Page 52 of Tangled with the Tight End

Who does that? She noticed how my stuff was always scattered everywhere and just showed up with a box—one she paid for with her own money. I’d offer to pay her back, but I’m pretty sure she’d turn me down. And those crutches? I chuckle softly. The look on Patrick’s face when she slammed into him. Good thing he’s got the strength and agility of a fireman.

By the time I open the security app to check the porch, the clicking of heels sounds on the floor. Whoever it is, Winona already let them in. And from the sound of things, it’s a woman.

Winona appears in the archway leading into the family room first. Her eyes wide and her brows high.

“You have a visitor,” she says.

Then Winona waves the woman forward as if she’s a butler welcoming a distinguished guest.

“Chantal?” I ask. She’s a model. Or an actress? An actress who models? A model who wants to be an actress? The women start to blur into one watercolor of sameness after a while.

Is it Chantal? Chanel? Chandler?

I should know. But then again, women like her tend to show up at parties, after games, and definitely through my mother’s machinations. Mom’s determined to find me a wife who “fits” my lifestyle and status.

“Declan, baby,” Chantal coos, striding toward me with movements that resemble a strut down a catwalk.

Winona’s still standing in the doorway. Her mouth twitches and hand flies up to cover her amused expression. Then she turns and walks out of the room, leaving me and the blonde woman in a skin-tight dress alone.

“I can’t believe you’re out for the season,” Chantal says, her lips pouting out for emphasis.

“Maybe not the whole season,” I say.

“Well, that’s good news.” She takes a seat in the chair next to the couch and reaches out, laying her hand on my arm. The sensation is so entirely different than when Winona squoze my bicep playfully during vitals.

Chantal gently runs her long, manicured fingernails across my arm. “Do you need a massage?”

“For a broken ankle?” I ask.

“For anything. Sometimes massages relax a man.”

“I’m good,” I say. “How did you … ?” I almost ask how she managed to find out where I live, but I stop myself short.

Seriously, though. How did she get my address?

“Your mom reached out. She said you might be lonely.”

“So you drove to Waterford?”

From where? I don’t know much about this woman. But I know she doesn’t live here in town.

“I was doing a demo in Nashville.”

A demo. She’s a singer. Not an actress. But she does model too. I remember now.

“The drive here was … quaint.” The way the word takes time to form makes it sound more like an insult than a compliment.

“Have you been lonely?” she asks, crossing her legs and sitting back in her chair, but maintaining practically perfect posture.

When Winona sits there, she crosses her legs up under her and gets cozy. She’s so unassuming. The contrast between her and Chantal feels like the day I picked up a book right after I got reading glasses. I never knew how blurry the letters were until I had my vision corrected.

“Not exactly lonely,” I tell Chantal. “The guys have been by. My brother and sister live in town. I have …” Winona. For some reason I don’t want to specifically mention Winona to Chantal.

“Help. I saw,” Chantal waves a hand in the direction of the hallway. “She let me in.”

I don’t correct Chantal. Winona’s not the help. What good would it do to clarify that detail? Women like Chantal divide the world like it’s a caste system. There are the untouchables at the bottom. And then the ranking improves as you move up in wealth and notoriety.

I’m top tier to women like her. Not because of who I am—because of what I’ve achieved. She sees my status and wants to attach herself to it.