“Yes,” she confirms, “and even some of the female football players that are still in college. Number one, it will make their freaking day if Jordie McNamara follows them and comments on one of their posts with an encouraging word or two. And number two, people love seeing women supporting women.”
My face relaxes into a smile. “I can definitely do that.”
Kamryn inhales the last bite of her sandwich. “Might be good to film something with your friend, Carrie Broxton. If her famous dad comments on it, the damn internet will probably explode.”
After we clean up and toss our trash, Kam takes me on a fun tour of Philly, showing me all the sights. When we arrive back at my hotel that evening, we get out of the car, and she gives me a big hug.
“I’m really looking forward to working with you, Jordie. Thank you for believing in me.” Her words are warm and filled with sincerity.
“Thank you for believing inme,” I reply, touched that I’m seeing a more vulnerable side of the usually brash Kamryn Hart.
She waves as she climbs back into her vehicle and yells, “And good luck getting your fruit salad tossed.”
And there’s the old Kam, raucous and unapologetic.
I’m still laughing when I exit the elevator on the top floor and make my way down the corridor. But the laughter dies on my lips as soon as I open the door to my room.
What the actual hell?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I’m a fucking ice cream cone
Jordie
“Phoenix, what is all this?” I ask, staring at what was previously my hotel suite’s living room.
He strides toward me and hands me a single long-stemmed red rose. “I thought we could have dinner in tonight.” His blue eyes hold mine and ask a silent question:Is this okay?
I look around the room, surveying the transformation. The rectangular coffee table is conspicuously missing, and in its place is a table set for two. A white embossed tablecloth covers it, and the only lighting comes from a few flickering candles set in the center of a fancy glass bowl of more red roses. Soft violin music plays in the background, and I’m pretty sure I smell steak and potatoes, though the two plates on the table are covered by silver domes. I don’t think I’ve ever been served a meal with a silver dome on top. I thought that only happened in the movies.
“This looks beautiful,” I say. “Thank you, but you didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”
Phoenix grins that saucy smile of his. “I like to exceed expectations.”
I laugh. “That you do, Mr. Hale.” He takes my hand and places it in the crook of his elbow. I think he likes doing that because he did thesame thing a few times last night. Gesturing to my clothes—a pair of boyfriend jeans and Kam Hart’s softball jersey, left unbuttoned over a fitted white tank—I ask, “Should I change clothes? The setting looks so formal.”
“I was going forcomfortable fancy. Not sure that’s actually a thing, but maybe I’ll trademark the phrase.” He leads me to the table and stops, turning to face me. “You’re welcome to change if you want to, but I’m wearing this because it’s what I’m comfortable in.”
Looking at his outfit, I do my best not to giggle. “Are those jorts?”
“Yes,” he replies, feigning offense. “And I’ll accept no judgement on the matter. I have no idea what pretentious fashion police asshole decided men can wear jeans but not jean shorts, but I reject that premise.”
“As you should,” I say with as much solemnity as I can muster. “Never let the man get you down.”
“Preach, girl,” he says, and we fist bump. “Would you like to change, or are you comfortable?”
“I’m very comfortable,” I tell him, and I don’t just mean my clothing. I don’t know what it is about Phoenix Hale, but he puts me at ease, allows me to be myself. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s his own person too. He’s wearing jorts beside a setup that could be found in any Michelin-star restaurant, for fuck’s sake.
And I like it. A lot.
He pulls out my chair and scoots it beneath the table before taking the seat across from me. Then he picks up my hand and kisses my knuckles. “Jordie, I don’t want you to think this means I have any expectations for tonight. If you only want to have dinner, that’s fine with me.”
My eyes drop to his blue T-shirt, and I giggle. “You’re literally wearing a shirt with cherries on it. Is that some kind of subliminal message?”
“Complete coincidence,” he replies, rubbing a hand over the two red globes. Then his dimples make an appearance. “Actually, I saw this when I was out today and thought it would make you laugh.”
“Mission accomplished,” I say as he removes the lids, revealingexpertly plated food. A hearty ribeye takes center stage with braised cauliflower and a baked potato as the sides. “This looks delicious.”
