me? If I’m upset, it’s for you. They totally disregarded your privacy.”

  “It’s what reporters do.” I grimace. “Are you sure you’re not upset? Because once they started asking you questions, you turned an interesting shade of pale and stuck your nose in my armpit as if you wanted to know whether my deodorant was still working.”

  Since direct questioning and concern haven’t yet worked, I’m trying sarcasm. She seems to speak that language. My question makes her smile.

  “Is it?” She wags her brows. “Maybe you should drop your shirt now and let me get up close and personal with you. You know, as a public service. In case we run into anyone else. You don’t want to reek.”

  “If you start something in this car, woman, we may be finishing it here, too. And I’m too damn tall and big for backseat action.”

  “I’m nimble,” she offers. “I could easily reach across the console and unzip your pants. Do you think my head will fit between the steering wheel and your lap? I do.”

  My libido wants to find out. “I bet it will. But if you try, we may not make it home in one piece. I don’t think it’s smart to test my ability to drive safely with your mouth wrapped around my cock.”

  “But—”

  “If we get into an accident, imagine how those headlines would read.”

  She grimaces, then sighs. “Who knew there are downsides to banging a famous guy? I thought it would be all laughs, glamour, and orgasms.” She tsks. “You’re such a disappointment.”