“Hey! Hey, ancient Ireland girl!”

It took me a couple minutes to realize the raised voice of a girl several feet away was directed at me, but when I turned I recognized the girl from the Leopards Stadium. Rachael. Small world, but I supposed if we were both fans it made sense we’d turn up outside the Draft. I waved back. “Hi!”

Rachael made her way over to me. “Hey, nice to see you again. Isn’t this something?”

“Yeah, it’s awesome.” I waved at the players several yards before us. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen them this close.”

The corners of her mouth twitched, like she was biting the inside of her cheek. “Mmm. Yeah. So you’re a Leopards fan?”

“Uh-huh.”

She hesitated. “I was, um, curious because Mike told me you wanted to work on his land.”

What?

I hadn’t given a second thought to why she’d be in the Leopard’s offices the other week. Did she work there? How did she know Mike O’Connor? “He did?”

Rachael waved a hand. “Not that it’s my business. Anyway. This is totally last minute, but the friend I told you about—the one doing the book—is in town this weekend for the draft. I know I should’ve called you up earlier, but I’m a slacker, so. If you’re interested, I’m having some people over on Saturday.”

I stared at her, the wheels in my head clicking. “Wait—are the people going to be... Mike wouldn’t be there by any chance, would he?”

Her brows rose. “It’s probable.”

A girl made her way though the crowd to Rachael’s side. A tall, black girl with a face that could launch a thousand ships. My eyes darted back and forth between them and my throat went dry.

Rachael took in my surprise, and a small smile hovered on her lips. She nudged her friend. “People always recognize Bri. Why is that?”

Briana Harris shrugged. “I blame being on TV. Also, I’m prettier.”

I finally got my vocal cords back in order. “You’re Briana Harris. You’re wide-receiver Malcolm Lindsey’s fiancée.”

“Thank you for the recap,” Briana Harris said.

I turned to the shorter girl. “And you’re Rachael...” The more I looked at her, the more familiar she seemed, but I couldn’t attach a name.

She spread her hands. “Rachael Hamilton. My boyfriend’s the quarterback.”

Wait. Ryan Carter? Possibly one of the top ten NFL players?

Briana arched a brow. “I take it you’re a fan.”

I managed something that sounded like “Ull...”

“Well, then,” Rachael said. “You should definitely come to our party.”

And somehow, I got hold of myself enough to agree.

Rachael lived in one of those hotel-like buildings on the Upper West side that real people did not live in. Real people walked past them on nice days, pushing their baby strollers and walking their hairless dog, mingling with slow moving tourists who took pictures in front of the Natural History Museum with alarming looking cameras, before buying pretzels that cost more than designer coffee.

Anyway, I’d never met anyone who actually lived on Central Park West, except for one girl in college, and that was at 105th so it didn’t really count.

The doorman directed me to the elevator bank, and I’d barely had time to check my hair in the mirror before it whisked me up to the twenty-first floor. There were only two doors, but one looked like a closet, so I rang the bell of 2101 and waited to be let in.

Waited in a nonchalant manner, of course, because I came to things like this all the time. Yeah.

The only problem with attending a party filled with sports heroes I was mad about came from having one of those sports heroes being mad at me. Or at least irritated by my existence. I hadn’t had it in me to pass up a chance to meet and mingle with Malcolm Lindsey and Dylan Pierce, but I would do my best to avoid O’Connor.

The door swung inward. Michael O’Connor stood in the frame.

My stomach swooped to my feet.

For a bare half second surprise flared, but he smoothed it away with a smile. He propped his arm against the doorframe and leaned forward. A shock of auburn hair fell over his eyes. “Natalie Sullivan.”

The sound of my name on his lips made me swallow. “I didn’t expect you to remember me.”

“Oh, I remember you.”

My eyes started to his, and we both stared at each other for a drawn out moment. Heat filled my cheeks. Did that mean I’d been so obnoxious I’d been impossible to forget?

He cleared his throat and looked away. “What are you doing here?”

“Rachael Hamilton invited me.”

He glanced behind him. I followed his gaze to find Rachael Hamilton watching us with open curiosity. She quickly ducked behind her wine glass, which did exactly nothing to hide her.

When Mike turned back to me, his eyes glinted, hardness shining beneath the soft gold sparks. “How’d you meet Rachael?”

I pushed my hair back self-consciously. “I ran into her at the draft.”

“What were you doing at the Draft?”

I stared at him. “Watching. Why? What do you think I was doing there?”

For the first time since I’d met him, a hint of embarrassment heightened his color. “I thought—maybe—you wanted to talk about Kilkarten.”

I lifted my chin, feeling my cheeks warm to match his color. “Why? Do you want to talk about Kilkarten?”

For a long moment, we just stared at each other, and my heart rate increased. Then he finally stepped back. “Come on in.”

Okay. I was going to act all collected. Cool. Like Indiana Jones, minus the fedora.

I failed after two seconds. “If you want to talk about Kilkarten—”

“I don’t.” He interrupted me almost before I finished the last syllable, with so much force I drew back. “I don’t talk about Kilkarten.”

I swallowed and nodded as he turned his back and walked deeper into the apartment. I felt strange and intensely curious. What did that mean? Not “I don’t want to talk to you about Kilkarten” but a straight out “I don’t talk about Kilkarten.”

Or maybe I read too much into things.

I stepped clear of the entrance and stopped, stunned at the apartment, a massive open space with bright wooden floors and a glass wall overlooking Central Park. Laughter and steam and spices filled a copper and chrome kitchen at one end, while two dozen famous faces ranged throughout the room.

I looked for Rachael, but she was over in the kitchen, clearly giving very pointed directions to a set of two defensive tackles twice her size. They seemed to be concerning tableware.

“Let me guess,” someone said behind me. “Friend of Rachael’s.”

Linebacker Abe Krasner grinned at me from beneath a halo of dusky brown curls and held out a beer. I was very good; I didn’t gape or pinch myself or anything, even though the last time I’d seen him he’d been preventing a game-losing touchdown.

“Yeah.” I took the bottle and tried not to sound too star struck. “I am. Sort of. I’m Natalie.”

“Abe,” he said, in case I lived under a rock. “Are you the archaeologist?”

Archaeology small talk for the win. I smiled brightly, back on firm ground. “That’s me.”

Abe’s easy going manner put me at ease within minutes, and he introduced me to several other players. Within another twenty, Rachael appeared, a tall, quiet woman at her side who she introduced as Alexa. Alexa was the grad student from Chicago, and I probably could have talked to her all night. We did talk for a full hour before dinner was ready. I didn’t often run into people who not only cared about my research, but understood it. When I had to explain archaeology or Iron Age history to people that didn’t study it, I felt like I was translating everything into another language, one neither me nor my listener understood very well.

Of course, it went both ways. Once I asked one of my earth science friends to describe what she did, and she basically told me I would never understand.