Page 42 of Sidelined By Love

Yes. Perfect. The altitude.

Totally valid. Colorado Springs is over a mile high, and the Incline just took us another two thousand feet. Straight up.

Elevation definitely explains why I can’t seem to catch my breath. Why my limbs feel a little wobbly. And why every bit of me recalls, in perfect detail, the feel of his enormous paws on my thighs.

Okay. Maybe not so much that last one.

But there has to be an explanation. Beyond the obvious. Beyond that wall of solid muscle I clung to for forty-five minutes.

Because—no. Just no.

I am not—I will not—be attracted to Grant Reddington. Not after he made it abundantly clear that he isn’t interested in me.

This should be easy—not being physically attracted to him. I’m not anyway. Not really. Not to more than his five-o’clock shadow. That’s where I draw the line. I can appreciate a man’s facial hair. And those faint patches of gray at his temples. Maybe his shoulders. And a little bit his height. But that’s only because most of the guys I work with on set are several inches shy of six feet. Grant towers over it.

Maybe it’s a little bit attractive.

But that’s it. That’s all.

Even if he wasn’t on my dad’s team and completely off-limits, I’ve sworn off dating anyone else in the public eye. Sworn off men in general for the time being.

And I’m going to keep telling myself that until I believe it.

Any doubts about my feelings are probably caused by hunger. Yes, that’s definitely why my knees are still trembling. Even a third of the Incline was a decent workout, and that protein bar I ate as I flew out of Nan’s house this morning wasn’t exactly filling.

Sustenance. That’s what I need.

Inside the quaint restaurant, the forty-something hostess looks up from a wooden stand where she’s wiping down plastic-covered menus with a once-white rag. Her eyes bulge, and she quickly wipes her hands across her apron. “Mr. Reddington—Red.”

“Grant,” he says with a perfect grin. The man really does have a movie-star-quality smile. Aren’t football players supposed to be missing teeth?

No. That’s hockey players.

But still . . . it’s not fair.

And Susanna at the hostess stand is not unaffected. Her nervous little titter is covered only by her flustered fanning of the menus. “Three?”

Grant nods, and I realize Susanna hasn’t bothered to glance my way. I pull my hat a little lower just incase as I follow Kenna, weaving between the classic diner tables toward a red vinyl booth. Most of the chairs in the dining room are full, and heads are appropriately bent over stacks of pancakes. No one seems to notice us.

Maybe no one here expects to see a celebrity, so they don’t look for them.

And if they do notice us, they’re much more likely to focus on the Teeners’ winning quarterback.

For the first time sinceThe Postbroke the story, I’m invisible. As I slide into the booth beside Kenna, I shoot her a sly smile because we know something no one else in the restaurant does.

Until our waitress walks up to our table.

She’s popping pink bubble gum like Caro always does and flipping through an old-school server notepad. “Hey there, what can I get ya to drink?” She looks like she’s been here since the town was founded, but when she glances up, her eyes lock with mine. She blinks twice, and I see the immediate recognition.

It’s too late to duck my head or cover my face, and my stomach sinks so fast that any appetite I’d worked up vanishes.

“You’re—you’re—”

“In dire need of a cup of coffee,” Grant says. His gaze is direct, and there’s something in his voice that demands that she hold her tongue. “Black.”

She nods slowly, but her gaze doesn’t waver from my face as she pats her red T-shirt then her black apron until she pulls out a pen. “And for you girls?”

“Water is fine,” I mumble. My delivery suggests an uncertainty I’m not proud of.

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