She narrowed her eyes, clearly annoyed that I wasn’t giving her the whole truth. “Liam came over and we had dinner. Oh, and your mom called, so we both talked to her for a while.”
I groaned. She’d left me a voicemail the day before but I hadn’t had time to call her back yet.
“What did she want?” I asked just before the elevator doors swung open.
“She wanted to know if you’d been kidnapped, and if so, whether or not your captors had brought your hand sanitizer along.”
I laughed as I stepped in and found a spot in the front corner. “Sounds like her.”
The elevator was completely full of athletes trying to make their way down to the food court, which meant I was momentarily safe from having to answer Kinsley and Becca’s questions about the night before. I wasn’t purposely keeping things from them, I just hadn’t had a chance to process everything for myself. If I told them what was going on in my head, it would sound like Ummmmmmmm…right. Well…you see…the masks…and then the kiss…
I needed a few more hours in my own head, a few more hours of keeping Mascarada to myself.
Once we’d arrived on the first floor, I was content to take in the insanity around the lobby. The opening ceremonies were set to take place the following day and the Olympic village was already in a frenzy over it. Committee members ran around the lobby, setting up rendezvous points and help stations for the people flooding in. Security guards manned the front doors, checking the credentials of everyone entering the building.
We bypassed the lobby and headed for the food court, only to find it was just as crowded with guests arriving for the opening ceremonies. Athletes, coaches, and family members filled every available table, and every food station had a line that stretched for what seemed like miles.
“Here, just hold on to my shoulder and I’ll pull us through,” Kinsley said, stepping forward and fighting her way through the crowd.
It was impossible. We only made it three steps before hitting a wall of people.
“Let’s split up,” Kinsley said, letting go of my arm. “Andie, you go grab us a table and we’ll find the food.”
I nodded and set off, trying to weave through the crowd. I ended up roaming through the foot court twice before stumbling on a group of people scooting their chairs back and collecting their trash.
“All yours,” the woman said, smiling as she cleared off her breakfast food.
“Thanks.”
I pulled out a chair, claimed the table, and then reached for my phone to text my mom. I couldn’t imagine what Christy and Conan would do if they were there in the food court with me. My mom would probably be spritzing everyone with hand sanitizer and my dad would be walking around trying to find someone with a shared love of sailing. They’d stick out like sore thumbs in their cardigans and summer whites.
Andie: Kinsley said you called. I’ll try and reach you after practice later, but I have that cocktail party, so I’m not sure when I’ll be free.
Mom: Cocktail party?
Andie: It’s for all the flag bearers, so I have to go.
Mom: Okay. Don’t worry, sweetie. Just call when you get the chance.
Mom: Oh, but try and get that picture with Frederick for Meemaw! I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, just ask politely, and say it is for your scrapbook.
Oh Jesus. I stuffed my phone back into my workout bag and tried to ignore lingering thoughts of Freddie as a shadow fell over my table.
“Andie Foster?”
I glanced up to find a microphone shoved in my face, the black puff on the end nearly tickling my nose.
“Andie! How serendipitous that we’ve found you here!”
The thick British accent belonged to a tall redheaded woman dressed in an ill-fitting navy pantsuit. According to the pin on the lapel of her jacket, she was a reporter for a TV station I hadn’t heard of. Directly behind her stood a lanky cameraman, angling his hulking over-the-shoulder camera in my direction. The light beside the lens was blinking red and I groaned at the thought of them bothering athletes before they’d even had their morning coffee.
“Andie, I’m Sophie Boyle from Sky News—”
I smiled politely and held my hand up to cut her off. “I’m sorry, I’m not doing any interviews. Thank you.”
That didn’t stop her. My smile, however fake it was, only spurred her forward.
“Well off the record then: How do you know Frederick Archibald? Are you two friends?”
I angled my head, confused by her question.
“We have reports that say he showed up to watch your practice yesterday. The two of you were seen walking out of the stadium together afterward. Is that not true?”
The intrusive question and her thick British accent reminded me of Rita Skeeter, and the longer she stood there, the more annoyed I became. She was drawing attention to me; every table within a few yards was full of people staring in our direction. For what? Because a guy had watched my soccer practice?
“My love life is none of your business. Are you and your cameraman fucking in the news van?”
She reared back with wide eyes, clearly caught off guard by my brazen question.
“Exactly. It’s not fun to be pestered about your personal life.”
“That may be the case, but the world doesn’t care about Terry,” she said with an icy smile while pointing at the cameraman behind her. “They want to know about the person gallivanting around with the man who was once England’s most eligible bachelor.”