Dark, straight brows frame his chiseled face, and his wet hair is slicked back. When it’s dry, it’s a mink-brown color, chin length, and wavy.
Someone—a pretty girl, twentyish—comes up between us, thank God, says something cutesy, and puts a glass of iced tea in his hands, and he murmurs a low “Thank you.” I use the time to gather myself as the girl chats him up. He never takes his gaze off me, though, the lines around his eyes tightening in a way that tells me he’s clocked me—he remembers.
An arc of electricity hums over my skin, and my breath quickens.
How is it possible that he’s here?
He doesn’t fit. I always pictured him still in New York, maybe in that penthouse room at the Mercer Hotel, lying on his stomach, his lips parted as he breathed the sleep of someone who’d had too much to drink. The top sheet was tangled around one of his legs, his bare ass taut and firm. One arm hung off the bed, the other curled under a pillow. He never stirred when I gathered my clothes and slipped out the door in the early hours of the morning. I ran through the hotel, and it wasn’t until I got in the cab that I let the tears fall. What I’d thought was special . . . wasn’t.
I used to gaze at his billboard in Times Square on my way to work. You’d see professional players hawking cologne or underwear or sneakers, but nope, his thing was literacy. TRANSPORT YOURSELF WITH READING. He sat on the steps of the New York Library with a book in his hands and a wide smile on his Henry Cavill face. It made my heart flutter.
He drapes his gaze over me, one that hints at keen intelligence. He lingers on my faded shirt, scans my joggers and black Converse, and then moves slowly back up to my face. He takes a sip of his drink, slow and easy. “You all right?”
Hell no.
I expected some mediocre ex-baller, and it’s him.
I open my mouth to say—
Miss Texas slyly eases the other girl vying for Ronan’s attention out of the way, then juts between me and him, a plate of chips and dip in her hands as she offers it to him. At my feet, Sparky, a great predictor of nice people, hisses, breaks my hold on his leash, and lunges for Miss Texas.
She shrieks as she drops the plate, and it shatters. Sparky screeches, darts between her legs, pauses for a moment to swipe at the flowy leg of her pantsuit, gets his claw stuck in the fabric, fights to release it, and then roars triumphantly when he gets free.
Back arched, he runs and hisses the entire way out the back door.
I have the insane urge to laugh but stifle it as I dash out the french doors to the open pool area, my head tumbling with thorny thoughts. Oh my God, I never would have come if I’d known it was him. Should have listened to Mrs. Meadows! I rub my forehead in disgust. Mrs. Meadows never said his first name, and since I haven’t kept up with the local gossip, I came in clueless. Brought a knife to a gunfight, as Mama used to say. Of course, she never told me about the new coach. She knew I was wary about our hometown team and the memories it brought.
I heave out a deep, weighted sigh. Holy . . . he’s been here for a year! Sure, I came home periodically to see Mama and Sabine, but things were usually hectic . . . and he was just next door. At Christmas I noticed that someone had renovated the house, and when I asked Mama about it, her reply was A Mr. Smith from out of town. Such a common name.
You’d think someone might have mentioned the coach while I’ve been here, and maybe they did, but my mind has been a hazy cloud. Yesterday, I stared at a can of green beans for ten minutes at the Piggly Wiggly.
I make for a group of chaise lounges under a pergola where I see the end of Sparky’s leash. I bend down and scoop him up and tap him on the nose, a reprimand for hissing. His eyes say, Miss Texas is a bitch, and I tell him that we don’t call women those names and that we’ll discuss it later.
“Hey, Nova!” calls a male voice, and I glance over my shoulder. I’d know that handsome square face and wavy auburn hair anywhere. Wearing jeans and a maroon Bobcats polo is Bruce Hamilton, a.k.a. Skeeter because he moved like a mosquito on the field. Relief rolls over me.
“Heard you were in town,” he says in a slow drawl.
“Yep.” I glance behind me. Ronan hasn’t come out. Maybe he’s organizing a cleanup of chips and guac in the kitchen. Maybe Mrs. Meadows is running interference. I ease back into a slice of a shadow created by the purple wisteria vines that drape from the top of the pergola.
Skeeter follows. “How are you?”
“Great!” I say brightly. Terrible! I really want to get out of here!
“I heard you came back. I can’t believe you’re staying.”