11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Willow

I'm supposed to be working on new music, not thinking about Tripp Owens. But he's such a pleasant distraction.

I just finished the verse for a new song I've been playing with and the second the pen comes off the paper, my phone is in my hands. I'm a woman obsessed, unable to watch anything besides the clip. Clearly, I'm not the only one. It's gone viral and has been posted on every entertainment and news outlet that has any interest in football or music.

Tripp. Trying to leave practice. Cheeks red from what I'm guessing was a shower. He's in a simple gray athletic t-shirt and black athleisure shorts. The shorts have that good inseam.

The first time I saw it, I couldn't believe it. I'm not sure I believe it now.

Celebrities don't do this. It's all about keeping everything quiet, under the radar, even fake dating in public to throw the scent off your real partner.

Nonetheless, here's one of the most popular NFL players, asking me out, and it's been seen by millions of people.

My public relations team isn't quite sure what to do. I told them to do nothing until I had a chance to think about it. They aren't even allowed to say "no comment" until I wrap my brain around this.

The fire crackles and pops. The air is cold for an August night, and I have a thick blanket wrapped around my shoulders. My laptop sits on my lap with a discarded journal to the side of it .

Since my tour has ended, it's always what comes next? I have a ton of music and songs written, but I'm a little nervous about getting my label on board. I usually share new music direction with them when I'm wrapping up the end of a tour, but I've kept all of these songs and pieces to myself. For the first time, I asked for a break.

"How many times have you watched that?" Emilie asks as she walks toward me, holding a beautiful arrangement of flowers.

"What's all that?" I reference the bouquet and sidestep her question.

"I'm guessing loverboy has some connections." She sets them down on the patio table. "The envelope is sealed and there were instructions to leave it that way until this was in your possession. Security signed off so they know what's going on."

"I'll leave you to it," she says, wearing a massive grin like we're in middle school and I'm about to read a love note that was left in my locker.

"You don't have to," I protest.

"I know I don't, but I want to." She says it in a way that's final and compassionate. "So much of your life is available to others. Sometimes it's nice to find little pieces you can keep to yourself." She turns to head back to the house like she didn't say the most enlightened thing I've heard in a while.

I make sure my mouth isn't hanging open and make a mental note to give her a raise. The flowers—pink and white peonies—stare at me. My favorite flowers. Someone's been doing their homework.

I pluck the envelope from the bouquet. It's heavy, substantial in my hand. Willow Scott is written on the front; he full-named me. I carefully open it and pull out a note on cream paper with black handwriting.

Willow – Sorry if your week has been crazy .

Meant what I said. I'd love to take you out. The number on the bottom is new and you're the only one I'm giving it to.

--Tripp

At the bottom of the note is a phone number, tiny but legible. I'm guessing this is why he didn't want anyone to read it.

I press my lips together, trying to fight the smile. The flowers are lovely but the handwritten note? Swoon.

I sit back in my chair, the blanket hugging my shoulders, moving the note between my fingers—contemplating what to do next. My brain snags on the wildness of it but my heart chases into the Isn't this exciting? territory.

Most of the men I've dated have been weird about being in public. If they weren't, it's usually because they had some sort of ulterior motive, like a mediocre music career they're trying to get off the ground or wanting me to connect them with so-and-so. It's hard not to feel like people aren't always looking for something I can give them.

If they didn't want a connection or an introduction, they wanted me to be smaller or "more normal". It's cliché but it's always tricky trying to gauge someone's true intentions.

I know if I was saying this out loud it would sound ridiculous. Poor Willow. She's so popular and really hit her stride with her music but she doesn't know how to pick a man.

A dramatic sigh escapes my lips, even though I'm the only one around to hear it.

Then there's Tripp. I know almost nothing about him. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't done some Googling after our latest interaction.

Interesting because he doesn't seem to have any public relationships, or at least any that the press has gotten their hands on. Besides his antics at the game last season, there really isn't much besides actual updates, a few charities he's tied to, typical professional athlete things.

Most celebrities have those terrible articles showing their dating history in excruciating detail. Not Tripp. Gone is the compilation of any person he may, or may not have, dated served with a side of dramatic contemplation from whoever wrote it.

I once sat next to a stranger at a coffee shop while I was waiting for my order. Something fell out of my bag and this sweet gentleman grabbed it and handed it back to me. That was the entirety of the interaction. However, in the next twelve hours, the press knew everything about him, and we were rumored to be dating. Outrageous.

Nothing like that for Tripp. Which makes me think back to those silver eyes and his boyish but ridiculously sexy grin. And If I think about it long enough, it's like I can feel his hand on my lower back and see that wink he left me with.

My cheeks pinch when I realize I've been sitting here smiling, all alone. I grab my phone and dial the number on the card before I can change my mind.

"You called," Tripp says, and I swear I can hear him smiling on the other line.