One Night with a Quarterback by Jeanette Murray

amid the sharp noises and funky smells. A beach. Or maybe some grassy meadow . . .
    Cassie.
    Her horrible dancing made him smile. The utter lack of self-awareness to what others thought had been amusing, refreshing. Her easy conversation and jokes at the diner had felt easier than any intentional date he’d been on in years. Her passion between the sheets—or even up against a hotel room wall—had been icing on a damn fine cake.
    He needed to find her again. If he tore the city apart, he
would
find her.
    â€œYo. Trey, you okay?”
    He blinked and found Josiah crouching in front of him, an uncharacteristic worried look on his face. “Hmm?”
    His friend leaned in another inch, staring at his eyes. “You fell asleep sitting up, or something. I think we need to see the doc. Rule out a concussion or something.”
    Trey blinked a few times. “I just let my mind wander. Stop worrying, Mommy.”
    Josiah rolled his eyes and stood. “Fine.”
    Trey stood and shook out his arms. “I’m going home. Taking some aspirin and stuff.” And going to start searching online and maybe call the hotel. Just to see what he could find out. The less he had to throw his name around to get information, the better it would be.
    â€œFine, fine. Abandon a guy mid-workout. I see how it is.” When Trey flipped him off, his friend laughed. “Just so you know, you’ve got a nice lump and an imprint of the bar grips on your forehead. So, have fun with that.”
    Trey cursed as he walked out of the room and into the darkened hallway. He reached up and . . . yup. There it was. A goose egg just below his hairline, above his left eye. He couldn’t feel any ridges, but it wouldn’t shock him if his bruise took on the distinct crisscross pattern of the grip when it fully fleshed out.
    Lovely.
    So he’d give that a few days before chasing Cassie down. And until then, thank God for baseball caps.

Chapter Seven
    Cassie shook her clammy hands out as she stood before the front door of what she’d aptly named The Jordan McMansion. And her mind drifted back to a not-so-distant memory of wiping her hands over her jeans outside the door of Ken’s office two days earlier.
    The concept of having to ring the doorbell at her own father’s home was a foreign one. Even after moving out, her mother insisted she keep a key to her childhood home, to come and go as she pleased. Walk in, do laundry if she needed, grab a snack, watch some TV. It was no shock to her mother if she found Cassie on the couch taking a nap while her clothes ran through the spin cycle when she came home from work. But of course, her mother raised her. She met her father two days ago.
    Talk about a Dr. Phil family hour waiting to happen.
    Without giving herself a chance to second-guess, she rang the bell. And waited . . . and waited . . .
    Finally, the door opened and Cassie pasted her best smile on. The smile went a little crooked when, instead of one of her sisters, she found who she assumed was the housekeeper standing in the doorway.
    â€œMs. Wainwright?” she asked, giving Cassie a look that said,
I find you unimpressive.
Her accent was as starchy as her white button-down shirt, which was tucked neatly into a black skirt that hit at mid- calf, and she wore black shoes that looked like something a lunch lady would wear. Her hair was as uncomfortable looking as the rest of her outfit, and was scraped back into a tight bun that looked like a migraine waiting to happen.
    â€œYes. Hi, call me Cassie.” She stuck out a hand to shake, then dropped it when the woman merely gave her a cool gaze that had her worrying about frostbite. “Um, Irene told me to come by for dinner?”
    â€œYes, the ladies are expecting you in the south salon.” She waited for Cassie to step through, then closed the door quietly behind her. “Follow me.”
    South salon?
    The