Chapter 8 Harris
Harris
I spend the day nervously planning for my date with Lucy.
Planning.
Working out.
The day starts with me bailing on yoga. No way am I going to keep my cool twisted into baby poses with my mind spinning about Lucy coming over tonight.
So I plan some more.
By planning, I mean I race around the small town for hot chocolate and popcorn like a chicken with my head cut off. And even though I’ve only been here a few days, I clean the cabin to ensure there are no spiders in sight.
Yeah.
Productive stuff, I know.
Then, as if I’m not already losing my damn mind, I decide to join the team for one of those bonding activities in the lodge. You know, the kind where someone says, “This will bring us closer together,” but really it highlights how much we all secretly want to strangle each other.
Today’s activity? Would You Rather.
“Would you rather share a hotel room with Coach for an entire season or have him move into your house for a month?”
That gets everyone groaning.
“Do we actually have to talk to him in either scenario?” Elijah asks. “’Cause if so, I’m picking hotel room. At least I can leave during the day and I’m not a prisoner in my own damn house.”
“You think you’d survive him snoring all night?” a lineman named Smith shoots back. “I’ve heard he sounds like a chain saw.”
“Never mind, you’re right.” Elijah frowns. “My fucking house has six bedrooms.”
“Better than him seeing my place,” I say. “Can you imagine? Christ, he’d criticize everything about it. ‘Bennett, why do you have a pool table in your living room? Is this what you call discipline? What’s up with all your laundry?’ No, sir, that’s what I call my housekeeper having the day off.”
Everyone laughs except Coach, who grunts out his displeasure at being roasted. He has no sense of humor.
Then Miles, bless his twisted mind, offers up: “Would you rather accidentally text your ex ‘I miss you’ or post a shirtless selfie on social media with the caption ‘Who wants some of this?’”
They fall silent before Elijah mutters, “I think I’d move to another country if either of those things happened. Monica would post the screenshot on social media, and I’d never hear the end of it.”
Preach.
Being in the public eye isn’t for the faint of heart. We have to be careful who we’re sleeping with—and who we date. Fame is a double-edged sword.
By the time it’s my turn, the room is in full chaos. I go with something tame: “Would you rather have Coach read your private texts out loud to the team or have him write your dating profile?”
“Dude, that’s evil,” Smith says, shaking his head.
“Text messages,” Quinton says immediately. “I can live with public humiliation in group settings. What I can’t live with is Coach trying to convince women I’m a ‘hard worker’ who’s ‘dedicated to my craft.’” He uses air quotes.
“Right? He’d probably list early riser as one of my top qualities,” Elijah adds, rolling his eyes.
That brings on a whole new wave of arguments, but I can’t stop laughing. For the first time all day, I’m not stressing about Lucy or obsessing over what could go wrong tonight.
But now the game’s over, the cabin’s ready, and my nerves are creeping back in.
Me. Nervous?
What the fuck.
So unlike me.
I glance at my phone and see her latest text.
Lucy:
Be there in less than 10.
Less than ten minutes? Holy shit.
I bolt to the bathroom to check my reflection, and lean forward, baring my teeth. I ate some popcorn already—yeah, yeah, I cheated—and sure enough, there’s a sliver of kernel stuck between two of my teeth.
“Damn it,” I gripe, grabbing a toothpick, and chisel away at it.
Once my teeth are kernel-free, I step back to examine the rest of me. Santa pajama pants? Check. Terry Crews hoodie? Check. Hair? Not terrible. I swipe a hand through it anyway, just in case.
I glance around the bathroom, making sure there’s nothing embarrassing in plain sight. Toothpaste cap? On. Razor? Put away. The last thing I need is for her to walk in and see my stuff looking like a crime scene.
My phone buzzes again.
Lucy:
Pulling up now.
Double shit. That was fast.
I practically sprint to the living room, double-checking the popcorn, the hot chocolate setup, and the vintage movies stacked neatly on the coffee table. Home Alone, The Great Outdoors, Coming to America, and Jerry Maguire—it’s a solid lineup.
The crunch of gravel outside makes my heart do this weird double thump.
She’s here.
I pull open the door before she even has a chance to knock. And there she is—wearing a crewneck sweatshirt and sweatpants, her hair pulled into a messy bun. She looks good enough to eat, and when I catch a whiff of her, I suddenly want to have a taste.
Down, boy.
“Hey,” I say, forcing my voice to sound casual. “Come on in.”
“Wow.” Lucy steps inside, glancing around the cabin. “This is cozy. I’ve never actually been in one of these cottages.”
“Really? Never?” I ask, closing the door behind her. “You’ve been missing out. Want a quick tour?”
She raises an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “Isn’t it, like, one room?”
“Technically, it’s two,” I say, holding up the peace sign. “The living area and kitchen. But there’s also a bathroom and a small bedroom. Don’t underestimate the grandeur of this place. I’m digging it so far.”
“That’s because it’s decorated so damn cute.” Her gaze sweeps over the space, landing on the walls. “Look at this wallpaper—it’s fantastic.”
I glance at the wallpaper, a pattern that looks like it came straight out of the ’70s: pine cones and berries. A round wooden mirror hangs over a tiny table in the small space comprising the entrance. “Fantastic is one way to describe it.”
She laughs, running a hand over the back of the couch. “No, really, it’s cute.”
I lead her toward the tiny kitchen, which takes all of three steps to get to. “This is where the magic happens. By magic, I mean popcorn and hot chocolate.”
She leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Is that why you have a pot on the stove and marshmallows at the ready? You were really prepared for this, huh?”
“Always,” I say, smirking. I don’t disclose the fact that the only thing I’ve been thinking about today is her arrival. “The kitchen’s tiny, but efficient. And the fridge doesn’t smell weird, which is a win.”
“High standards,” she teases.
I motion toward a small door in the corner, then walk over and push it open so she can peer inside. “Voilà! Here we have the bathroom. Complete with a mirror, a toilet, and zero spiders. As promised.”
“You weren’t kidding about the rustic charm. Cute and cozy.”
“It’s home for the week.” I lean against the doorframe. “Does the trick.”
We head back to the living room and sink onto the couch; Lucy pulls her legs up under her and attempts to get comfortable.
“Welp. I’m officially in love with this place.” Her fingers stroke the throw blanket there. “Fun fact: Annabelle’s aunt and uncle own the lodge, and oddly, she and I never spent the night in any of the rooms. Or these cabins. But maybe I should suggest it for a staycation—this is too, too cute.”
“You’re welcome to hang out here as long as you like.”
She tilts her head, studying me. Ignores my suggestion with a shake of her head, smile fading as she glances at the coffee table. “All right, let’s see if your movie selection lives up to the hype.” She pulls out Coming to America and holds it up. “Let’s start with this one. It’s a classic.”
“Good choice,” I say, leaning back as she sets up the tape.
As the opening credits roll and she settles back onto the couch, I can’t help but glance at her out of the corner of my eye. Her messy bun is slightly lopsided, her hoodie sleeves are pushed up to her elbows, and she looks completely at ease.
And that’s when my brain begins with the There’s a girl in your house, dude. A female. And she smells good. Like vanilla and something faintly floral. How do girls do that? Smell like a delicious candle but also: sunshine?
I shift slightly, trying not to overthink it, but my brain’s having none of that. She’s sitting close enough that if you moved a few inches, your knee would touch hers.
Do it.
Touch your knee to her knee.
I shake my head and force my focus back on the screen. Eddie Murphy is talking, jokes are being made, and I’m trying my best to keep up.
But then she laughs—a soft, genuine laugh that pulls me right back out of the movie and straight into the fact that a sexy woman is beside me, all snuggled up, giggling at the TV.
One I have been horny for since the second I saw her.
“I can feel you looking at me,” she says, turning her head slightly but not fully looking at me.
My stomach drops, and I blink like a deer caught in headlights. “What? No. I wasn’t—”
“You totally were,” she cuts me off, meeting my gaze, lips twitching into a small smirk. “You’re a terrible liar.”
I grin. “You would think that would be a selling point.”
“Oh, yeah,” Lucy says. “Every woman’s dream: a man who can’t lie to save his life. Every now and again I appreciate being told I look gorgeous even when I know I look wretched.”
“You’re in luck, because I’m honest to a fault. And an open book. Practically a saint.”
I lay it on thick, grinning as I deliver the line. It pays off when a bubble of laughter rises in her throat, and she giggles again—this time at me, not the movie.
“A saint, huh?” she says, tilting her head to the side as her eyes narrow in mock suspicion. “Tell me more.”
“I’ve never stolen anything,” I say, pausing for dramatic effect. “Unless you count the fancy crayons I snagged from the grocery store when I was six. In my defense, I was racked with guilt by the time we hit the parking lot, and took them back.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “So, what you’re telling me is, your life of crime started and ended with a crayon theft?”
“Exactly. Clean slate ever since,” I reply, grinning. “I’m practically a model citizen.”
She picks up a piece of popcorn and tosses it at me, her smirk growing. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done in public?”
Let me count the ways:
Play football in front of thousands of people.
Give press conferences on live television.
Sprayed a bottle of champagne that cost $25,000 in a club during a New Year’s Eve celebration.
Had the king of England try on my Super Bowl ring, also on national television.
Ran naked through downtown Phoenix at three in the morning.
The list of crazy, fucked-up shit goes on and on.
“Uh. Let me think.” Hmm, what can I tell her without giving away details about my actual life? “I had sex in public when I was in college. Does that count?”
It was behind a fraternity house, and it was with a girl I was dating at the time, and I’m fairly certain the girl was trying to accidentally on purpose get pregnant.
Lucy rolls her eyes, unimpressed. “That’s your craziest? Sex outside? Come on—tell me something wild. Something stupid. Something that could get you arrested if the wrong person was watching.”
I smirk, leaning in slightly. “Arrested? Can’t say that I have been close to being arrested.”
She shrugs, tossing another piece of popcorn into her mouth. “I’m saying, everyone’s got a story.”
“All right, all right.” I go through the Rolodex in my brain and come up with something that might impress her. “There was this other time in college—we were at this big bonfire party, and someone dared me to climb up the scaffolding they were using to build the homecoming float.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “And you did it?”
“Of course I did it.” I snort, offended by the suggestion that I didn’t. “Made it all the way to the top before campus security showed up. I had to jump down and sprint into the woods to avoid getting caught.”
She shakes her head, her smile widening. “So, what you’re telling me is, you were an adrenaline junkie?”
“I prefer the term ‘adventurous,’” I say with a grin. “What about you? Any skeletons in your closet?”
She bites her lip, her smile turning mischievous. “Hmm. Well. When I was a teenager, I had this thing for stealing real estate signs out of people’s yards.”
“Real estate signs? Like the for sale ones?”
“Yep,” she says, popping the p with pride. “My friends and I thought it was hilarious to ‘rescue’ them from yards and stick them in our friends’ yards—you know, so anyone that drove by would think the house was for sale.”
“How many are we talking here?”
“Eh.” She waves a hand. “A dozen? In my friend Cara’s trunk.”
I let out a low whistle. “So . . . you had a stockpile of real estate signs?”
“Oh no,” she says, her grin widening. “We were driving down a one-way street and got busted by our friend’s neighbor. He called the cops because he thought we were out vandalizing—the cops showed up at my house, and that was the beginning and end of my crime spree.”
“The cops actually came to your house over for sale signs?”
“Yup, totally.” Lucy tosses a piece of popcorn into her mouth. “I answered the door, and there they were—two officers to chew my teenage ass out. My mom was so seriously pissed. I mean—everyone in town knows everyone.”
I am hanging on her every word. “What happened? Did they arrest you?”
“No. I was seventeen and had barely gotten my license.” She says it with a smile, as if fondly recalling the memories.
“We had to return the signs and apologize to the man who called the police on us. Do you have any idea how awkward it is to knock on someone’s door to apologize for a crime that hadn’t yet been committed? ”
“Young and dumb?”
“Exactly.”
The room falls quiet as I think of something more to say; the sounds of the movie fill the space between us. I glance at her, the corner of my mouth quirking up as an idea strikes.
“Want me to rub your feet?”
She narrows her eyes at me, suspicious. “You’re offering a foot rub. Voluntarily.”
I nod solemnly. “I’m an excellent multitasker. I can watch the movie and pamper you at the same time.”
She snorts. “Pamper me?”
I hold up my palms so she can see them. “I have big, strong, capable hands. It would be a shame not to share them with the world.”
She laughs, tossing a piece of popcorn at me.
I wiggle my fingers at her. “Come on, hand ’em over.”
She bites her lip, clearly debating. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, she props her feet up in my lap. “Fine. But just so you know—if this is some elaborate scheme to tickle me, I will end you.”