Po-tay-toe, po-tah-toe.
“That was fun,” Tiller said as we walked through a corridor to a single security checkpoint. Two women who looked vaguely familiar in a “were you on Real Housewives” kind of way went through ahead of us. The security escort brought us to the gate and handed us over to the gate agents, who promptly tittered with excitement and hustled us onto the plane to introduce Tiller to the pilot, who was a big fan. I tossed a polite smile and nod at the tall, good-looking man in uniform and found my seat. By the time Tiller had done his thing with Captain Tall & Sexy, I was settled with everything just so.
It wasn’t until Tiller came and booted me out of the window seat that the flight attendant finally noticed me.
“I’ll have a vodka cranberry, please,” I said politely. “And he’ll have a bottle of water.”
Tiller leaned across me to smile at the flight attendant. “Actually, Lisa, I’d love a coffee, please. Cream and sugar. Thanks.”
I tried not to sound like his mother, but I failed. “He’ll also have a bottle of water,” I repeated.
Her eyes flicked between us before nodding and assuring us it would only take a moment. I sat back and exhaled. Traveling with Tiller was always a production. Any minute they’d start general boarding and the Train of Stares and Whispers would begin.
“Sorry,” he muttered so low only I could hear it.
The apology surprised me. I turned to him and asked what he was apologizing for.
“I know you hate all of this. The fans and stuff.” His cheeks were a little ruddy, and his eyes wouldn’t meet mine.
I put a hand on his arm. “I love that they love you. And I love how kind and attentive you are to them. It’s just…” I stopped to think through how I really felt. “I hate that you can’t have a normal life sometimes.”
Tiller’s eyes widened. “I love this life. Are you kidding? Everywhere I go people tell me how good I am at my job.”
“Not always,” I reminded him carefully, trying not to think about the time a guy walked right up and sucker punched him while accusing him of single-handedly losing a game that week. I’d scrambled on top of the asshole like a rabid spider monkey and tried scratching his eyes out in retaliation. Maybe it hadn’t been pretty, but it was the only tool in my personal assault toolkit.
Tiller’s face softened to an expression of warm affection that made me squirm in my seat. He grinned. “No, not always. But when the haters attack, I have you.”
“Mpfh.” I turned back around to receive our drinks. “Thanks,” I murmured to the flight attendant.
When general boarding began, I tried to remind myself he liked the attention. It was something he’d told me many times before, but I had a hard time believing him. Maybe it was because every time my father had been approached in public, he’d griped about it later in private. When I was in elementary school, Coach had worked at SMU in Dallas, so when he’d moved up to coach for the Riggers, most of Texas’s football fans already knew exactly who he was. He’d been a local celebrity in Texas my whole life. There’d never been a time I could remember when he wasn’t approached in public to talk about the game. I’d gotten so used to the invasiveness of it, the fact it took my dad’s attention away from our family, that I had a hard time believing Tiller could see it as a good thing.
But I watched him respond with smiles and nods, thoughtful responses to questions, and humble gratitude for compliments. The man was fucking gorgeous, and watching him respond with enthusiastic kindness… well, it did stuff to me.
Dirty stuff.
I cleared my throat and pretended to check my email on my phone. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Tiller’s thick, muscular thighs stretching the faded denim of his favorite pair of jeans. I knew from doing our laundry that there was a thin, threadbare spot in the crotch of those jeans, and… not gonna lie… I’d spent some time trying to figure out if I could spot any of his colorful boxer briefs through the loose threads.
The man probably thought I was a perv.
I was a perv.
A high-pitched shriek made me jump. I glanced up to see a teenage boy frozen in shock next to me. He stared at Tiller for a beat before breathlessly asking, “Are you Tiller Raine? The Tiller Raine?”
The kid had smudged eyeliner around wide eyes, and his cheeks were rapidly turning red as he stared at my boss. Under his half-zipped hoodie, I saw a Riggers T-shirt I recognized as one of the ones shot out of the fan cannon at home games. Lucky bastard.