By the time my classes are over and lunch rolls around, I’m less fuzzy but tired from pretending. I said the right things in class. I took up homework and gave assignments.
I’m on autopilot. Maybe the kids know. I noticed the questioning, almost careful looks they sent me.
I try to shake it off as I walk to the vaping closet, but Sonia and Skeeter stand in the back, fingers laced together as they kiss.
I exit quickly, then pass the lounge, my silver stilettos clicking.
I do not want to see Melinda’s “I told you so” face.
Remembering that my satchel is in the field house, I focus on getting there. That’s it. It will be nice and quiet, and I can gather myself before Skeeter and the players show up.
With hands that slightly shake, I put the key in the lock and open his door. The phone is eerily silent. I glance around for my satchel but don’t see it. Frowning, I ease into the closet.
Once there, oh fuck, I’m lost.
The entire space smells like him.
I touch his dress shirts, sliding my fingers over the fabric, then move to the practice polos. I go back through them, picking my favorites, taking shirts off the hangers, and then tossing them on the floor. I find the maroon shirt he wore Friday night on the table. I rub it through my hands as I picture him running down the sideline, yelling for his team.
He is magnificent. A king.
A beast.
A sexy, beautiful lover.
Generous. Funny. Crazy smart.
I want him to be happy. I do, I do, but . . .
My chest hurts, and I wonder if it’s possible for a heart to break for real. A pained sound comes from my throat, and I plop down to the floor among his shirts. I lie back on top of them, arms spread, my vision blurring with wetness.
The fog in my head, the exhaustion. Depression. That’s what this is. It’s okay. Totally fine. I’ll get over it. Right?
I pick up his pale-blue dress shirt, the one that matches his eyes, and push my face into it, inhaling a deep breath. God. I’ve lost it. This level of hurt can’t be normal— The office door creaks open, and I jerk up to sitting, swiping my face as I wonder who’s here.
“Nova?”
My breath hitches. “Ronan?”
“Are you in the closet?”
I stumble up, wobbling on my heels. “Don’t come in here!”
He opens the door and blinks at me as I cling to the table. God, he looks amazing—okay, maybe a little tired and haggard. There’re shadows under his eyes, and his hair is everywhere, messy pretty, accentuating his sharp jawline.
“What are you doing here?” My eyes eat him up, from the deep-blue shirt to his snug gray slacks.
I glance down. My blouse became untucked on the floor, my skirt is askew, and my hair spills out of my rubber band.
He steps inside. “Are you rolling around in my clothes?”
“No. Yes. For a second. Low blood sugar probably.”
His lips twitch.
“Don’t you say a word! I was just . . .” I sigh. “Sniffing shirts and plotting which ones to steal.”
“I’d like to see you wearing them.”
My hands clench. “You haven’t called or texted or—”
He comes forward and sweeps me up into his arms, bridal-style.
I squeal. “What are you doing?”
His eyes capture mine. “I missed you.”
My lips tremble. “I didn’t miss you.”
“Liar. I’ve been looking for you. The lounge, the closets, your room . . .”
“I wanted to be alone.”
“With my shirts?”
I exhale, trying to ignore him, but it’s hard with the adoring looks he’s giving me.
Without letting me down, he strides out of the closet, somehow manages to lock the office door, and then sits down on a small couch.
I wiggle and rearrange myself, straddling him near his knees, not caring that my skirt is up to my hips.
He lets out a long exhale. “We need to talk. First, I turned down the job.”
My mouth parts, and I slap him on the arm. “What? Why? That was what you wanted!”
A wry expression crosses his face. “A person can want something at one point in their life, then want something entirely different later, especially after they’ve realized what’s important.”
My heart flies, hope fluttering inside me that he’s not leaving, but . . . “Use real words.”
He chuckles as his fingers graze over my cheek and down to my throat. His hand rests at the base of my neck. “Where’s my necklace?”
I sniff. “I forgot it this morning.”