Catarina

I swipe lip gloss over my bottom lip when there’s a knock at my apartment door. That’s Barrett, who promised he’d arrive at eight.

I pull the door open and let him in, floored by how good he looks. His dark gray T-shirt is made to look worn but is new, his jeans fit snugly at the thighs, a couple of stylish tears slashing the legs. I continue down to his gray sneakers and back to his handsome face. Scruff, pursed lips, and styled coppery hair.

“You’re too dressed up,” he says.

“Thanks a lot. You look nice, too,” I grumble, before turning and stomping away from him. It’s my favored pastime of late.

“It’s a lawn party, Kitty Cat. Beer pong. Cornhole. Bonfire.”

“Bonfire!” He’s right. I’m overdressed. The navy-and-white floral summer dress is casual, but not right for lounging in front of a bonfire. “I’ll change.”

In my bedroom, I pull open my closet door and stand, indecisive. I’m aware of a presence behind me a moment later. “I don’t need your help.”

“You promised me an explanation.” He’s right. I did. “What’s with the bitchy attitude?”

I swing around, jaw dropped. “Did you just call me a bitch?”

“No.”

“You kind of did.”

“Cut the shit, Catarina. What the fuck is the problem?” He holds out his arms in question and walks toward me.

“Don’t yell at me!”

“I’m not. I’m just…are we okay?” A worry line bisects his eyebrows.

Are we okay? There’s a question. I didn’t know we were a “we.” His cologne—a combo of mountain pine and fresh mint—tickles my nostrils. God, he smells good.

“The more time we spend together, the more rules I break,” I say.

It’s been bugging me all week. When I met Barrett he frustrated me, perturbed me, and refused to conform. Somehow I’ve started behaving like him. Not returning my boss’s texts, for example. It was his fault directly, but it was mine indirectly. I never should’ve gone to lunch with him knowing he had a deadline to meet. Then when Mia came out of her office incensed, I would’ve been at my desk and not with him. And during that lunch, I stood up and raised my voice in a public place. I’ve never done that in my life.

“So?”

“So?” I stop rummaging through my closet to glare at him. “I don’t want to be fired for going off the rails with the bad boy of the NFL.”

“Catarina Everhart,” he says around a chuckle. “You are not going to be fired. You’re too damn valuable.”

“You’re a bad influence,” I remind him.

“Let me help you take off your dress.”

“You’re proving my point!”

He steps behind me and unzips the dress, sliding his hands along my bare back and around my ribcage where he gives me a tender squeeze.

“I’ll give you a minute to get ready. Unless you want me to help you remove more of your clothes.”

I peek over my shoulder as he ducks down and kisses my cheek. He’s warming my back, his hands heating my torso.

“I don’t want to be late,” I sort of protest.

“It’s a yard party, honey. We can’t be late unless we show up first thing tomorrow morning. Even then it might be raging.” He lays another kiss on my cheek. “Tell you what. Rain check on taking your clothes off. Get ready. I’ll wait in the living room.”

He backs off, giving me my way. I turn and call his name. He leans back into the bedroom, hands braced on either side of the doorframe.

“Are we…a ‘we?’ ” I ask.

“Meaning?”

I swallow, debate whether I want to ask the question of the hour, and then come out with it. “Are we dating for real? Not only for the column?”

“You want to?”

I blink. Open my mouth. Shut it again.

“I haven’t been seeing anyone but you since we met.” With that bomb dropped, he pats the doorframe and walks away, leaving me to change.

I was seeing North, but since Barrett kissed me I haven’t wanted to kiss anyone else. After not hearing from him since Monday, I nearly threw confetti when he stepped into the office this morning. He waved, then went to his cubicle and sat down and…nothing. Then I decided I could ignore him, too.

Well. Enough.

We’re grown-ups and we’re dating. If it’s up to me, we may as well make this official.

I change into fuchsia shorts and a white T-shirt, slipping my feet into a pair of canvas sneakers. When I step into the kitchen, Barrett lowers the beer bottle he helped himself to without taking a drink.

“Wow.” He sounds awestruck. “Those legs.”

Pleased by his reaction, I reach into my purse for my essentials: lip balm, cellphone, and mints, and stuff them into a matching fuchsia wristlet.

“I don’t have to be your girlfriend,” I tell him as I take the beer bottle from his hand and set it on the countertop. “But I expect a proper greeting whenever I see you. Since we’re dating. Since we’re a ‘we’ for now. Can you do that for me?”

“Hell yeah.” His smile breaks free and mine, too. He kisses it off my face a moment later, his hands sliding down to cup my ass, his tongue taking the long way around. By the time we part, we’re both a little breathless and his eyes have clouded with lust.

“After the party—” I start.

“Yes.”

“You don’t know what I was going to ask.”

“Doesn’t matter. Still a yes if it involves you and me and more of that.”

“It does.”

“Good.”

We grin at each other for the count of three and then share one more lip-lock before we leave.

---

Jackson Burke’s backyard party is in full swing when Barrett and I arrive. There are about twenty people packed in his small, tidy yard, and a privacy fence makes the space feel even smaller. Barrett had to park about a block away given that the street is lined with cars.

Several partygoers are packed into Jackson’s modern-on-the-inside, traditional-on-the-outside brick home. The remainder are scattered in the yard, either tossing bags into cornhole boards or standing over the bonfire, beers in hand.

Burke recognizes me from the museum last week, and I’m given quick introductions to a slew of people. Random names bounce through my head and I’m mentally matching them with faces as I stand off to the side of the yard.

“Try this.” Barrett hands me a bottle of beer—not a light beer but a hoppy, bitter IPA.

I take a sip and try my hardest not to make a face. I fail miserably. I even cough. “That’s a serious beer.”

“Right? Jackson’s cousin brewed it. Here.” He hands over a different bottle. “This one’s not as harsh.”

“You tasted it for me, I presume?” I tip the bottle to my lips. Citrusy and delicious. Much better.

“Now that we’re dating that’s included in the package. Along with my package,” he adds with a smirk.

“Barrett Fox,” calls a warm female voice. A second later, she steps up next to him. Straight, brown shoulder-length hair, large chest, legs poking out of denim shorts so short, the pockets are hanging past the frayed hem.

“Stacie. How are you?” He bends to accommodate her petite frame and hugs her. I make the catty but no less accurate observation that she looks like a girl who should be draped over a motorcycle on a poster hanging in a mechanic’s garage. When he raises to his full height, he introduces me. “Catarina Everhart. Stacie Bates.”

“Brown,” she corrects, waving at me rather than offering a hand. To Barrett she says, “I’m divorced.”

“Sorry to hear that. Bo and I don’t keep in touch,” he tells her.

They chat a minute longer about old times while I stand and awkwardly hold my beer. I’m trying to be gracious—after all, Barrett had to face North not so long ago—but it’s not easy.

“See you around.” Stacie waves and backs away from us. “Bye, Catrina.”

“Catarina,” I say between clenched teeth after she’s gone.

“Stacie used to date the team,” Barrett tells me.

“All of them?” I ask flatly.

“Pretty much. She and Bo were married after college.”

“Did she date you?”

“Ohh, Kitty Cat,” he teases with a grin. “Put those claws in.”

“Don’t be cute.”

“Can’t help it.” He touches the frown line on my forehead. “You’re hot when you’re jealous.”

“Did she?”

“We went out once or twice in high school.”

I roll my eyes, feeling like I’m back in high school.

“Damn!” He’s still grinning when he tucks my hair behind my ear. “I like this side of you.”

“Stop enjoying this.” I swat at his hand but he catches it.

“Oh, we’re going to enjoy this.” He slides his fingers into my back pocket, grabs my ass, and pulls me flush against him. “Let’s show Stacie what she’s missing.”

I’m not sure what cavewoman wire that comment tripped, but a second later, I’m kissing him for everyone to see. It’s not chaste, or short, and we don’t stop until Jackson interrupts us. Loudly.

“Break it up, lovebirds. I’m not running a brothel.”

I step away and brush my lips with my fingers.

“How about a little three-on-three?” he asks Barrett. “Mike, Terry, and me against Joel, Billy, and you.”

“So, you want to lose,” Barrett states, his tone cocky and happy at the same time.

“So not happening.”

“Where are you going to play football?” I gesture around the postage-stamp yard. The grassy area that isn’t taken up by the cornhole board and bonfire is clogged with human beings.

“The street,” Barrett and Jackson answer in tandem.

“Rich girl.” Barrett tips his head in my direction. Because I know him, I’m not offended. How does he manage to be charming while being such a cad?

“I like her,” Jackson states.

“We’re exclusive,” Barrett says, a note of possession leaking into his playful tone. “Kitty Cat, will you be okay here by yourself?”

“And miss watching the bad boy of the NFL in action? Forget it, Fox, I’m coming with you.”

“I really like her,” Jackson says with a shit-eating grin. “Sure you like him better than me?”

“No,” I answer on a small laugh. “I’m not.”

Jackson laughs and wanders off to gather the rest of the guys. Barrett slips his hand into mine.

“You’re sure,” he tells me, then ducks his head for a kiss.

I am, but I’m not admitting it. We walk around to the front of the house.

I’m sitting on one of the steps leading from the concrete front porch, the rest of the partygoers either on the porch or in the lawn watching the game. So far only one car has been bonked by the football, sending the shrill car alarm into fits. It was Barrett’s doing and he apologizes. Luckily, it’s Billy’s car, and a few seconds later he beeps off the alarm and returns to the game.

I settle in and watch Barrett in motion. I watch as he rolls his shoulder. The injury that stole his career is bothering him. Bum shoulder or no, he moves like he was meant to cradle a football. The pigskin in the crook of his elbow is at home there, and whenever someone comes after him, he twists, spins, and runs into the safe zone out of harm’s way.

I can’t watch an actual football game for long—the announcers and crowd fade into white noise after a few minutes—but I could watch Barrett do this all day. It’s like watching a dancer or a singer. He’s truly gifted.

I feel a ping of sadness that he’s no longer able to play professionally. I couldn’t imagine if something happened and I could no longer write. It’d be a cruel joke, like the way Beethoven lost his hearing.

“Shot?” A hand with bubblegum pink fingernails holding a shot glass hovers in front of my face. I turn to find Stacie smiling. She lowers next to me onto the step.

“Sure, why not?” I take the tiny plastic cup filled with dark liquid. “What is it?” It smells awful.

“Best not to ask. Jackson mixed them up.” She taps her shot glass against mine and we down the liquid. I manage to swallow it but not without letting out a cough and a wheeze after.

“That’s terrible,” I croak.

“It really is,” Stacie says, but to her credit didn’t cough or make a face. “We’ll have to do another one.”

She bumps my shoulder with hers and I give her a synthetic smile.

“I wasn’t hitting on your man,” she says.

“I didn’t think…” I trail off rather than lie.

“It’s okay. It’s hard to be the new girl. We’ve all known each other since junior high.” She points at one of the guys in the street. “Except for Mike. Jackson works with him.”

“What does Jackson do?”

“Construction. He’s good with his hands.” Stacie reaches behind her for her beer and takes a drink. “You and Barrett. Has it been long?”

“Not long.” I drink my own beer, mostly to get the film off my tongue from the shot.

“What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a journalist.”

“Sexy. I’m a nurse. I can’t believe I have a Friday off. I think Jackson invites me because someone always gets hurt at his parties. I’ve put broken noses back into place. I’ve dressed wounds. A few years ago, Billy went out for a pass and ran into Mrs. Mart’s cast-iron planter. He damn near tore his ear off. That was messy.”

“Oh my gosh.”

“You’re not from Little Town, are you?” she asks, slang for the area where we are.

“Bexley.”

“I could’ve guessed. Your outfit is definitely not from Target.” She touches my arm. “I did not mean that as an insult by the way. You look like you come from money. I didn’t mean you don’t work hard for what you have.” She winces. “I didn’t mean that as an insult, either. Ignore me.”

Dammit. Now I like her.

“It’s okay. I know what you meant.” I think back on Barrett telling me about his trailer park childhood. Little Town is a far cry from a trailer park, but it’s not as country club as the area where I grew up.

“I feel like a snob sitting here by myself,” I confess.

“I saw you sitting alone but I wasn’t sure if you wanted to be alone.” She waggles her empty shot glass. “This was an excuse to approach you. It’s hard to mingle with a bunch of people you don’t know.”

“Thank you.” I’m struck by how kind it was of her to think of me.

A shout rises on the air and Barrett lifts another guy on his team into the air as the third guy musses Barrett’s hair in celebration.

“Looks like your guy won,” Stacie says. “Be prepared. All that testosterone has to go somewhere. He’s going to want some tonight.”

At my stunned reaction, she blurts, “I never had sex with Barrett by the way. I was talking about Bo. He was a big guy. Insatiable appetite for sex.”

She continues talking about a college game where she and Bo had sex in the woods. I listen, entertained, but mostly relieved. It’s good to know that Stacie never had Barrett in her bed.

It’s almost as good as knowing I have him in mine.