Free Romancing the Running Back by Jeanette Murray Page B

sheer ballsiness of it. Cassie was the one who spoke her mind, who didn’t back down, who jumped first and asked questions . . . eventually. Not her.
    What was it about this southern drawlin’, backwards-cap wearing, conservation nut that had her feeling both defensive and antagonistic at once?
    He set his fork down much more gently than she had and took another drink of water. “I don’t hate you. I don’t knowyou well enough to hate you.”
    “Gee, thanks.”
    He raised a brow at that. “I can’t say that I respect your job all that much,” he added, otherwise ignoring the attitude. “I don’t really get the point of fashion, and yes, I see it as a bit shallow and wasteful. But if you love it, whatever. No skin off mine.”
    “So you’re just annoyed with me on principle. Because you don’t like my career field. Lovely.” She poked at a chickpea from her salad. “Maybe I see your job as frivolous. Ever think of that? A bunch of overpaid, sweaty men running around getting grass stains on perfectly good white pants while they try to keep ahold of an oval pigskin. Sounds very enlightening for the masses.”
    “It’s not,” he said, surprising her when he agreed. “I can’t say my job, at least at the base of it, is very noble. But it does give me a decent platform to talk about what I’m passionate about. So that’s a major plus in that area.”
    Anya decided to ignore him. Clearly, he was a number of contradictions wrapped up in one too-handsome package. He was elitist, but not. Picky, but humble. He thought his way was the best, and didn’t accept other opinions.
    And yet, when he’d lunged for her after he’d thought she’d sliced her finger, it hadn’t been any of those contradictions leading the way. It had been real fear, concern, worry for her in his eyes, in his gentle touch when he’d examined her. And though he’d tried to hide it with frustration, he’d been a little shaky afterward.
    Divorce proceedings hadn’t given her much hope for a new relationship, but it had provided her with numerous insights into the male species.
    After a few minutes of silent eating, she succumbed. “How’d you find this place in the middle of nowhere?”
    “They found me. The chef, Anthony—I can bring him over to introduce him if you want—saw an interview I did about the importance of eating local, and he told me about an idea he had for a restaurant.”
    “Idea,” she said, catching on instantly. “You backed him.”
    “Silent backer, yeah. It was a solid plan. Not just to feed people from local produce, but to teach them how to go home and do it themselves. To show them where the ingredients are,” he said, picking up the placard that sat at the unused corner of their table, proclaiming where every piece of food on their plates had come from, “and show them it’s not as difficult as people assume.”
    “I wouldn’t have guessed,” she admitted. “I thought eating locally was all but impossible, and it had to be like a part-time job to hunt up the different spots. Just easier to head to the local chain store and grab everything you need.”
    “I do that, too, when something I really need—or just want—isn’t local. I’m a conscious consumer, but I’m not a glutton for punishment. I won’t say no to sushi because it’s obviously not going to show up anywhere near here in a natural sense.”
    “If you wanted fresh, local sushi, you got drafted to the wrong team,” she said with a smile.
    “But this is important to me. So I make the effort when I can. Passions aren’t always convenient, but they’re alwaysimportant.”
    Much as it pained her, she had to admit his convictions were impressive. He might have sounded pompous at some points expressing them, but that little speech had been inspiring, and not at all arrogant. This was a Josiah she could get to know more.
    “So Anya,” he said, settling back in his seat. “What are you passionate about?”
    Talk about Chance to