But there was, apparently.
And what was worse, Cameron Caldani had been right. I was not going to make it. Not even for the night.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cameron
“Reckless, stubborn woman,” I said, glancing out the window.
I made the effort to blink a few times, even took another sip of my coffee—French press, a terrible watery joke considering I was an espresso drinker—but I’d left my machine behind and clearly, my eyes had to be betraying me. Either that, or I’d been right all along.
I turned on my heels with one clear objective in mind—the door—but I heard Willow calling for me from the kitchen. Before coming to Green Oak, I would have assumed she was wondering why we weren’t having breakfast, but the incessant mewling and calling had nothing to do with food now. Unlike Pierogi, Willow had been bitching since the first box was packed back in L.A. Ever since arriving here, she’d been very clear about who was to blame for all the discomfort she was suffering. Me. So when I crossed the living room and found her poised on the kitchen counter, right next to the French press, I knew exactly what was coming next.
“Can you please give it a rest?” I asked one of my two cats. “I can only deal with one complicated, frustrating female at a time.”
She held my gaze in silence, then moved closer to the pot. Challenging me.
“Willow,” I warned. But her paw came out in response. “I swear to God, Willow. That coffee is no good, but if you make me—”
She mewled, interrupting me. As if telling me, I don’t care what you do or do not think. And sweet Jesus, a humorless laugh burst out of my mouth, because how was it possible that the cat I’d adopted years ago could remind me of a woman I’d known for less than a day?
That tiny but sneaky paw inched closer, sobering me right up. “Willow,” I said. Softly, this time, pleadingly. “I know you’re not happy here, but we all need to—”
Willow jumped off the counter and dashed into the hallway.
“Adapt,” I finished, my eyes focusing on the trail of mud she’d just left behind. I raised my voice. “And please, stop sneaking out of the house.”
Pierogi lifted his head from the arm of the couch, giving me a charitable look.
“Thanks, P,” I told her.
My phone pinged from the kitchen island. I grabbed it, a glance telling me who it was—Liam, my former agent—and what he wanted—something I didn’t have the energy to deal with.
So I locked the screen, slipped it into my pocket, and gave myself five seconds to regroup. Then, I stomped my way out of the house and onto the porch. I wasn’t going to fool myself, a large—and loud—part of me knew that I shouldn’t be involving myself in anything concerning that woman. I shouldn’t even be entertaining going to her. She knew who I was, and she’d almost blurted it out to the girls.
I’d gone through almost a month of anonymity. I went on my hikes, grabbed coffee from Josie’s Joint, reluctantly ran practice three times a week since the season had kicked off, and kept to myself. Coaching was already a stretch on what I had been looking for here. Peace and quiet. Silence. Nature. Nothing football—or soccer, I thought with an eyeroll—related. Yes, even after five years playing in L.A. I still felt a prickle when I had to call the sport I loved something other than football.
The arrival of that woman had muddled everything up. Adalyn Elisa Reyes was a major inconvenience and I should not be walking toward her car.
I should have been going in the opposite direction. Probably move away. To a different town.
I knew she’d bring only trouble with her suits and her heels and her plans to drive the team to its full potential or some bullshit I suspected would only bring attention I didn’t need or want.
And yet, I found myself crossing my yard and banging my fist on the window of her car.
Ignoring the sense of déjà vu, I waited for the woman curled up in the driver’s seat to react. Her head was once again against the window, and her lips were parted, but her expression was lax with sleep. My eyes betrayed me, dipping down her body and noticing how her arms hugged her bare legs. I cursed under my breath. She was wearing next to nothing. Just some flimsy silky sleep set that left very little to the imagination.
Something deep in my gut flared.
Was she mad? September was on the mild side in this area, but at night, temperatures could decrease at least twenty degrees. She could—
Ah, for fuck’s sake. I didn’t care whether this woman was cold or not.