Once in the Subaru, Dennis tuned the radio to the game. The Empire were winning seventeen to seven. Miranda sat in the back alongside Theo, feeling little sparkles of delight every time the announcer said Luke’s name.

“He’s relentless,” Dennis said as the Empire collected first down after first down in their drive toward the goal line.

“Touchdown, Empire!” the announcer shouted.

Patty turned to grin at Miranda. “He’s working off the pressure of waiting to find out what you’ll say. I predict the Empire win this game big.”

Her family took it up as a mantra. When Luke connected on a long pass, Dennis cheered, “He threw that one for Miranda.”

When he ran the ball, Patty gave her teasing look. “He was imagining it was you at the forty-yard line.”

Even Theo joined in. When the Empire scored again, her nephew shrugged his skinny shoulders. “I guess he scored that touchdown for Aunt Miranda.”

Laughter bubbled up in her throat and spilled out with each absurd claim. Beneath her happiness, she knew there were no guarantees that she and Luke could find a way to make things work between them. Despite sharing a building, there was a vast gulf between the world-class athlete and the assistant concierge.

She shoved those thoughts away, refusing to let anything cast a shadow on this moment of pure elation.

By some miracle they hit very little traffic, and soon Dennis was following the instructions Heather had given Miranda when she called. “I hoped you’d get in touch with me,” the young PR representative had said. “This is the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.”

She’d done her job well, because all Miranda had to do was flash her driver’s license at the various security guards and they were directed into VIP parking, ushered through the players’ entrance, and escorted to a private lounge outfitted with a giant flat-screen television and big cushy chairs and sofas.

Heather joined them there, her face beaming with excitement. She threw her arms around Miranda. “The press has inundated our office with inquiries about you. Everyone wants to know about the mystery woman who got Luke Archer to apologize on national television.”

Nerves took Miranda by the throat. She’d been so focused on getting to Luke that she’d forgotten about the difficulties of dating a celebrity, especially one who claimed you in front of millions. “I—what did you tell them?”

“Nothing,” Heather said. “It’s not our policy to comment on our players’ personal lives. This time it was easy, since we didn’t know anything about you.”

“Touchdown!” Dennis leaped up from the sofa where he and Theo had settled. “That makes the score thirty-seven to thirteen. I call that a rout.”

Miranda and Heather turned toward the screen as the Empire kicked the extra point and the clock ran out. Luke headed off the field, unsnapping his helmet as he walked. A blonde reporter in high heels raced out to meet him, but he kept going, disappearing into the swirl of players congratulating one another on the win.

She ignored the chatter of the commentators dissecting the game until she heard her name. “So we have to wonder if Archer’s rejuvenated play is the result of a week’s rest, or the influence of the mystery woman, Miranda Tate. Or maybe both.”

Miranda buried her face in her hands with a groan.

“Don’t mind them,” Heather said. “They don’t really want to talk about anything but football, so they’ll get back to the game stats soon. It’s just a concession to the ratings, which went through the roof after Mr. Archer’s speech.” The young woman looked at Miranda. “I guess you know that he’s never talked to the press at halftime before.”

“Um, well, no.” Miranda smiled apologetically. “I wasn’t really a football fan. Until now.”

A clamor of approaching voices came from outside the door. It swung open and Luke walked in, his helmet dangling from his hand. He slammed the door closed on the crowd following him. Turning, he raked his fingers through his hair and scanned around the room, his gaze coming to rest on Miranda.

She opened her mouth and realized she had no idea what to say.

“I didn’t expect you to come here,” Luke said, shifting his helmet to the other hand.

“Dennis drove me,” Miranda said, gesturing to her brother and his family, who were standing beside the couch. She waved her other hand toward the PR rep. “And Heather got us in.” She couldn’t tell if he was glad she’d shown up at the stadium. “What you did was pretty dramatic . . . I mean, saying all of that on national TV. So we thought I should be here.”

“I wanted everyone to know you’re mine,” Luke said, still not moving toward her. “No more sneaking around.”

Miranda heard Patty let out a long sigh. “Let’s give them some privacy,” Heather said. Miranda threw her a look of gratitude as Heather shepherded Dennis, Patty, and Theo toward the door. Patty turned and gave Miranda a wink before she stepped out into the hall. The reporters shouted questions, but Miranda could hear Heather turning them aside before the closing door muted the noise.

She couldn’t stop staring at Luke as he stood there, his uniform smudged with dirt, his hair dark with sweat, his blue eyes striking above the black greasepaint smeared on his cheeks. He looked like a world-famous, larger-than-life quarterback, not like the Luke Archer who had milked her family’s cows. But he was both those people, and she needed to embrace one along with the other if she was going to love him.