Page 6 of Red, White, and You

“What exactly would I be doing at this festival?”

Joe’s grin turns downright diabolical. “Help her run the bake sale booth. Provide some muscle for setup, charm the customers with that famous smile of yours. All the proceeds go to the local volunteer fire department, and your pretty face will help bring in the big bucks.”

“You want me to spend an entire day with a woman who thinks I represent everything wrong with the world?”

“I want you to spend an entire day with a woman who makes the best cupcakes this side of the Mississippi and happens to be single, gorgeous, and exactly the kind of challenge you’ve been looking for since you retired.”

I open my mouth to protest, but Joe cuts me off.

“Don’t even try to deny it, Phoenix. You’ve been restless for months. Ever since you hung up your cleats, you’ve been drifting around like a lost puppy. The endorsement deals pay the bills, but they don’t exactly light your fire.”

He’s not wrong. Retirement has been harder than I expected. After years of having every minute scheduled, every mealplanned, every goal clearly defined, I’ve been floating. The Hart Health contract helps financially, but it doesn’t fulfill the soul.

And there was something about Gigi—something about the passion in her voice when she talked about her bakery, the fire in her eyes when she stood up to me—that made me feel more awake than I have in months.

“When’s this festival?” I hear myself ask.

Joe’s grin could power the entire town. “Tomorrow. I’ll call Gigi right now and tell her you volunteered.”

“Wait, that’s not what I—”

But Joe’s already dialing, and I have the sinking feeling I just got played by a quarterback who’s apparently as good at matchmaking as he is at reading defenses.

And worse?

I’m not even mad about it.

Chapter 4

Gigi

"Youdidwhat?"

I'm gripping my phone so tightly I'm surprised the screen doesn't shatter. On the other end, Joe Matthews—Super Bowl champion, hometown hero, and apparently part-time matchmaker—has the audacity to sound cheerful.

"I volunteered Phoenix to help you with your bake sale booth," he repeats, like this is perfectly normal. "You know, provide some muscle for the heavy lifting and charm the customers with his famous smile."

"Phoenix volunteered?" My voice climbs an octave. "Or youvoluntoldhim?"

"Does it matter? The point is, you'll have an extra pair of hands, and his celebrity status will bring in huge donations for the fire department. Think of all the good they could do with the extra money."

I look around my kitchen, taking in the chaos of patriotic cupcakes covering every surface. The festival is tomorrow. I've been planning this booth for weeks, and now I have to do it with Hart Health's golden boy breathing down my neck?

"Joe, I can't—"

"You can't what? Handle one retired football player for a few hours? Come on, Gigi. I've seen you manage three weddings in one weekend. This'll be a piece of cake."

Piece of cake.The quarterback’s got jokes.

"That's not the point," I protest, absently wiping frosting off my hands with a kitchen towel. "The point is you can't just volunteer people for things without asking them first."

"I asked Phoenix. He said yes."

"You didn't ask me."

"I'm asking you now." There's a pause, and I can practically hear Joe's grin through the phone. "Besides, you're the one who wanted to make this the biggest bake sale the festival has ever seen. Something about 'showing this town what real desserts look like'?"

Ugh. Darn it. He's got me there. Ididsay that. Last year, after sampling the sad excuse for brownies that the hardware store contributed. And I’ve been planning to go all out—three dozen different types of cookies, cupcakes, pies, and my famous cinnamon crunch scones. Icoulduse the help.

---