Britt stares down at the coffee table with the appetizers Chess set up so prettily, and I am hit with a sense of wrongness that she’s here and that Chess is out there somewhere.

I have never had anyone welcome me home before. Never knew I needed it until I walked in the door and saw Chess standing there, so fucking pretty in her casual jeans and black v-neck top. And so adorably nervous and prickly about doing something nice for me.

Maybe it’s true that she always has a little personal happy hour. But she clearly had included me in her plans tonight. That makes all the difference.

“You’re living with the calendar photographer?” Britt asks.

Seems like a petty distinction, calling her a calendar photographer when she’s more than that. But I let it slide. “Chess, and she’s staying with me, yes.” It’s none of Britt’s business. But I’m not trying to hide anything.

Britt nibbles on her bottom lip.

“How do you know who she is, anyway?” I ask.

“They are showing pictures of you two. At an aquarium. Food shopping together.” Her smooth brow barely wrinkles. “They’ve been taking pictures of her coming out of your building all week.”

Great. Chess will love that.

“You seem to know a lot about it.”

Britt shakes her head as if I’m naive. “I envy you your ability to tune out the press. They’re everywhere, Finn.” Her lashes sweep low. “They photographed us once too.”

Annoyance skitters up my spine and claws my neck. “They took photos of everyone at that party. It was fashion week.”

Fact: football players troll fashion shows and parties for models. Not because they like clothes. When you’re a rookie and you get invitations to hang out with the most beautiful women in the world, you go. Hell, you’re ecstatic.

Models, actresses, pop stars, they love us. We’re fit, rich, and most of us aren’t looking for complicated. Is it a shallow set up? Sure. But as long as no one gets hurt, why should it matter?

Only sometimes, people do get hurt.

“Why are you here, Britt?”

She lowers herself onto the edge of the couch, picks up a piece of cheese, frowns at it and drops it back down. I almost snap at her not to touch anything; that’s Chess’s meal. But then Britt gives a little sigh. “I don’t know. I saw the pictures and thought of you. You’re getting on with your life.”

Is that was this was? Some guilt trip. Worse thing is I don’t know if I should feel guilty or not. “Was I not supposed to?”

“No. Yes.” She shakes her head, the simple movement stunning on her. I’d been so blindsided by this woman’s looks when we met, I’d turned stupid. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know what I’m saying half the time.”

And like that, I do feel guilty. “It’s all right, Britt.”

She utters a half-sob, half-laugh. When she looks up, her eyes are wide and a little hesitant. “Your mother has been calling me.”

She couldn’t have shocked me more if she’d slapped my face.

“What?”

The fuck?

Britt’s chin lifts a touch. “She invited me to your house for Thanksgiving…” Her nose wrinkles. “No, that wasn’t what she called it.”

“Thanksmas,” I get out through clenched teeth. Blood rushes in my ears. I am going to kill my mother. I don’t care if it’s a crime. I don’t care if my dad kills me in retaliation. The woman has gone too far.

“Right, that’s it.”

“Britt.” My voice is hard. I can’t control it. “No. I’m sorry, but no.”

Her mouth falls open, her eyes welling as if she’ll soon cry.

“My mother means well,” I press on. “But this isn’t the right thing for either of us.” It sure as shit isn’t what I want or need.

Britt staggers to her feet. I reach out to steady her but she shakes me off. “I thought…” She takes a breath. “I thought maybe she was speaking for you.”

“No,” I say, trying to soften my tone. Because she’s a victim of Mom’s meddling too. “I’m sorry.”

“It is because of the photographer?”

“Chess,” I remind her.

“Chess. Is it because of her?”

“No.” It’s the honest truth. Chess has nothing to do with why I don’t want Britt celebrating holidays with me. “I just can’t…” Fucking hell, what do I say that doesn’t make me sound like a complete dick?

“I understand,” Britt says, saving us both. She takes a breath and stands straight. “I do. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable.”

Uncomfortable? God, there’s so much uncomfortable between us, I feel like I’m choking. I rub the back of my neck. “No. I’m sorry if I was abrupt. I’m no good at this.”

Her smile is wry and bittersweet. “Well, who would be?” She moves toward the front all, and I hustle to open the door for her. Britt pauses and looks up at me. “Take care, Finn.”

I can barely look at her anymore. It’s wrong of me, I know. But feelings rarely listen to reason. “Goodbye, Britt.”

I close the door and lean against it, wanting Chess back here more than my next breath. But she’ll probably ask questions. And I don’t know if I have it in me to give her the answers.

 

* * *

 

Chess

 

* * *

 

One of my favorite things about the French Quarter is that you can always find a bar no matter what time it is. And not some dank, gloomy dive—although there are plenty of those— but ones with high, pressed tin ceilings, walls of windows, and cute mixologists like my new friend Nate here who kindly slides a perfect Sazerac in front of me.

I take a cool sip and listen to Ella Fitzgerald muss about being bewitched, bothered, and bewildered. It’s almost enough to soothe the weary soul.

“That’s an awfully big sigh,” Nate observes, as he wipes his spotless mahogany bar.

I’m no longer a fan of Nate.

“I wasn’t aware I sighed,” I say, taking another sip of my drink. Good man, Nate, despite being nosy.

“Practically blew back my hair,” he jokes.

I eye Nate’s shaved head, and he laughs.