Sam pulled the dry-cleaning plastic off his tux. As he hung it in the closet, the doorbell chimed, and he hurried downstairs. Even in jeans and sneakers, Chloe took his breath away. The moment she stepped into his place, it felt warmer, homier, even classier.
He rolled the loft’s barn-style door closed behind her and took her bag. “I’ll show you around and put this in the guest room where you can get ready.” He led her down the short hallway into the open living-dining-kitchen area. The aroma of his lemon poppyseed bread baking filled the room.
“Wow.”
He looked around, seeing the place through her eyes. An expanse of windows looked over The District and the Cumberland River, with the Titans’ stadium visible across the river. Exposed brick walls, dark beams, a spacious kitchen with a subway tile backsplash, a long bar counter with high stools, and a wooden dining table between the counter and the living area. A big-screen television over the electric fireplace with a couple of leather recliners. He thought of it as masculine without being all about football or looking like a British lord’s library, which every decorator he’d consulted seemed intent on pushing.
“Do you want something to drink? I have soda and water in the fridge. Beer and wine too,” he said, moving to the kitchen. The lemon poppyseed loaf should be done. “Coffee? Are you exhausted? You’ve been up all night baking at Valentino’s, then working all day at Haven’s.”
“I grabbed a nap in the back of the limo. I’m fine. I just want to stand here and look at your amazing view.” She moved to the French doors, opened one and stepped out onto the balcony, as he pulled the bread from the oven and set it to cool on a rack. “You’re a real live superstar, aren’t you? This amazing loft, a banquet honoring you…and I’ve got you serving coffee and crullers three afternoons a week.”
But those afternoons were the best. He didn’t worry about the younger players wanting to knock him—literally—off the field. He didn’t think about his knee. He didn’t wonder how Chloe or Laura Kate would let him down.
“I like serving coffee,” was all he said, though. “I should let you start getting ready.” Alone in his room, he sank on the bed. Chloe was digging her way deeper and deeper into his heart. He didn’t want to be without her. He changed into his tux as quickly as possible and then paced in the living room.
A soft click signaled her emergence from the room, then footsteps and a swishing sound. If she took his breath away the night of Frank’s party, the sight of Chloe Beason LaRue in his condo wearing a light pink dress that showed all her curves nearly dropped him to his knees.
“Wow.”
“Like it?” She gave a twirl and the skirt flared out. “I bought it at my favorite resale shop in the Batignolles, an area in Paris with cute and quirky shops.”
“It’s amazing.” He reached for her hand and pulled her close and pressed his lips to hers. After a quick second, her arms wrapped around his neck and she fit against him, against his heart, like she’d been molded to him, like they were made to be together. Heat bloomed in his chest, then spread until he feared he’d combust. He ended the kiss, placed his forehead against hers.
“I’m a goner, Chloe. I’ve never felt this for any other woman. This is love.”
She inhaled sharply and he caught her scent, fresh and sweet.
“I…I—I’m falling for you too.”
What irony! Titans say buhbye to @SamHardyQB15 hours before annual Nashville Foundation banquet honors him.
– @First&TenPodcast on Twitter
Rumblings in the Titans’ camp. Franchise QB out for the season, possible trade to Las Vegas. More on Sports Center.
– @ESPNNews on Twitter
The limo pulled into the Hotel TN’s porte cochere and Chloe squeezed Sam’s hand. She was going to a swanky event in downtown Nashville with her famous boyfriend who was being honored for his charity work.
“Pinch me,” she murmured.
“How about I kiss you instead?” He pulled her close, pressed his lips to hers.
Before she could respond, could welcome him, accept him, the chauffeur opened the door, letting in a blast of cool air. Talk about putting a damper on things. She shivered and gathered her wrap close as she and Sam climbed out of the limo. After that kiss and the one they’d shared earlier at his condo, she’d kind of lost interest in eating. Or going out.
As if he’d read her mind, Sam followed close and put an arm around her. “Let’s ditch this and go back to my place.”
Tempting—and she pretended to consider it before she scoffed. “You promised me a party with Buck Mathews and I’m holding you to it.”
They walked into the brightly lit lobby then followed the signs and crowd to the ballroom.
“Mr. Hardy!” someone called, and Sam guided her to a table where several young women in black skirts, white blouses, and flat shoes consulted tablets and told other uniformed staff which tables to show guests to.
“Evening, Delia.” He gave a woman with a pierced nose and a pink streak in her dark hair a quick hug. “This is Chloe. Delia’s my assistant.”
Delia flashed them a bright smile. “Follow me.” She wended her way through tables, waitstaff, and other guests to deposit them at a round table in front of the platform with the podium and microphone.
The ballroom held dozens of tables. White tablecloths, gold-rimmed plates on gold chargers, black napkins. The centerpieces were square glass vases. They were decorated with variously sized floating black and white balls and a candle on top. Black, white, and gold balloons lined the walls. Seeing Sam in his element, schmoozing Nashville movers and shakers and Titans bigwigs was a revelation.
