Chapter 17: The Conspiracy
The rhythmic rush of the shower echoed down the hallway, a steady counterpoint to the gurgle of the high-end espresso machine. Joe leaned against the cool marble kitchen counter, the panoramic city view outside a blur. He nursed a mug of lemon chamomile tea, the steam warming his face, but his focus was entirely on Liv Mancini. She stood opposite him, meticulously tamping grounds into the portafilter, her expression unreadable.
He watched her for a long moment, the silence stretching taut. The scent of dark roast mingled with the faint, clean humidity drifting from the bathroom. Finally, he broke it, his voice low, pitched just above the sounds of water and machine. "Liv."
She didn't look up. "Mmhmm?"
"I'm proposing. In Utah."
Her hands stilled for a fraction of a second. Then she smoothly locked the portafilter into the machine. The powerful hiss of steam erupted, filling the brief silence. She pressed the button, the rich brown liquid streaming into a tiny porcelain cup. Only when she picked up the finished espresso and took a sip, the dark liquid swirling, did she meet his eyes. Her gaze was sharp, assessing, but a tiny, almost imperceptible smile played at the corner of her lips. "Sunrise over Bryce Canyon, I assume? Very cinematic, Burrow. Predictable, but cinematic."
Joe ignored the jab, his own nerves translating into restless energy. He tapped a knuckle against the countertop. "Need your help."
Liv raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "With the proposal speech? Didn't think you needed coaching on confidence."
"With the ring," he clarified, his voice dropping even lower. He glanced towards the hallway, ensuring the shower was still running. "Something… perfect. Not flashy. Doesn't yell 'quarterback paycheck'. But…" He struggled for the right words, his usual eloquence deserting him. "It needs to feel like her. Like… forever. Solid. Beautiful. Without scaring her."
Liv picked up the espresso, taking a slow, deliberate sip. Her dark eyes held his over the rim of the cup. She lowered it. "Hmm. Tasteful. Meaningful. No gaudy rocks." She pulled her phone from the pocket of her tailored trousers, her thumbs flying over the screen. "I know just the guy in LA. Old world craftsman. Does incredible work with vintage stones, unique settings. Discretion guaranteed." She fired off a text, the soft ping of the sent message cutting through the coffee-scented air. She looked back at Joe, a glint of dry amusement in her eyes. "You do realize, of course, that her father is absolutely going to murder you if the center stone is under three carats? Especially if he finds out you took her to bed before putting a ring on it. He may not be a member but Whitney’s told me about her family. Utah values, Burrow. Big rings and bigger expectations."
A genuine grin spread across Joe's face, momentarily eclipsing the tension. He pushed off the counter and walked to the sleek sub-zero fridge. He pulled out a protein bar, the crinkling wrapper loud in the quiet kitchen. He tossed it underhand towards Liv. She caught it effortlessly, one-handed.
"That's why," he said, the grin turning slightly mischievous, "you're coming with us."
Liv stared at the protein bar in her hand, then back at him, incredulity replacing the amusement. "Me? To rural Utah? As what? Your hype man?"
"Human shield," Joe corrected, popping the tab on a can of sparkling water. The sharp hiss punctuated his words. "Specifically, David-interrogation shield. And mom-charm-offensive reinforcement. Plus," he added, taking a swig, "you can be the official 'distract Whitney while I find the perfect moment' coordinator. You're good at orchestrating chaos."
Liv snorted, unwrapping the protein bar with deliberate slowness. She took a small, disdainful bite. "Charming. So, my role is to absorb paternal suspicion, schmooze the stepdad, and act as your engagement spotter? All while navigating small-town dynamics I find inherently baffling?" She chewed thoughtfully. "My rates just doubled."
"Triple your usual retainer for the weekend," Joe countered immediately, leaning back against the counter again. His gaze flickered towards the hallway. The shower had stopped. "Deal?"
Liv sighed dramatically, crumpling the wrapper. "Fine. But if her brother pulls out a shotgun, I'm diving behind you." She pointed the half-eaten bar at him. "And I get veto power on the ring. If it looks like something a Kardashian would reject for being too loud, we start over."
"Deal," Joe repeated, relief softening his features. He pushed away from the counter just as the bathroom door clicked open.
Whitney emerged, enveloped in a cloud of citrus-scented steam. She was wrapped in one of Joe's plush white towels, turban-style on her head, and dressed in a comfy sweater advertising ‘Lagoon’ and tight leggings showing the outline of her garments underneath. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the heat, droplets of water clinging to her forehead and collarbones. She looked soft, rumpled, and incredibly real against the kitchen's sharp modernity. The lingering hum of the night before seemed to cling to her, visible in the slight drowsiness of her smile and the way her bare feet padded silently on the cool tile.
"Morning," she said, her voice husky with sleep and steam. She padded towards the coffee machine, drawn like a magnet. "Smells amazing." She glanced between them, sensing the focused energy. "Everything okay?"
"Perfect," Joe said, closing the distance between them in two strides. He didn't hesitate, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close, pressing a kiss to her temple. The towel turban bumped against his chin. "Just discussing offseason logistics with the boss." He nodded towards Liv.
Liv gave Whitney a warm, genuine smile that transformed her sharp features. "Morning, sunshine. Sleep well after the whirlwind?" She expertly navigated the espresso machine, starting another lemon chamomile tea for Whitney. "Joe was just trying to convince me that Utah in winter is a delightful vacation destination."
Whitney leaned into Joe's side, accepting the contact easily. "It is," she insisted, reaching for the mug Liv offered. "Bryce Canyon with snow? It's magical. Like another planet. And Mom’s promised to make her famous chicken and dumplings." She took a grateful sip of the smooth citrus tea. "Liv, you should totally come! Seriously. It’d be fun. Show you the real America." She grinned.
Liv slid a glance towards Joe, her expression perfectly neutral except for the faintest gleam of triumph in her eyes. "Well," she said smoothly, leaning back against the counter opposite them, "since Joe’s twisting my arm and promising triple my fee..."
Whitney choked slightly on her coffee, laughing. "Triple? For visiting Utah?"
"Expense of enduring rural charm," Liv deadpanned. "But yes. Consider me your Utah wrangler. Someone needs to ensure this city boy doesn't get lost in a slot canyon or offend the local wildlife."
Joe squeezed Whitney’s shoulder, his thumb rubbing a small circle on her damp skin. "See? Logistics handled. Utah, late February. Liv’s in. Then Oregon chaos in July."
"July," Whitney sighed, a happy, almost dreamy expression settling on her face. She nestled closer to Joe. "Cannon Beach with the whole Roberts-Ruddick circus. Bonfires, bad karaoke, my stepmom Brenda trying to set everyone up... you're gonna need that human shield then too, Joe." She laughed, unaware of Liv's knowing smirk. "Dad alone will grill you about your retirement plans and whether you can build a proper fire."
Joe’s arm tightened almost imperceptibly around her. He met Liv’s gaze over Whitney’s towel-covered head. His expression was calm, but Liv saw the flicker of determined anticipation in his eyes – a quarterback surveying the field before the final drive. "Bring it on," he said, his voice steady, but holding a quiet intensity that resonated deeper than just the impending family interrogation. It was the sound of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and was already moving the pieces into place to secure it. "Looking forward to the grilling. And the bonfires. All of it."
Liv raised her espresso cup in a tiny, silent salute, her message clear: Game on, Burrow. She finished the dregs. "Right. I’ve got a jeweler in LA expecting a life-or-death call." She pushed off the counter, grabbing her sleek leather briefcase from a stool. "Whitney, lovely as always. Joe… don’t blow up the house. Or your toe." She headed for the foyer, her heels clicking decisively on the tile. "I’ll send you the flight options for Utah later. Try not to elope before I get there to supervise."
The door clicked shut behind her. The expansive kitchen suddenly felt quieter, filled only with the lingering scent of coffee, citrus steam, and the quiet hum of the city below. Whitney turned fully in Joe's arms, looking up at him, her eyes bright and trusting. "She really likes you, you know. Underneath all the agent bluster."
Joe brushed a damp tendril of hair that had escaped the towel back from her forehead. His gaze held hers, warm and deep. "She likes you," he corrected softly. "Enough to brave Utah for you. And," he added, his thumb tracing her cheekbone, the unspoken promise hanging heavy between them, "maybe to help me pick out a ring."
Outside, the city stretched towards the horizon. Joe Burrow, star quarterback, had his play called. The ring was in motion. Utah awaited. And the biggest play of his life, the one far removed from touchdowns and trophies, was quietly, irrevocably, underway.
The lingering scent of Liv’s espresso mixed with Whitney’s clean, citrus steam as the penthouse kitchen settled into a quieter intimacy. Joe kept his arm loosely draped around Whitney’s shoulders, his thumb tracing idle patterns on the damp terrycloth covering her upper arm. He watched her sip the lemon chamomile tea, the early morning light catching the faint freckles across her nose. Her contentment was palpable, a warm hum against his side. He took a slow breath, the Utah plan and the ring conversation with Liv solidifying his next move.
"You know," he began, his voice casual, almost lazy, "talking about Oregon and the whole clan... we should probably give your dad and Brenda a heads-up about the trip dates. Make sure we’re synced before Liv books flights." He squeezed her shoulder gently. "Avoid any accidental overlapping chaos. Brenda sounds like she runs a tight ship."
Whitney nodded, swallowing a sip of tea. "Oh, totally. Dad mentioned finalizing their flights just yesterday. Brenda’s obsessed with spreadsheets, it’s terrifying how similar we are." She wrinkled her nose fondly. "You sure you’re ready for this level of coordination? It’s intense."
"Ready as I'll ever be," Joe chuckled, a spark of determination quickening his pulse. He shifted slightly, angling his body towards her while keeping his touch light. "Why don’t we call them now? Quick check-in? It’s still early enough in Florida, right? Coffee time for them, tea time for you?"
Whitney glanced down at her towel, then at her phone sitting innocently on the counter next to the half-eaten sandwich. "Um, maybe I should finish getting ready first? Calling Dad while my hair is wrapped like a burrito might raise questions."
"Nah," Joe countered smoothly, already reaching past her to snag her phone. "He’ll just think you’re being efficient. Multitasking. Show him the house’s view while you’re at it." He held the phone out, unlocking it with her passcode – she’d trusted him with it weeks ago. "Facetime? Liv mentioned Brenda likes seeing faces."
Whitney hesitated for only a second, then shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips. "Okay, okay. Efficiency wins. But if Brenda comments on my hair, I’m blaming you." She took the phone, pulling up her dad’s contact. Joe moved to stand just behind her shoulder, ostensibly admiring the view over her head as she initiated the call.
The screen flickered, then resolved into the sunny, slightly cluttered kitchen of Cris and Brenda’s Florida home. Cris, Whitney’s dad, looked up from a newspaper, his salt-and-pepper beard neatly trimmed. Brenda, vibrant and smiling, leaned into frame holding a steaming mug. "Whitney! Honey!" Brenda chirped. "And Joe! To what do we owe this lovely morning surprise?" Cris offered a warm, slightly more reserved smile. "Good morning, you two."
Whitney launched into explaining their Oregon trip planning, gesturing vaguely with her free hand while keeping the phone steady. Joe listened attentively, nodding at the right moments, his body relaxed. As Whitney described the potential dates for July, emphasizing the bonfires and Brenda’s legendary potato salad, Joe saw his opening. Cris leaned forward, asking a clarifying question about flight times. Whitney turned her head slightly towards Joe, seeking confirmation on Liv’s involvement.
"Absolutely, Liv’s our wrangler," Joe confirmed, his voice warm. He subtly shifted his weight. "Whit, can I just show them a calendar? For reference?" He held out his hand, palm up, an innocent request.
"Sure," Whitney said automatically, distracted by her dad’s next question about hiking trails suitable for a recovering toe. She placed her phone confidently into Joe’s waiting hand.
The moment the cool plastic hit his palm, Joe pivoted. He stepped back swiftly, putting the granite kitchen island between himself and Whitney’s startled lunge. He raised the phone, keeping Cris and Brenda’s suddenly curious faces centered on the screen. Whitney gasped. "Joe! What are you— Give that back!"
Ignoring her half-laughing, half-indignant protest, Joe locked eyes with the couple on the screen. His usual game-day focus sharpened his features. "Mr. Roberts, Brenda," he began, his voice dropping into a lower, utterly serious register that instantly silenced Whitney’s squawk. "Apologies for the ambush, but I needed a moment without my lovely interference here." He gestured vaguely towards Whitney, who was frozen, eyes wide, one hand clutching her towel.
He took a deep breath. "I love your daughter. Deeply. More than anything off a football field." He met Cris’s steady gaze head-on, seeing the instant understanding flicker there. "I intend to ask her to marry me. Soon. In Utah, with her mom and David nearby." He paused, the silence stretching taut over the miles. "I would be honored to have your blessing."
Whitney made a choked sound, her hands flying to her mouth. On screen, Brenda’s eyes shimmered instantly, one hand clutching Cris’s forearm. Cris remained still, studying Joe through the digital connection, his expression unreadable for a heart-stopping few seconds. Then, a slow, deep smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He nodded once, firmly. "You have it, son. Wholeheartedly."
Brenda beamed, swiping at a happy tear. "Oh, Joe! Yes! Of course! We’re thrilled!" Her voice wobbled slightly. "But just you wait until July, Mister Big Shot Quarterback." Her smile turned playful but held an edge. "We will grill you relentlessly. Fair warning. And my mother? And Cris’s mom? Honey, they make me look easygoing. They’ve been sharpening their questions since Whitney was twelve."
Joe laughed, the tension dissolving into pure relief and joy. "Understood. Bring on the grandmas. I’ll study." He glanced towards Whitney, who was staring at him, tears welling in her own eyes, a complex mix of shock, overwhelming emotion, and dawning realization playing across her face. "And I promise to send you a picture of the ring the moment I have it. Liv’s helping."
"Make it a good one!" Brenda called out, laughing now. "No pressure!"
Whitney finally found her voice, a breathless mix of laughter and tears. "You... you stole my phone! To ask for my hand? Like some Regency romance novel?!" She lunged around the island, reaching for the device.
Joe easily held it aloft, grinning unrepentantly. "Worked, didn't it?" He angled the screen back towards her parents. "See you both in July. With reinforcements." He quickly handed the phone back before Whitney could tackle him. "Your turn for damage control."
Whitney snatched the phone, her face flushed crimson but radiant. She spent the next few minutes laughing and crying with her dad and Brenda, fielding their excited questions and playful threats while Joe leaned against the counter, watching her, a profound sense of rightness settling over him. The promise of Utah, the ring, the future – it all crystallized.
As the call finally ended, Whitney placed the phone carefully back on the counter. She turned to Joe, her eyes shining, her expression a mixture of awe and lingering disbelief. She took a step towards him. "Joseph Burrow," she whispered, shaking her head. "You are something else."
He met her halfway, pulling her into his arms, towel and all. He buried his face in the damp warmth of her neck, breathing her in – citrus, chamomile, and pure Whitney. "Had to be sure," he murmured against her skin. "Couldn’t risk Utah without knowing."
They stood like that for a long moment, the silence comfortable now, filled with the enormity of what had just happened. Joe pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, his hands settling firmly on her hips. The city sprawled behind him, vast and impersonal, but here, in this kitchen, the world felt small and intensely personal. "Whit," he said, his voice low and earnest, holding her gaze. "With Utah happening... and Oregon... and... everything after..." He paused, searching for the right words, avoiding the cliches he knew she’d see through. "This place," he gestured around the spacious penthouse, "it’s big. Too big for just me rattling around, rehabbing this stupid toe." He tightened his grip slightly. "Move in with me. Before Utah. Make this..." He glanced towards the bedroom hallway, then back to her, his eyes holding a promise deeper than words. "...our home base. Properly."
He saw the surprise flicker in her eyes, followed by a wave of uncertainty. He anticipated it. "No funny business," he added quickly, his voice firm, sincere. "Not like that. Separate rooms, if you want. Your own space, totally. Just... be here. With me. Wake up with that view." He nodded towards the skyline. "Do lesson planning at that desk. Fill the fridge with things that aren't just protein bars and electrolyte mix." A small, hopeful smile touched his lips. "Let me come home to you, not just an empty mansion."
The silence stretched. Whitney searched his face, the reality of his proposal, the stolen phone call, and now this – it was a tidal wave. The sweater suddenly felt like flimsy armor against the vulnerability in his eyes, the sheer magnitude of the step he was asking her to take. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the quiet hum of the refrigerator. She opened her mouth, closed it, then finally whispered, "Joe... I..."i
Whitney’s words dissolved into the quiet kitchen air. The damp sweater pressed between them felt suddenly thin, fragile. Joe’s hands remained firm on her hips, grounding her even as the room seemed to tilt. His gaze held hers, intense, patient, stripped of the quarterback’s usual easy confidence, revealing raw vulnerability beneath. The panoramic city view blurred into insignificance behind him.
"I..." she tried again, her voice barely a rasp. The enormity coiled around her chest—the stolen phone blessing, the impending Utah proposal Liv was now orchestrating, this massive leap into his gleaming, unfamiliar world. Fear, pure and cold, prickled down her spine. Losing herself. Becoming just "Joe Burrow’s fiancé" instead of Whitney Roberts, teacher-to-be. Her tiny dorm room stacked with lesson plans, her quiet routines… gone.
Joe’s thumb brushed a slow arc over her hipbone, just above her leggings. His touch was deliberate, anchoring. "I know it’s fast," he murmured, his voice low, rough at the edges. "Scary fast. Feels like audibling at the line with no huddle, right?" A ghost of his usual grin flickered, tentative. "But Whit…" He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching hers. His breath warmed her lips. "I’m not asking you to stop being you. I’m asking you to be you, right here. Fill this stupidly big space with your books, your laugh, that weird ceramic owl you love." He paused, searching her eyes. "Let me see you planning lessons at our desk. Let me cook you something that isn’t microwaved. Come home to you after practice, not just… echoes."
The fear didn’t vanish. It tangled with the fierce warmth blooming in her chest, the memory of his low voice asking her father for her hand, the image of Liv texting a jeweler. Her independence warred with the bone-deep yearning for connection, for him. "The commute…" she whispered, a last practical foothold. "From here to campus is…"
"Double the time," he countered instantly, relief softening the tension in his jaw. "I’ve got that covered, a car service already cleared for you. Or use the Audi. Whatever." He squeezed her hips gently. "Your own room. Lock on the door. Sacred space. I swear it." His gaze intensified. "This isn't about pushing. It's about... proximity. Belonging."
She looked past him, through the vast windows. The morning sun glinted off distant skyscrapers. Cincinnati sprawled, anonymous, indifferent. Here, with his hands warm on her, his heart beating steady against hers, the mansion felt less like a fortress and more like… potential. A shared starting line. Her own space within his world. Her independence wouldn't vanish; it could bloom differently, braver. She thought of her mom’s likely shriek of delight, David’s bear hug, the ring Liv was hunting for, the Utah dawn where everything might change. The weight of "no" felt heavier than the leap of "yes."
A shaky breath escaped her. A tiny, incredulous laugh bubbled up, chasing away the last shard of panic. She met his eyes again, the warmth flooding her completely now, fierce and undeniable. Her hands lifted, framing his stubbled jaw. The damp towel covering her hair slipped a fraction, forgotten. "Okay," she breathed, the word solid, sure. "Yes."
Joe’s eyes widened fractionally. A breath he hadn't realized he was holding rushed out. His arms snapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him, sweater and leggings and all. He buried his face in the damp, citrus-scented crook of her neck, his shoulders shaking with a silent, relieved laugh. "Thank you," he mumbled against her skin, the words thick with emotion. He pulled back just enough to capture her lips in a kiss that wasn't tentative or reverent anymore—it was pure, unadulterated joy. Possessive. Triumphant. Home.
He broke the kiss, his grin wide, brilliant, lighting up his whole face. Before she could react, he bent, slid one arm under her knees, the other securely behind her back. He lifted her effortlessly off her feet, spinning her in a slow circle right there in the gleaming kitchen. Whitney shrieked, clutching his shoulders, laughing breathlessly. The city view whirled around them.
He stopped spinning, holding her aloft, her face level with his. His eyes shone. "Our place," he declared, the words resonating with finality. He pressed another quick, hard kiss to her lips. "Starting now." He adjusted his grip, cradling her securely against his chest, her legs dangling. Without another word, he turned and carried her, not back towards the bedroom, but purposefully down the wide hallway towards the spare room he’d mentioned—the one that would soon hold her books, her owl, her independence, woven into the fabric of their life. The sound of his steady footsteps on the hardwood echoed his certainty, carrying them forward into the bright, uncharted morning.