Mile High: Chapter 8

“Stevie,” I begin. “You following me?”

Her eyes trail down my body, checking me out as I do the same to her.

Her chestnut curls are plopped on top of her head, and her clothes are drowning her figure. Dark lashes frame her blue-green eyes, and her face doesn’t show a stitch of makeup, minus…is that mustard on her chin?

She’s only inches from me, right where she barreled into my chest, my hold keeping her steady. Without thinking, I use the pad of my thumb to softly wipe the yellow from her face. As I do, her mouth falls open, and her eyes dart to mine, holding my stare for a moment.

Stevie clears her throat and takes a step back, away from me.

“Seems like you’re following me,” she retorts, keeping her eyes anywhere but on me as she crosses her arms over her chest.

“How am I following you?” I mirror her stubborn actions, crossing my arms in the same manner. “My best friends live here.”

Finally, her eyes dart to mine, cocking her head in confusion.

“Eli Maddison,” I explain. “His family lives in this building. Penthouse floor. But their elevator is being worked on.” I motion across the lobby to the private elevator for the Maddisons’ level. The only one I use to avoid run-ins like this.

Realization covers Stevie’s face. “His wife has dark red hair?”

Logan’s signature color. “Logan. Yeah.”

Stevie nods as if all the puzzle pieces are being put together for her.

“So, clearly, you’re following me.”

She scoffs. “I live here. If anyone is being a stalker, it certainly isn’t me.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart.” I brush her off, not believing her. Not to sound like a rich asshole, but this building, as well as mine across the street, cost an arm and a leg to own. She’s a flight attendant. I highly doubt she makes enough to live here.

“Why the hell do you keep calling me ‘sweetheart?’”

An evil laugh slips from my lips. I thought she was smarter than that. “You don’t get it?”

“Get what?”

“My nickname for you. It’s ironic. I’m not sure you have a sweet bone in your body, sweetheart.”

She holds my eye for a moment, contemplating her response. And if it were anyone else, I’d expect to be cussed out or maybe even smacked, but not with Stevie. She’s kind of a wild card in that way. She can take the shit-talking just as well as she can dish it out.

Instead of a negative reaction, uncontrollable giggles fall from her lips, her chest heaving. “Oh, that’s pretty good, actually.”

I can’t help the smile that overtakes my face from seeing this wild girl, dressed like she might not have a place to call home, unable to contain her hysterical laughter in the middle of this all-white pristine lobby, marble floor and all.

She looks entirely out of place, and I kind of fucking love it.

“You’re such an asshole,” she laughs.

“I know.” I smile right back at her.

I let her catch her breath before asking again. “Okay, really, though. What are you doing here?”

She inhales deeply, a smile still covering her lips. “I already told you. I live here. Well, my brother lives here, and I’m staying with him.”

“Your brother? Who is your brother?”

I’d have to know him. This city is big, but not that big. Anyone who can afford to live in this complex is some kind of high-roller or athlete, bringing in millions of dollars a year.

“No one you’d know.” Stevie brushes me off. “I got to go. Have a good night.”

She sneaks past me, swiftly darting out the lobby doors. I watch her leave before quickly glancing back at the elevator in contemplation. I’m meeting up with Maddison and Logan tonight, planning to have a late-night celebratory drink on their porch now that the rain has stopped.

But instead, I find myself turning on my heel and jogging out the lobby doors to chase after a flight attendant who seems hell-bent on getting away from me.

“Wait!” I call out, busting through the front doors.

She stops in her tracks and turns my way, looking disheveled as fuck, and I have no idea why I’m chasing after this girl right now.

“Where…uh. Where are you going? It’s after midnight.”

Why do I give a fuck is the better question.

Stevie looks down the street in the direction she’s headed. “Just running an errand.”

“Where?” Again, why the hell do I care? “Chicago is not a safe city to be wandering around by yourself at night.”

“Only a block over. I’m fine.”

Stevie turns away from me, hastily continuing on her way.

Rolling my eyes at her in frustration, I jog to catch up and gently grab her elbow, turning her back to face me. “Stevie, wait.”

As she turns around, my fingers slide down, skimming her light brown skin and softly holding on to her forearm.

She looks down at my hand before glancing up at me. “Yes?”

Yeah, Evan, what? What the fuck are you planning to say? Why do you keep chasing this chick who clearly wants to get away from you?

I retrieve my hand from her arm, trying to form a sentence. Since I’ve known this girl, I’ve had a blast getting under her skin and flustering the hell out of her. However, tonight, I’m the one who’s lost their charm and can’t speak in proper sentences.

Thankfully, she speaks before I have to. “You smell like sex.”

I straighten up a bit, a satisfied smile tugging at my lips. “Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Sounded like one.”

She rolls her eyes. “Can’t really fault you. You did say you were going to celebrate with a couple of special someones tonight.”

My brows shoot up at that statement. “You watched my game?”

“I watched the last two minutes of your game.”

“I looked hot as fuck in my jersey, yeah?”

“You’re in love with yourself.”

“Someone’s got to be,” which is always my response to that statement.

A couple walks past us on the street, all the while staring at me and whispering. It’s fairly early in the season, and I haven’t done anything too scandalous in a bit that the paparazzi aren’t following my every move at the moment. Still, it’s hard to go many places in the city without getting recognized. Not that I mind the attention. I like the fanfare for the most part.

“But no, there were no someones,” I explain, though Stevie never asked for an explanation. “The ‘special someones’ I was referring to celebrating with tonight is Maddison’s family. His wife is one of my best friends too, and if I time it just right, I might be able to catch their newborn son waking up to get fed.” I motion up the building, referencing their penthouse.

“Oh,” she awkwardly laughs. “It came off completely sexual on camera.”

“The media is going to spin it that way anyway.” I shrug. “May as well play it up.”

“Yeah, the media does seem to have a certain view on you. At least that’s what it seems like online.” Her eyes immediately go wide as if she said something she shouldn’t have.

“Stevie, sweetheart. Did you Google me?” I ask with far too much amusement in my tone.

She relaxes her shoulders, her casual and confident demeanor coming back real quick. “I Googled everyone on the team. Don’t get your panties in a twist, thinking I was just looking at you.”

“And what did you find when you Googled me and only me?”

“Nothing I didn’t already know.”

Oh.

I love my reputation, everything about it. The people who matter to me know my media persona is just that—a persona. But I like everyone else thinking I’m some unlovable piece of shit. It works well for me. Women throw themselves at me because of it.

But for some reason, with this flight attendant with an attitude, I don’t think I like that. Clearly, my reputation doesn’t do it for her. But if she liked me, even a little bit, it would make it a lot more fun to mess with her on the airplane, which is still my mission for this season. But she kind of can’t stand me, it seems, and everything I do on board just makes her like me even less.

I think I want her to like me, though. Like on a human level.

“Don’t believe everything you see in the media. It’s a lot of smoke and mirrors to push the narrative my PR team wants them to push.”

“So, you’re saying you don’t leave the arena every night with a new girl? And you actually give a shit about someone other than yourself?”

My brows shoot up at her directness. “Is there something wrong with leaving the arena with a new girl each night?”

“Not at all,” Stevie quickly states, which throws me off. I figured she would say yes. Most women don’t wholly support the whole “man-whore” thing. “But you said it’s not as it seems. It seems like that’s pretty accurate to the picture they’ve painted of you.”

“Well…” I rub the back of my neck, suddenly feeling put on the spot. I don’t often feel the need to explain myself or my actions, but for some reason, I want to. “Believe it or not, there are times when I walk those women out of the arena, hoping the media takes pictures, then I put them in a cab and send them home.”

Stevie’s brows shoot up, taken aback.

“But then, yeah, there are times they come home with me. My image makes me a shitload of money. Doesn’t hurt to play into it, and the benefits aren’t half bad either.”

An understanding laugh heaves in Stevie’s chest.

Damn, she really is pretty, and her lack of judgment is attractive. Regardless of her sometimes-shitty attitude or the stained and tattered sweatpants she’s wearing, that have seen better days.

Stevie eyes me for a moment, a memory flashing in her eyes before her smile falls. “I gotta get going.” She quickly turns away from me.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I once again jog to stop her. These shoes are Louboutins. No one should be running in Louboutins. “What just happened?”

Stevie pauses for a moment and my attention falls to her thumb as she nervously spins the ring that lives there.

“The other night,” she begins. “What did you mean when you said, when it comes to food, you trust my opinion more than the other girls?”

I furrow my brows in confusion.

“When you wanted me to make you something other than your dinner you didn’t like. You said you trusted my opinion over my coworkers when it came to food.”

Oh, that. I forgot she got all weird after I said that.

“Yeah, what about it?”

“What did you mean by that?”

Clearly, I’m lost here.

“I meant what I said? That I trust your opinion about food more than those other girls.”

“But what did that mean?” she presses.

I take a deep breath, trying to figure out what the fuck she’s talking about. Women, I tell you. They’re all a little nutty.

“Look, Stevie. I’m a simple man—”

“No, you’re not.”

“Okay,” I laugh. She got me there. Simple probably isn’t the best word to describe myself. I don’t leave the house without a planned and prepped ensemble. “Direct. I’m direct. There’s no hidden meaning when I say something. I don’t lie. I don’t bullshit. What I said, I meant.”

“Got it.” Once again, she turns away from me, but I stop her with a hand on her arm.

“I’m missing something here. Mind filling me in on how I offended you?”

Stevie sticks the end of her disgusting hoodie string in her mouth before continuing to twirl the gold ring on her thumb. “Well, you told the girl who isn’t a size two that you trust her opinion about food more than the girls who are a size two.”

“Okay?”

“You see how I could take that as a way of you judging my body?”

Whoa, what?

“What?” I ask in shock, my eyes wide. “Is that why you got all weird and hid in the back the rest of the flight? You thought I was talking about your body?”

Stevie stays silent, her eyes pulled away from mine.

“First of all, that thought has never once crossed my mind. Your ass and tits are insane, though,” which pulls a laugh from the curly-haired girl.

“And I don’t know what those other girls eat, but my comment had nothing to do with your clothing size or your body. All I know is when I ran into you at the bar in Denver, the burger you had ordered looked amazing. Then when I got up to use the bathroom on the airplane on the way home from Detroit, I saw you scarfing down on that grilled cheese you made, and I wanted one too. What I said had nothing to do with your body, just your taste buds. We like the same kind of food.”

A blush rushes up and covers Stevie’s freckled cheeks. “Oh,” she squeaks out, seeming embarrassed for overreacting.

“And if you really want me to be direct about your body.” I give her a once-over, clearly checking her out. “It’s banging. You should start showing it off. These sweatpants are atrocious, though.”

Finally, a relaxed laugh echoes from Stevie’s mouth and into my ears. It sounds nice.

“But for real, do you shop at the thrift store or something?” I yank at the tattered fabric on her leg that might fall apart if I pull too hard.

Stevie quickly looks down at her outfit, if you want to call it that. “Yes,” she states without hesitation.

“We don’t pay you enough? I can do something about that.”

“No,” she laughs. “I just like buying secondhand.”

Now that, I don’t get. Granted, I have a tailor who custom-makes half of my clothes, and the other half is designer, but used? No, thank you.

“Do you shop at Louis Vuitton, Prada, and Tom Ford?” she asks.

“Yes.”

Stevie laughs. “I know. I was kidding. I can tell you only wear designer. You’re a pretty one, Evan Zanders.” She adds a condescending pat on my chest.

“Aw, sweetheart. You think I’m pretty?”

She playfully rolls her eyes. “Stop calling me ‘sweetheart.’”

“Never.”

Her soft gaze locks with mine, both of us silent but unwilling to tear our eyes off one another.

After a beat, Stevie starts walking backward, heading off in the direction she was going before I chased her down, but she still faces me. “You know, Zanders. Now that you mention it, you guys don’t pay me enough. I think a raise is in order.”

I keep my lips pressed together in a hard line, trying to hold back my smile, but she got me there. I really walked my ass right into that trap. “You gonna start being nice to me on the airplane if I do that for you?”

She takes a moment, cocking her head in contemplation as she continues to walk away from me. “Doubtful.”

The smile is out. I can’t really hold it back any longer.

“You gonna start being nice to me and stop being a needy little fucker with that call light?” she asks with a knowing grin.

“Fuck no. You may as well put your running shoes on next flight. I’m gonna be running your ass up and down that aisle for me.”

I can hear her laugh all the way from here, though she’s already halfway down the block. “I’ll be sure to stretch before you work me!” she calls out, turning away from me.

Granted, she didn’t intend for that to come off sexual, but now all I can think about is working her in a different way and how much fun I’d have throwing around that curvy body. Stretching or not, she still wouldn’t be able to walk properly the next day.

Not to be a creep, but I watch Stevie until she gets to her destination the next block over. And I do so simply because Chicago’s crime rate is out of this world. It has nothing to do with the way her ass moves or her hips sway behind those god-awful sweatpants that really need to be thrown in the garbage.