“Jules, what the hell does he see in me?” I frown and look down at my hands. “I guess that’s what it comes down to. He can have anyone he wants.”
“Why is it so hard for you to believe that he wants you? Meg, you’re fantastic.”
“But…” I shake my head, but she interrupts me.
“No buts. Will adores you, Megan. I’ve never seen him like this.”
“He’ll get tired of me.”
“Stop it. Now you’re just being a *, and I don’t have time for this shit.” My eyes go wide and I raise my eyebrows.
“How do you really feel?” I ask dryly.
“Will is famous, Meg. None of us can change that, and I don’t think he wants to change that. He’s good at what he does.”
“Yes, he is,” I agree.
“There will always be groupies. He will always get recognized, especially around this town. Will’s never really cared about all that bullshit.” She shrugs. “It just goes with the job. But Meg, if every time a woman tries to get his attention it makes you start to question his feelings for you, or whether you deserve him, you will never be able to make this relationship work.”
“What are you saying?” I ask her.
“If you aren’t in it for the long haul, willing to pull your big-girl panties up and deal with the bullshit that comes along with being famous, then cut your losses now rather than later.”
I don’t have any words. I just sit and stare at her, then look over at the dress, and back to her.
“The thought of being without him kills me,” I whisper.
“Then trust him when he says he loves you. He means it. Enjoy him. Love him back.”
She looks so damn proud of herself.
And she’s right. He’s never given me a reason not to trust him.
“Okay. Thank you. For everything.”
“You’re welcome.” She pulls me into a tight hug and then walks me to her door. “I’ll see you Saturday.”
*
Just when I walk through my front door, my phone rings. Football Star reads on the display.
“Hey there,” I answer.
“Where are you?” God, he’s so grouchy.
“I’m at home. Just got here.”
“Why?”
“Because I just left your sister’s office and I needed to come home for a while. I see you’re still as charming as you were this morning.”
He sighs. “Sorry. I slept too long.”
“Jules told me about the dress, Will.”
He swears under his breath. “Great, so now I guess you’ll bitch at me about spending too much money on that too?”
“Actually, I was going…”
“Because I’m sick of trying to give you nice things and you keep telling me I shouldn’t,” he interrupts. “Do you have any idea how much money I make?”
“No, I don’t care…”
“I just signed a one hundred million dollar contract, Megan.”
Holy fuck.
“I can afford to buy you dresses and earrings and take you on trips.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes. I was going to thank you for the dress because I really love it and I love that you picked it out. But clearly you’re still in jackass mode, so I’m going to let you go get over this fucking hangover that has you growling at me like a wounded bear and get some things done around my own house. I’ll see you later.”
I hang up before he can respond and toss my phone on the counter top in the kitchen.
I throw in a load of laundry, tidy my bathroom and clean out the fridge, swearing at grumpy football players who don’t know how to hold their liquor.
Jackass.
And then it occurs to me: I don’t think he’s eaten today. Unless he ate while I was out, but Will requires a hell of a lot of food, and with that hangover, which he’s not used to, I’m quite sure he hasn’t eaten.
So I take a quick stock of my freezer and pantry and send him a text.
Be at my place in an hour.
*
The lasagna is resting on the tabletop and I’m just pulling the garlic bread out of the oven when Will rings the doorbell.
I open the door to find him standing there, freshly showered, with a dozen pink roses, and I melt just a little.
“I’m sorry I’m a jackass.”
“Come inside, jackass.” I let him in and push the buttons on the alarm like I’m supposed to when I open the door, earning a wide smile from Mr. Overprotective.
“You set the alarm.”
“I did.” I shrug like it’s no big deal. “You seem to like it when I do that.”
“I do.” He holds the flowers out to me. “These are for you.”
“Thank you.” I bury my nose in them and take a deep breath. “They smell wonderful.”
“Like you,” he whispers.
“Don’t think being cheeky will redeem you from your jackassery.”
“Jackassery?” He asks with a laugh. “Where do you come up with these words?” He follows me into the kitchen where I put the flowers in the water.
“Where did you get that lasagna?” he asks, his eyes wide and pinned to the pan of bubbly goodness on the table.
“I made it.”
“What?” His eyes dart to mine and he pins me with a glare. “You made that?”
“Yeah.” I toss the bread in a basket and set it on the table, along with plates and silverware.
“You can cook?”