Page 2 of Winning the Quarterback
"I'm Nora," I offer, tucking my hair behind my ear. "Nora Bell. And the shameless attention-seeker at your feet is Pudding."
"Pudding," he repeats, still scratching my cat's chin. "Bold choice."
"He stress-ate an entire bowl of butterscotch pudding when I first brought him home from the shelter. The name stuck."
"A cat after my own heart." New Guy straightens, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. He's tall enough that I feel deliciously small next to him, something I rarely experience as a voluptuous woman who's five-foot-nine in bare feet.
He extends his hand, and I notice the calluses on his palm when our skin meets. "Devin Turner."
I blink. "Turner? As in—"
"My grandmother's place," he confirms, gesturing to the cottage behind him. "She left it to me when she passed last spring."
My mind is spinning. Not just because his hand is warm and large around mine, or because the contact sends a ridiculous tingle up my arm. But because I suddenly realize exactly who I'm talking to.
"You'rethatTurner," I say stupidly. "Devin Turner. The quarterback."
Something flickers across his face, a tightening around those incredible eyes. "Former quarterback," he corrects gently. "But yeah, that's me."
Devin Turner. Whitetail Falls' golden boy who led our high school team to three state championships before being drafted to the pros. His grandmother, Eleanor Turner, used to bring newspaper clippings of his games to the book club at Moonlight & Manuscripts, the bookstore where I work three days a week.
"I thought you lived in... Colorado?" I manage, suddenly conscious of my messy bun and leggings with a coffee stain on the knee.
"I did." His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes now. "Time for a change of scenery."
There's a story there, one that makes me itch to know more. Before I can embarrass myself by asking, Pudding chooses this moment to dart between Devin's legs and make a break for the Turner property.
"Pudding, no!" I lunge forward, but it's too late, my cat has disappeared inside the open door of the cottage. "I am so sorry. He's never done this before. I swear I'm not normally the crazy cat lady who lets her pet invade people's houses."
Devin laughs, and this time it sounds genuine. "No worries. I don't have much set up yet, so there's not a lot he can destroy." He tilts his head toward the door. "Want to come collect him?"
And this is how I find myself following Devin Turner,theDevin Turner, into his grandmother's cottage, trying not to stare at the way his t-shirt stretches across his shoulders or how his jeans sit low on his hips.
The interior is just as I remember from the few times I'd visited Eleanor, cozy and dated in the best way, with honey-colored hardwood floors and a stone fireplace dominating the livingroom. There are boxes everywhere, and most of the furniture is still draped in sheets.
"I'm planning to renovate," Devin explains, catching my glance. "Modernize a bit, but keep the character. Gram would haunt me if I changed too much."
"She was a wonderful woman," I say softly. "She always brought cookies to book club. Said reading without snacks was a crime against literature."
Something warm flickers in his eyes. "That sounds like her." He pauses. "You were in her book club?"
"I work at Moonlight & Manuscripts. The bookstore on Foxglove Lane?"
"The one with the cat in the window and the coffee that smells like heaven?"
"That's the one." I smile, absurdly pleased he knows it. "Though Pudding just comes with me on my shifts because he has abandonment issues."
His laugh echoes through the half-empty cottage. "Somehow I doubt you're the kind of person who abandons anyone."
"There you are, you little monster," I say, spotting Pudding curled up on a sheet-covered armchair by the window. "Time to go home and let Mr. Turner unpack in peace."
"Devin," he corrects. "Mr. Turner was my father, and even he hated being called that."
I move to scoop up Pudding, but he gives me an imperious look and settles more firmly into the chair.
"Apparently my cat has decided to move in with you," I sigh. "I'd apologize, but he's kind of a jerk, so maybe it's your punishment for being too charming with the chin scratches."
Devin watches me with those steady hazel eyes, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. "You think I'm charming?"
