Page 89 of Playing the Field
“I know you will.”
CHAPTER 46
Hunter
The Next Day
My planfor tonight is a real date with Gracie—one where we don’t have to sneak off to a corner of the city to hide from roaming smartphones and watchful eyes. The social media firestorm has been fierce since we became an official item, and Ashley loves it. She says fans are invested in our romance and that makes her job easy.
Nevertheless, Gracie hasn’t gotten used to the spotlight, so I try to keep our outings low key.
I tell her to be ready at six but don’t offer any further details. Well, except that I ask her to wear that goddamn black dress because I can’t wait to watch her slink through a room in it before peeling it fromher body later.
When I get back to the house after training, I call out in the direction of her room. “I’m home, Gracie. I’ll be ready in fifteen.”
I get no response, but I figure she’s probably in the bathroom and didn’t hear me. I hop in the shower, dress quickly, and rap my knuckles on her bedroom door. There’s no answer.
“Tink?” I wait for an answer or any kind of a sign she’s in there, but I’m met only with silence.
Twisting the handle on the door, I push it open and peek inside. The room has the shades half-drawn, which isn’t unusual in the hot afternoon sun, but there’s no sign Gracie has been here. No dripping water in the bathroom, no whoosh of perfume lingering in the air.
Did she forget our date?
I wander into the kitchen and grab a green juice. Then I take out my phone. No texts or voice mails from her. It makes no sense.
But then I spot a folded note perched on the counter like a tent. It has my name scrawled on the outside and only one line on the reverse. “Change of plan. Meet me on Main Street.” She’s scribbled an address in Culver City. I don’t waste time looking up the location. I get in my car and drive straight there.
The traffic gets slow once I’m in the small downtown area, so I pull my car into a public lot and make my way to the Main Street address on foot. Passing by a Starbucks and several trendy restaurants, I make mental notes about places I should take Gracie for dinner sometime.
I didn’t bother putting on a hat or sunglasses, but the last thing I’m concerned about is someone snapping a picture of me walking alone. Couples pass me on the sidewalk, and I barely notice whether anyone seems to recognize me or not. I have one destination in mind, and I’ve been reciting the street numbers to myself during the fifteen-minute drive over here.
I don’t even bother looking to see my endpoint, only concerned that I’ve reached it. When I grab the door handle andswing it open, my sole focus is on finding Gracie and making sure everything is okay. I must look like an unhinged maniac because her eyes go wide when she sees me, and her hand darts out and wraps around my forearm.
Under the soft warmth of her skin, I relax. All of the self-annihilating thoughts in my head calm down, and I let myself believe that everything is okay.
“You alright?” she asks, taking a step toward me. I notice that she’s wearing a red version of that black dress I love so much, and if it’s possible, I love this one even more.
“How do you do that?” I ask, baffled.
“What?”
“Look even more gorgeous every time I see you?”
The worry on her face falls away, and her face warms at the compliment, which is always my intention. She smiles, and the room brightens.
That’s when I take my first look around and notice the books. Everywhere I look, books on shelves and in little displays, and a lot of them have covers with women in ball gowns and dapper, smoldering men who could be dukes or counts.
“Are these all…romance novels?”
She nods, her smile not dimming a bit. Gone is the apologetic woman who worries about whether she’s up to the task of “seducing an athlete,” as she put it that night at the Château Marmont. She knows exactly how much power she wields over me, and I love it.
A large sign on one wall says “The Ripped Bodice,” an apt name for a bookstore filled to the rafters with steamy books.
“I know you lost your library in the fire, and I seem to remember you saying you’d like some books about dashing Scottish heroes on your bedside table.”
“Pretty sure I was talking about the sexy heroines, not the dudes. And I also recall that I was flirting with you.”
“Really?” she asks innocently, looking up at me with round doe eyes. “I thought you were trying to get into my reading list.”
