“Hungry? Thirsty?” I nudged her, waggling my eyebrows like the world was our playground.
She didn’t even glance back at where the food and drinks were. She made a beeline for the chairs at the end. I followed her, smiling as she stared down at the field like it couldn’t be real. She even rubbed her eyes a few times just to make sure.
“How’s that for a view?” I came up beside her and stared down at the field and the fans. It looked like an ocean of grey and black surging up the stairs of the stadium.
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Charlie pressed her hands onto the glass, her face following. “There he is!” She stabbed her pointer finger into the glass, bouncing. “There’s—”
My hand clamped around her shoulder just in time. Charlie was still getting used to calling Grant Dad, but she was calling him that more often than his name. I knew we’d gone over our plan to keep her paternity a secret a “hundred-thousand” times today, but she was a seven-year-old. An easily excitable one who was insanely proud of the fact Grant Turner was her father.
I wasn’t sure if we’d make it through the entire game without everyone in this room finding out about our secret. At least one of them.
My chorea had been better over the past couple of days, but I never knew when that would change. I just hoped it could hold off for a few more hours. Grant had offered to have someone close by I could fire off a quick text to and be escorted out of the stadium quickly, but I’d thought that was overkill. Nothing like knowing a security guard was pacing close by, waiting to come in and save the day, to tempt fate. If I was hit with a bad case of chorea, I’d just have to deal with it as it came.
Teams were lining up for kick-off, so Charlie and I, along with a few others in the room, slid into our chairs. Most of the others looked content to stand, have their drinks refilled by the server milling around the room, and glance at the field every few minutes.
A knock pounded on the door as the Storm started its charge down the field, but I was too busy watching the field to be distracted by whoever or whatever was at the door. Charlie couldn’t stay sitting in her chair with all of the excitement and noise roaring through the stadium. She resumed her place at the window, foam finger, face, and hand pressed against the glass.
“Miss Hale?” A server came around in front of me with his arms balancing a tray loaded with food and drinks. Proper football-game food and drink. He managed to maneuver a little table in front of me before setting down the tray. “Compliments of Mr. Turner.” The server winked then handed me a folded piece of paper before leaving.
You’re welcome.
That was all the note said, but it had me smiling like an idiot. The perks of dating a guy you’d known most of your life was this kind of thing—sending up a tray of real Sunday football food, instead of the fancy finger foods in silver trays behind me. I didn’t care what hot dogs were made of—I’d take one any day over an organic chicken breast.
“Hey. You.” Charlie hadn’t noticed the feast arrive, so I tapped her arm with a wrapped hot dog. “Food.”
She took it absently, refusing to be distracted from the game. I should have known.
Me, on the other hand? I’d sat and cheered at plenty of Grant’s games back in high school, and even a few in college when I’d been able to make it. Plus, I was hungry. Or at least I was now that I had something edible in front of me.
He’d even remembered to have the condiments delivered on the side—relish, onion, mustard, and ketchup—which made me smile again. Like an idiot. For someone who’d been adamant about keeping distance between us, I’d sure failed that task.
But damn. After that kiss. After those words he’d said. After that “incident” up against the wall on his front porch. How did a person keep her distance from someone like that? How did two people who’d loved each other for most of their lives pretend to be mere acquaintances?
I’d just finished prepping my hot dog and was diving in for my first bite when I noticed someone settle into a chair behind me. Taking my bite, I twisted around to see who it was, figuring they hadn’t appeared because this was the best seat in the house.
“Hello,” the women behind me said pleasantly, smiling just as pleasantly.
I was still in the middle of chewing, so I returned a smile and waved, feeling even more confused. Why had this woman chosen to come sit by me when she clearly fit in with the wealthy, well-dressed people in the room better?
She was also the leggy model type . . . but wasn’t exactly lacking in the curves department either, which was just downright unfair. You should either have been allowed the tall, willowy frame or the curvy, voluptuous one. Not both. That was just wrong.