She hesitated. “I was, um, curious because Mike told me you wanted to work on his land.”
What?
I hadn’t given a second thought to why she’d be in the Leopard’s offices the other week. Did she work there? How did she know Mike O’Connor? “He did?”
Rachael waved a hand. “Not that it’s my business. Anyway. This is totally last minute, but the friend I told you about—the one doing the book—is in town this weekend for the draft. I know I should’ve called you up earlier, but I’m a slacker, so. If you’re interested, I’m having some people over on Saturday.”
I stared at her, the wheels in my head clicking. “Wait—are the people going to be... Mike wouldn’t be there by any chance, would he?”
Her brows rose. “It’s probable.”
A girl made her way though the crowd to Rachael’s side. A tall, black girl with a face that could launch a thousand ships. My eyes darted back and forth between them and my throat went dry.
Rachael took in my surprise, and a small smile hovered on her lips. She nudged her friend. “People always recognize Bri. Why is that?”
Briana Harris shrugged. “I blame being on TV. Also,
I’m prettier.”
I finally got my vocal cords back in order. “You’re Briana Harris. You’re wide-receiver Malcolm Lindsey’s fiancée.”
“Thank you for the recap,” Briana Harris said.
I turned to the shorter girl. “And you’re Rachael...” The more I looked at her, the more familiar she seemed, but I couldn’t attach a name.
She spread her hands. “Rachael Hamilton. My boyfriend’s the quarterback.”
Wait. Ryan Carter? Possibly one of the top ten NFL players?
Briana arched a brow. “I take it you’re a fan.”
I managed something that sounded like “Ull...”
“Well, then,” Rachael said. “You should definitely come to our party.”
And somehow, I got hold of myself enough to agree.
* * *
Rachael lived in one of those hotel-like buildings on the Upper West side that real people did not live in. Real people walked past them on nice days, pushing their baby strollers and walking their hairless dog, mingling with slow moving tourists who took pictures in front of the Natural History Museum with alarming looking cameras, before buying pretzels that cost more than designer coffee.
Anyway, I’d never met anyone who actually lived on Central Park West, except for one girl in college, and that was at 105th so it didn’t really count.
The doorman directed me to the elevator bank, and I’d barely had time to check my hair in the mirror before it whisked me up to the twenty-first floor. There were only two doors, but one looked like a closet, so I rang the bell of 2101 and waited to be let in.
Waited in a nonchalant manner, of course, because I came to things like this all the time. Yeah.
The only problem with attending a party filled with sports heroes I was mad about came from having one of those sports heroes being mad at me. Or at least irritated by my existence. I hadn’t had it in me to pass up a chance to meet and mingle with Malcolm Lindsey and Dylan Pierce, but I would do my best to avoid O’Connor.
The door swung inward. Michael O’Connor stood in the frame.
My stomach swooped to my feet.
For a bare half second surprise flared, but he smoothed it away with a smile. He propped his arm against the doorframe and leaned forward. A shock of auburn hair fell over his eyes. “Natalie Sullivan.”
The sound of my name on his lips made me swallow. “I didn’t expect you to remember me.”
“Oh, I remember you.”