Oh my God, he’s a cat guy.
He’d adopted not one, but three cats.
From the shelter.
Someone get me a shot of whiskey, STAT.
I needed to wipe that little green flag nugget from my memory because that was some knee-weakening shit.
“So, um,” I said, clearing my throat, “did you decorate your house yourself?” I was always curious about single famous guyswhen they bought real estate. Did they have interior designers make it look good, or did they literally do it themselves? Did he live in a mansion filled with futons and football posters?
“Hell, no. I ordered a couch from CrashPad and then my sister told me I needed to get a decorator. Which worked out really well because the lady knew her shit and I don’t know dick about decorating, so I just pointed to pictures of things I liked and she killed it.”
“Wow,” I said, not wanting to sound gauche but kind of in awe of that process. I couldn’t imagine just being like,Make this place look lovelyand not having to worry about the funds to make it all happen.
Lifestyles of the rich and athletic.
“Does your sister live in town?” I asked. “And the rest of your family?”
“They’re all in California where I grew up,” he said.
“You’re close with your family?”
I didn’t know how to casually small-talk without coming off like I was on a fact-finding mission.
And the truth was that I already knew his basic information. He was a California kid, went to USC, and Minnesota was his first NFL gig.
“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” he said with a shrug. “You?”
“I mean, whether I want to be or not, my dad and brothers are always around,” I said, and truer words had never been spoken.
“They seem nice, though,” he said, and I wondered what hereallythought. My dad was probably my favorite person in the world, but I also knew he was a LOT.
“You know how family is,” I said. “Nice isn’t the problem—everything else is.”
“True.”
Even though I was nervous, being in the car with him was getting pretty comfortable.
So much so that I started to think maybe dinner would be okay.
Until we got to the restaurant.
He pulled up in front of the downtown building and a valet came out, but as soon as Connor got out of the car, I saw a flash. I literally thought,Is it lightning?for a split second before I saw the camera.
Then I realized there were actually people standing outside the restaurant, taking pictures as Connor opened my door and I stepped out. Not a huge crowd of paparazzi, but a few randos who looked like journalists or professional photographers.
What the hell?
I am a nobody, why are you here?
He placed a large hand—9.63 inches—on my lower back and led me toward the door, but my cheeks were on fire as these people kept taking pictures of us walking in. How had they even known Connor and I were going to be there?
I could feel that my sweater had slipped off my shoulder again and I was getting a blister on my left heel, but I kept my head held high and hoped I didn’t look too sweaty and ridiculous in any of these shots.
I wouldn’t want to embarrass Connor with my Duffiness.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, leaning his head down closer to mine so only I could hear him. His face was a mix of concern and encouragement that made me feel like he understood exactlyhow lost I felt in the spotlight. “I know it’s a lot but you’re doing great. Only a few more steps.”