"Don't call him back," he orders. Almost as if he's ... jealous of Jason?
"If you pull one more juvenile stunt like that again, I'm going to ask that you be moved to another account manager, and I'll gladly tell anyone who cares to listen why. No one will blame me."
He says nothing in response. Instead he turns up the sports radio station, and we drive like that for another twenty minutes. Since I'm not used to him being so quiet with me, I try to busy myself by texting Marisol.
Me: I'm not trying to sabotage my career, but I'm not sure I can keep working with Saint Stevenson.
Marisol: Has it even been a month?
Me: He's a jackass
Marisol: You already knew that
Me: He's like a big kid
Marisol: According to you all players act like that. So why are you surprised?
Me: Maybe Abby will want him.
Marisol: You can't be serious. What aren't you telling me?
Me: Nothing
Marisol: Lies.
Me: He just gets under my skin
Marisol: Well put on your big girl panties, because if you drop the ball with America's quarterback, you can forget about that five year plan of yours.
I shove my phone violently back in my tote bag. I'm pissed. Saint notices, but still doesn't say a word. His silence is unnerving. I can't take it anymore, so I break first.
"Say something."
"About what."
"What's going on?"
"What do you mean, Freshman?"
"Freshman?"
I know I've heard that before, but I'm not sure where. Is that some sort of football reference? I observe him for a moment as we drive along the final stretch of the turnpike. I meanreallywatch him. He's grinning, because he thinks I'm checking him out, but that's not it. I want to figure him out. I want to understand why he's targeted me of all people. He's dated underwear models and famous actresses for God's sake. What does this football demigod want with me?
"We're here!"
Chapter Fifteen
SABRINA
His body is humming. He's excited to be home, and I can see why. Saint's family lives on what looks like a compound. About thirty minutes outside of Philadelphia, his family home is situated on top of a sprawling piece of grassy land with a huge formal stone house in the center and a smaller carriage house behind it.
According to Saint, it's not a working farm any longer, but it looks like one to me. I see a few horses grazing at the far end of the property and he already told me his mother has a lot of chickens. There's also a beautiful white wooden gate enclosing the entire property and a tasteful sign in front that reads Oak Hill Farm. For a girl from a modest home in Colorado, it's a real farm to me.
While I'm not surprised at the beauty of their home, due to the fact that the Stevensons are pretty well off, I can't help but take notice of just how good Saint had it growing up. How his sense of entitlement must have begun very early in his life, because he's always had all of this. No wonder he always expects to hear the word "yes."
"Why are you so quiet?"
"I'm not quiet. You are."
