I don’t finish, not because I don’t want to, but because he doesn’t give me the chance to.
“I’m sorry, I’m waiting for someone.” I assume that he’s talking to me since I’m the only person standing at his table, but I’m not positive because he hasn’t looked up from his phone.
Super fucking rude.
“Actually, I—”
“What do you want me to sign?” He holds out his hand expectantly.
“Nothing, I—”
“Listen,” he cuts me off again and actually takes his eyes off his phone this time to look at me. “I appreciate a forward woman as much as any man, but you’re not my type.”
I know I’m no beauty queen—Liv is definitely the one in my group that would take that title—but this was harsh no matter how I look. I’m sure his type is a six foot tall, size zero model with flowing blonde locks and eyes as blue as the ocean. Basically the complete opposite of my five-foot, three-inch frame that hasn’t fit into a size zero since middle school . . . and even that is pushing it. My hair did have gold highlights for a while, but because I blast it with a flatiron at least once a week to tame my wild curls, I stopped dyeing it so it didn’t all fall out. And my eyes are more the color of trees—not the leaves, the trunks. They’re brown. I’m about as average as they come and I’m usually fine with that because most people have at least a sliver of manners.
In any other situation, I would be completely and utterly horrified. I mean, that’s not just rude, it’s hurtful! But thankfully for my tear ducts—and my pride—I’m just pissed. Who the hell does he think he is? Just because he was blessed with perfect, smooth dark brown skin and sharp cheekbones that are noticeable even with the thick beard that is infuriatingly even more gorgeous up close, does not mean that every woman who approaches him wants in his pants.
At my sides, my hands form into fists so tight that my neatly trimmed nails start digging into my palms, and I can actually feel the heat rising in my face like my head might explode at any second.
Even through my brown skin and peach blush, Quinton must see the red in my cheeks. He just reads it the wrong way.
I know he gets it wrong because instead of running away screaming, he has the audacity to touch me. His oversized hand wraps around my fist that is now shaking with the almost unbearable urge to punch him.
Much to my dismay, my body isn’t on the same page with my mind. Because as soon as his calloused palm rubs against the sensitive skin on the back of my hand, it’s like the fireworks that went off as the Mustangs ran onto the field moved into my pants. This only makes me more furious. I mean, I didn’t even know touching hands could do this! The freaking audacity! And, by the way, why couldn’t my body have reacted like this for any of the guys who actually weren’t jerks to me?
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” He squeezes my hand and his voice is so patronizing that if I didn’t know the value of the hand touching me, I’d consider breaking it. “I’m just not interested.”
I yank my hand away from him, ignoring the way my skin still tingles from his touch and using every last bit of restraint I have, I pull out the chair across from him and take a seat. He opens up his mouth to speak, but this time, I talk over him. “As I was trying to say, I’m Elliot Reed. Mr. Mahler sent me.”
His mouth falls open and finally—FINALLY!—no words come out.
If I wasn’t so out-of-my-mind furious, I might even get some pleasure out of this moment.
But I can say, with one hundred percent certainty, that nothing Quinton Howard Junior does will ever bring me pleasure.
Four
“You . . . you’re . . . I mean . . .” Quinton stumbles over his words so hard, it’s nearly impossible to think this is the same graceful man out on the field every Sunday. “I thought you were a man.”
“Did Mr. Mahler tell you I was a man?” I ask. “Do you think I look like a man?”
The truth is, because of my name, this has happened before. But unlike now, nobody has ever made me feel so small during their confusion. So the joy I’m feeling watching him stumble around is profound.
“No, no!” He holds his hands out in front of him as his eyes damn near bulge out of his head. I swear I can see a blush creep up his dark brown cheeks. “That’s not what I meant. I just assumed I was meeting with a man.”
“Well, you know what they say about people who assume things.” And yes, while I know my job depends on me working with this guy, I can’t help but to stress “ass” because . . . well, because he’s a giant one.
“Yeah, about that,” he starts, but I’ve heard enough and I already want this meeting to be over.
“No need. You made yourself clear and that’s fine. I’m here to do my job.” The rejection was bad enough, the last thing I need to do is sit here while he lists all the reasons I’m not his type. I like to torment myself enough on my own, I do not need the physically flawless jerk to do it for me. “I’m hoping we can both be professional from this point forward.”
Considering I just called him an ass, I definitely need the reminder just as much as he does.
“Yes, of course.” He nods his head vigorously. “I really am so—”
“Sorry. You’re so sorry, got it. Moving on.” I’m here for a reason, and every second we sit here with the bullshit apologies is a second I could be doing my job. I just want to hurry this along, and, ultimately, go drown my sorrows at the fully stocked bar less than twenty feet away from me. I grab the fully decked-out iPad that the Mustangs supplied me with from my purse and swipe out of the Twitter app covered with endless tweets about the man in front of me before opening my notes. “So, we both obviously know why we’re here.”
“Because I’m making Mahler and a large portion of the country uncomfortable.” The words come out conversationally, but there’s an undercurrent of anger powering them.
I was not expecting it.
And from the way he shakes his head and then aims a perfectly white, perfectly straight, perfectly fake smile at me, he wasn’t expecting it either.
I’m not sure which part surprises me the most, the fact that he showed me his anger or that he’s so good at hiding it. I never saw it during his interview.
I put the iPad down on the table and level my stare with his. “Is that why you’re doing this? To make people uncomfortable?” My words don’t have any of the malice the reporters had. I’m honestly curious. Unlike Mahler, I don’t disagree with the stance he’s making. I just can’t help unless I understand his motives and goals.