Love Irresistibly
Page 36
“What can I say? I’m a sucker for the shy, quiet types.”
“When did all this happen?” Vaughn asked.
“We met for drinks last Friday to discuss a criminal matter related to Sterling. Things progressed from there.”
“Is that right?” Vaughn looked at him slyly. “Just how far did they progress?”
“Still not comfortable talking about Brooke this way,” Huxley interjected.
Cade held back a smile, grateful for the excuse to change the subject. For whatever reason, he didn’t feel like engaging in locker room talk about Brooke. “Huxley’s right. Try to keep it classy, Vaughn.”
Vaughn studied him for a moment. Seven years they’d been best friends, and they knew each other well. “You like her.”
Cade took a nonchalant sip of his beer. “Just watch the game.”
“Evading the question,” Huxley said under his breath to Vaughn. “I think we got our answer, Agent Roberts.”
“We sure did, Agent Huxley,” Vaughn said.
Cade shook his head.
He really needed to get some non-FBI friends.
* * *
IN THE STERLING skybox, Brooke smiled when Cade’s response came in a few minutes after her text message.
ABOUT DAMN TIME.
Quickly, she wrote back. WAS I CLOSE TO THE DEADLINE? OOPS.
OOPS, MY ASS. I’LL BE AT YOUR PLACE AT 7:00.
7:30, she texted immediately.
OF COURSE YOU’D SAY 7:30.
Brooke laughed at that, perfectly able to hear him saying the words. NEED TIME TO CHANGE AFTER CUBS/SOX, she explained. NOW STOP DISTRACTING ME—I’M TRYING TO WATCH A BASEBALL GAME.
There was a pause, then he texted back, WHERE ARE YOU SITTING?
Brooke shook her head. Such a guy thing to ask, wanting to know how good her seats were. SKYBOX, she wrote. TO THE RIGHT OF HOME PLATE.
She’d just hit “send” when Ford’s voice came over her shoulder.
“What are you acting all secretive about?” Sitting in the seat next to her, Ford tried to peek at her phone. “Sending dirty text messages to the mystery man, perhaps? Remind me again, which of the rules of casual sex was that? Number Five?”
“Still, with the rules?”
“This is payback,” Ford said. “How many times have you mocked me for the time I accidentally drunk-dialed you instead of Cara Patterson my sophomore year of college?”
From the row behind them, Charlie let out a bark of laughter. “Man, I love that story.”
Brooke held her cell phone to her ear, doing an imitation of Ford’s drunken slur that night. “Hey, babe—my roomatez wen’ to after-hours. Got the ho’ plaze to myself. How ’bout you come over for some strawburry margaritas?”
Charlie cracked up, while Tucker, who sat in the seat next to Charlie, chimed in. “Did we ever figure out why it was strawberry margaritas?”
Ford waved off their laughter. “The TV was on when I called . . . I think I’d seen a commercial for Chili’s . . . it seemed like a good suggestion at the time.” He pointed at Brooke. “And you didn’t exactly help the situation.”
Brooke feigned innocence. “Why? Because I pretended to be Cara and told you that I’d be right over?”
“No, because you pretended to be Cara and told me you wanted to pour the margarita all over my body and lick up every drop.”
“Certainly explains why Tuck and I later found you passed out cold on the kitchen floor, buck-ass naked, with one hand wrapped around a bowlful of strawberries,” Charlie said.
“I don’t think we even had a blender back then,” Tucker mused.
“No, we didn’t. Something I figured out after I was already naked, waiting for ‘Cara’ to show up,” Ford said with a dirty look at Brooke.
“Poor Ford,” she said. “Naked and cold on the kitchen floor, with nothing but a bowlful of strawberries and X-rated, tequila-soaked dreams. Truly tragic.”
He put his arm around her. “And this, Parker, is why the Facebook story will never die. Ever.”
Just then, Brooke’s phone rang with a new text message.
“The mystery man chimes again,” Ford said as Brooke reached for her cell.
Brooke read the text message Cade had sent her, and pulled back in surprise.
HOPE THE GUY IN THE STRIPED SHIRT KNOWS YOU ALREADY HAVE PLANS TONIGHT.
“He’s here,” Brooke said out loud.
“Who’s here? The mystery man?” Ford asked.
“He can see us.” Brooke leaned forward in her seat and peered over the skybox railing to the crowd below. There were thousands of people in the lower deck of the stadium.
Her phone rang, and she saw that it was Cade.
“To your right,” he said when she answered her phone. His voice was husky in her ear. “Who’s the guy?”
“Just a friend.” Brooke stood up and leaned against the railing, her eyes skimming the stands.
“Farther down the first base line. Nope, not that close to the dugout.”
She looked farther to her right. Still no sign of him. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Definitely. You’re getting warmer now. Warmer . . . Look for Huxley’s glaringly white polo shirt.”
That should help, considering most of the crowd was dressed in Cubs and Sox T-shirts. A few rows back, Brooke finally spotted them, first Huxley—wow, that really was a white shirt—then Vaughn, who waved at her, and finally Cade.
“When did all this happen?” Vaughn asked.
“We met for drinks last Friday to discuss a criminal matter related to Sterling. Things progressed from there.”
“Is that right?” Vaughn looked at him slyly. “Just how far did they progress?”
“Still not comfortable talking about Brooke this way,” Huxley interjected.
Cade held back a smile, grateful for the excuse to change the subject. For whatever reason, he didn’t feel like engaging in locker room talk about Brooke. “Huxley’s right. Try to keep it classy, Vaughn.”
Vaughn studied him for a moment. Seven years they’d been best friends, and they knew each other well. “You like her.”
Cade took a nonchalant sip of his beer. “Just watch the game.”
“Evading the question,” Huxley said under his breath to Vaughn. “I think we got our answer, Agent Roberts.”
“We sure did, Agent Huxley,” Vaughn said.
Cade shook his head.
He really needed to get some non-FBI friends.
* * *
IN THE STERLING skybox, Brooke smiled when Cade’s response came in a few minutes after her text message.
ABOUT DAMN TIME.
Quickly, she wrote back. WAS I CLOSE TO THE DEADLINE? OOPS.
OOPS, MY ASS. I’LL BE AT YOUR PLACE AT 7:00.
7:30, she texted immediately.
OF COURSE YOU’D SAY 7:30.
Brooke laughed at that, perfectly able to hear him saying the words. NEED TIME TO CHANGE AFTER CUBS/SOX, she explained. NOW STOP DISTRACTING ME—I’M TRYING TO WATCH A BASEBALL GAME.
There was a pause, then he texted back, WHERE ARE YOU SITTING?
Brooke shook her head. Such a guy thing to ask, wanting to know how good her seats were. SKYBOX, she wrote. TO THE RIGHT OF HOME PLATE.
She’d just hit “send” when Ford’s voice came over her shoulder.
“What are you acting all secretive about?” Sitting in the seat next to her, Ford tried to peek at her phone. “Sending dirty text messages to the mystery man, perhaps? Remind me again, which of the rules of casual sex was that? Number Five?”
“Still, with the rules?”
“This is payback,” Ford said. “How many times have you mocked me for the time I accidentally drunk-dialed you instead of Cara Patterson my sophomore year of college?”
From the row behind them, Charlie let out a bark of laughter. “Man, I love that story.”
Brooke held her cell phone to her ear, doing an imitation of Ford’s drunken slur that night. “Hey, babe—my roomatez wen’ to after-hours. Got the ho’ plaze to myself. How ’bout you come over for some strawburry margaritas?”
Charlie cracked up, while Tucker, who sat in the seat next to Charlie, chimed in. “Did we ever figure out why it was strawberry margaritas?”
Ford waved off their laughter. “The TV was on when I called . . . I think I’d seen a commercial for Chili’s . . . it seemed like a good suggestion at the time.” He pointed at Brooke. “And you didn’t exactly help the situation.”
Brooke feigned innocence. “Why? Because I pretended to be Cara and told you that I’d be right over?”
“No, because you pretended to be Cara and told me you wanted to pour the margarita all over my body and lick up every drop.”
“Certainly explains why Tuck and I later found you passed out cold on the kitchen floor, buck-ass naked, with one hand wrapped around a bowlful of strawberries,” Charlie said.
“I don’t think we even had a blender back then,” Tucker mused.
“No, we didn’t. Something I figured out after I was already naked, waiting for ‘Cara’ to show up,” Ford said with a dirty look at Brooke.
“Poor Ford,” she said. “Naked and cold on the kitchen floor, with nothing but a bowlful of strawberries and X-rated, tequila-soaked dreams. Truly tragic.”
He put his arm around her. “And this, Parker, is why the Facebook story will never die. Ever.”
Just then, Brooke’s phone rang with a new text message.
“The mystery man chimes again,” Ford said as Brooke reached for her cell.
Brooke read the text message Cade had sent her, and pulled back in surprise.
HOPE THE GUY IN THE STRIPED SHIRT KNOWS YOU ALREADY HAVE PLANS TONIGHT.
“He’s here,” Brooke said out loud.
“Who’s here? The mystery man?” Ford asked.
“He can see us.” Brooke leaned forward in her seat and peered over the skybox railing to the crowd below. There were thousands of people in the lower deck of the stadium.
Her phone rang, and she saw that it was Cade.
“To your right,” he said when she answered her phone. His voice was husky in her ear. “Who’s the guy?”
“Just a friend.” Brooke stood up and leaned against the railing, her eyes skimming the stands.
“Farther down the first base line. Nope, not that close to the dugout.”
She looked farther to her right. Still no sign of him. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Definitely. You’re getting warmer now. Warmer . . . Look for Huxley’s glaringly white polo shirt.”
That should help, considering most of the crowd was dressed in Cubs and Sox T-shirts. A few rows back, Brooke finally spotted them, first Huxley—wow, that really was a white shirt—then Vaughn, who waved at her, and finally Cade.
