Page 10 of Sidelined By Love

She smacks her gum, a familiar sound in my ear. “You haven’t heard about it?”

“I’m in Siberia, remember?” I take in the quiet neighborhood street and shiver against the damp morning air. All right, it’s not exactly Siberia, but it might as well be for all the jobs I could get here. And it’s nearly as cold.

“I’m pretty sure even the people in actual Siberia have heard about it. Hang on a sec.” The conversation on the other end is garbled, and I’m sure she’s covering the microphone on her earbuds while her actor asks for more coverage. She’s done that a million times with me.

I march up and down the uneven walkway from the cement steps to the sidewalk and back again, always keeping Bronco in sight. He’s moved on to Nan’s empty flowerbed but looks no more decided about where to take care of his business.

Apparently, I’m the only one who wants to get things moving this morning.

And honestly, I just want to move back in the direction of bed.

Suddenly Caro’s voice is back in my ear. “I have to run. Our lead just set her wig on fire.” I expect her to hang up, but instead I get the fastest movie pitch I’ve ever heard. “Underdog high school football team without a coach. Cortez, Texas. True story. Look it up. And call Cyndi.”

“But I don’t—” Caro hangs up before I can tell her that football is not in my repertoire. Nor is playing a high school boy.

I’m clearly not the right fit for this movie. It doesn’t sound like there’s a role for me to audition for anyway. Even if I wanted to.

“Working on a magician movie?”

I stumble over a crack in the concrete as I spin toward Grant’s voice. Two days in a row. “What?”

He jogs to a stop at the edge of Nan’s property, pulling out one earbud as Bronco waddles over to sniff his big toe. “You look like a sorcerer or something, waving your cloak around.”

I freeze and then immediately scoop my blanket around me in some sort of robe. Couture it is not. But at least I have a barrier against the biting wind, which is more than I can say for the quarterback.

“Not all of us can run around in—in—” I wave my hand in his general direction but can’t find anything to criticize. The man really is annoyingly attractive.

I’ve worked with some of the most handsome men in Hollywood—even played oppositePeople‘s reigning Sexiest Man Alive once.

But Grant Reddington is a different kind of handsome. There’s nothing pretty about him—like so many of today’s leading men. He’s all broad shoulders and muscly forearms, his gray sweatshirt shoved up almost to his elbows. His chest is flat, and I’ve never noticed how trim his waist is. It’s probably because, most of the time, he’s on the field wearing plenty of protection around his ribs.

I look up at the five-o’clock shadow dusting his jaw line and scowl. Why is that so appealing?

My gaze finally makes it up to his shadowed eyes and dual raised eyebrows, and I realize that I haven’t finished my critique. I spit out the only word that comes to mind: ”—shorts.”

He grunts, clearly not impressed with my assessment.

Well, that makes two of us, mister. But the sun isn’t up yet, and I haven’t even smelled my first cup of coffee, so I can’t be held responsible for my wit—or lack thereof.

“So, where’s Fluffy?” He’d be hard to hide, and I assume Grant is on a solo run today—except that his left arm is tucked against his side at an odd angle. Almost like he’s carrying afootball. Is the man seriously carrying around a ball on his run? I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

Suddenly a little head with two pointy ears pokes out from the crook of his arm and gives me a little yap.

“Rico,” Grant says with a nod to the tan Chihuahua.

I clap a hand over my mouth, not wanting to laugh at the dog—caring less about his owner. Finally, I manage around a chuckle, “So Rico doesn’t get to run with you?”

Grant lifts one shoulder and one side of his mouth. “He did for a little while, but his legs get tired.”

“So, he gets a free ride?”

“He likes fresh air too. Plus, he keeps me warm.” With that, Grant is off, running down the sidewalk.

And I don’t watch him jog away, despite the urge.

I clap my hands in a self-five. Sometimes you have to celebrate the little victories.

A few hours later, I’m staring at my phone again. Then my computer, which is sitting on the two-person dining room table. Then my phone. I snatch it up. Then set it down. Then pick it backup again.

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