Page 25 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Player

I smile. “You’re going to anyway.”

He hands his keys to the valet. “I’m going to anyway.”

God. He’s adorable. Whoever invented the phrasegentle giantclearly had someone like Cal in mind.

The valet unloads my suitcase, which contains the “primping” supplies and change of clothes Monica had deemed necessary. Cal takes it before I can.

“I can carry my own bag.”

“I know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“I know.”

I laugh.

“I don’t think you do.”

He smiles—a real smile.

“I like taking care of you.”

Something warm blooms in my chest. Nobody’s ever said that to me before. Not like that.

Not without expecting something in return.

The hotel lobby is quieter than I’d expected. A pianist plays softly near the bar. A few guests linger around the fireplace.

Cal suddenly mutters under his breath.

“What?”

He subtly nods toward the revolving doors. Two men stand outside with cameras slung around their necks.

They’re pretending to check their phones. They’re doing a terrible job.

“Paparazzi?” I ask,

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah.”

I glance between them and Cal. “So...”

“So I’d rather not have pictures of us together before the game on Sunday.”

I nod, though my gut does an unexpected twist. “That’s fair.”

“It’s not because I don’t want people to know about you. I just don’t want them talking about us. Not until we’re ready to talk about us.”

The tension inside of me releases. “That makes sense.”

He looks around the lobby. Then toward a massive decorative planter overflowing with tropical greenery.

I follow his gaze. “No.”

“What?”