Page 15 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Player

Every rational part of my brain screams exactly one thing. Now way. I absolutely should not.

So why am I texting him back asking what I should wear?

FOUR

CAL

I’ve faced seventy thousand screaming fans.

I’ve stood on fourth-and-goal with the season on the line.

I’ve had three-hundred-pound defensive ends trying to rearrange my internal organs.

None of that compares to waiting outside Terminal B in my SUV.

I glance at the arrivals board for what has to be the twentieth time in five minutes. Her flight landed twelve minutes ago. Which means she’s probably grabbing her suitcase.

Or she’s already decided this whole thing is insane and booked the first flight back home.

“Relax.”

I look over at my publicist, Monica. “I am relaxed.”

She snorts without looking up from her tablet. “You’ve checked the terminal doors eighteen times.”

“Eighteen?” I dart a glance.

“Nineteen.” Apparently she really is counting.

Monica has been my publicist for four years. She doesn’t scare easily. She certainly isn’t intimidated by me.

“I still don’t understand why you insisted on picking her up yourself,” she says.

“Because I invited her.”

“So did I.”

“You emailed her itinerary.” I roll my eyes. “I actually want her here.”

She finally looks up. A knowing smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “I know you do. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

I look back toward the sliding glass doors. People stream out in waves. No Jo.

“You’ve never been like this before,” Monica says. “Nervous to meet someone.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’ve changed shirts twice.”

“That doesn’t prove anything.”

“You also asked me if this one made your shoulders look too broad.”

I answer with silence.

She laughs. “You’ve won awards. Signed multi-million-dollar contracts. Appeared on national television.”

“I know.”