“I don’t think women want romance as much as they think they do.”
I cackled. “You don’t know women very well.”
“Oh, but I think I do. I think most women, especially women who work hard and have a lot on their mind, prefer a man to come home, lift her off her feet and take her against the wall rather than hand her some bullshit flowers and *foot around with sweet gestures all night.”
“We like bullshit flowers and sweet gestures.” Though I could use a good wall banging.
“Then you haven’t been fucked properly against a wall.”
“Let me guess. You could demonstrate?”
“We could skip dinner.”
“Big of you. But our deal was dinner for an interview.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
We arrived at the Regency, and the valet who opened the car door for me knew Brody by name. “Usual time in the morning, Mr. Easton?”
“Actually. I’ll probably be using the car again tonight. Why don’t you keep it close by?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Easton.”
Brody walked around the car. His hand went to the small of my back.
“Probably?”
“A man has to hold on to his dreams.” He winked.
As we walked through the lobby, more employees greeted him by name. He was a household name, but they spoke to him with the familiarity of a frequent visitor. “Do you come here often? Dinner at a hotel? How convenient for dessert.”
“I live here.”
“You live at the Regency?”
“During the season, I do. The field is less than an hour from here, even with traffic.”
“Where do you live in the offseason?”
“I have a cabin upstate. I stay there mostly.”
“A cabin? In the woods?”
“Yes. I’ve been working on it for a few years now in the offseason. I figure it should be done in about . . . I don’t know . . . twenty or thirty years.” He chuckled.
“Sounds like you work fast.”
He steered me down the hall toward the restaurant and leaned into me as he spoke. His voice was raspy. “Actually, I like to take my time.” The timbre of his voice made my toes curl in my sensible shoes.
A part of me suddenly wished I hadn’t dressed up like a schoolmarm.
We settled into our table at the beautiful Silver Ivy restaurant, and a waitress came over to take our drink order. She batted her long eyelashes at Brody and gave me the once-over, no doubt jealous of my outfit. “What can I do for you this evening, Mr. Easton?”
Really? Yuck.
“Hey, Siselee.” He looked at me. “Do you like red wine?”
“I consider it one of the five major food groups.”
He ordered a bottle of wine I’d never heard of. The waitress opened it tableside, poured me a glass and set the bottle in the bucket beside the table.
“Aren’t you having any?” The question was directed at Brody, but Siselee answered before he could.
“He only drinks on Tuesday nights.” She lifted her chin, proud of herself for knowing the answer.
“Training,” Brody offered as means of explanation.
We relaxed into easy conversation, our natural flow leading to sports. Arguing over the greats of all time, we sampled each other’s dinners without a lull in our banter. The topic of conversation eventually moved to Brody’s new wide receiver.
“I throw, he catches. We don’t need to be buddies.”
“You need to have trust in each other. My dad always said his receiver was like his wife—he needed a partner he could trust to make the right decisions.”
“I have to trust his abilities. Not his morality.”
“So is that what the issue is? His morals?”
Brody leaned back in his seat and folded his arms. “Is this an interview? This shit going to be on the air tomorrow?”
“No. Sorry. Habit. I grew up arguing about football. I actually sort of like doing it, if I’m being honest.”
“Guess I do, too. What else do you like doing?”
“I don’t have much spare time these days, really. Between the traveling and all the research and stats I have to keep up with, there’s not much time for anything but work and sleep lately. I haven’t had a day off in two months.”
“What would you be doing if you were off for a day?”
“Hmm. I love museums and bike riding. But if I had a full day off, I’d probably spend it in bed, watching movies.”
“What kind of movies?”
“B horror flicks. The gorier, the better.”
“Really?”
“Really.” I tipped my glass of wine toward him before bringing it to my lips. “What about you? What would you do with a day of no practice or games?” I knew from growing up with a quarterback dad that a day like that was a rarity during football season. Even on “recovery” days after a game, quarterbacks had films to watch from the last game to prepare for the next one.
“I’d be in bed, too.”
“What would you be watching?”
“Your face while I sink inside of you.”
I was in the middle of a long sip of my wine and choked. At least the sputtering and coughing gave me an excuse for my face turning beet red.
“You okay?”