Chapter 12 Harris
Harris
Is there any realm of possibility where you want to spend the night with me?
I’m in the bathroom again, taking a piss, practicing the line because Lucy isn’t a normal woman—she’s complicated. Not easily swayed. And cool as fuck.
I have to wonder: If she knew who I was—one of the douchey football players that’s invaded the town—would she be tripping all over herself to get in my pants?
Probably not.
Lucy’s not the type. She’s too sharp for that, too good at calling out bullshit. She’s the kind of woman who wouldn’t let a guy like me coast by on charm alone—not without putting up one hell of a fight.
And honestly? That’s part of her appeal.
I flush, wash my hands, and catch my reflection in the mirror.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, leaning in closer. “What the hell is going on here?”
My hair’s a mess, sticking up in every direction from where I’ve raked my fingers through it a hundred times tonight. There’s a spot of marinara sauce on the collar of my T-shirt from the pizza, and my jawline’s beginning to show signs of a five-o’clock shadow.
Basically, I look like a guy who stress-cleaned his entire cottage for a woman and played a bonding game with his teammates.
“What am I fucking doing?” I slap the countertop for emphasis.
Leaning forward, I brace my hands on the sink, staring myself down. “You’ve got this, Bennett. She likes you—probably. Or she hates you. Either way, you’re not going to find out by hiding in the damn bathroom.”
What the hell am I saying? Why am I talking to myself?
“Get it together, Bennett,” I growl at myself, jabbing a finger at my reflection.
“You’re a professional athlete. You’ve been tackled by grown men weighing three hundred pounds.
You’ve faced down players who wanted to kill you.
And now you’re hiding in the bathroom because you’re too chicken to ask a woman to spend the night? ”
My reflection doesn’t answer, which is so rude.
I swipe at my face with a towel and square my shoulders.
“All right. You’re doing this. You’ve got this. Don’t be weird. Ask her to stay the night. No pressure, no expectations—a casual, totally cool suggestion from one adult to another. You’ve got this.”
I give myself a thumbs-up.
“And for the love of God,” I add, pointing one last time. “Stop talking to yourself like a lunatic. She can probably hear you.”
With that final pep talk, I push the door open.
Lucy is curled up on the couch like she owns the place. Her hoodie is pulled up around her shoulders snugly, her legs tucked under her, and she’s scrolling mindlessly through her phone with the kind of focus that tells me she hasn’t sensed me standing here yet.
No big deal.
“Hey.” I step into the living room. “Did you miss me?”
She glances up. “Oh, hey you. Did you leave the room? I didn’t notice.”
Her eyes are twinkling.
My shoulders relax.
The clock on the wall ticks loudly, despite the television being on, each second dragging by.
“Ouch. Brutal.” I flop down on the couch next to her, keeping a careful amount of space between us—though it kills me not to lean in closer. “And here I thought we were bonding.”
“We were.” She sets her phone down on the armrest, tilting her head. “You ruined it by leaving for an entire ten minutes.”
Oh shit—so she is aware how long I was fucking around in the bathroom.
Awkward.
“What were you doing in there for so long anyway? Talking to yourself? Staring at your reflection?”
She’s teasing, but my ears burn regardless.
“What? Pfft. No. Who talks to themselves in the mirror?”
“Uh-huh.” Her smile widens. “Sure you weren’t.”
I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Fine. Maybe I was—hypothetically—mentally preparing for something. Is that a crime?”
“Depends.” She leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “What were you mentally preparing for?”
Her eyes are too sharp, too curious, and it throws me off balance. I glance at the TV for a second, pretending to be engrossed in the movie.
I take a breath and say it. “I was gonna suggest you stay over. If you want.”
Lucy blinks, caught off guard. “Stay over?”
“Well, if you’re not too traumatized, there’s always the chance for an encore.” I clear my throat, scratching the back of my neck. “You could stay. Tonight.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, her phone lowering slightly. “What?”
“You heard me.” I meet her gaze, praying I don’t look as nervous as I feel. “You don’t have to, obviously. But if you’re comfortable—and if you want to—I’d like it if you stayed.”
The words hang there, and for a split second, I swear I see her cheeks flush.
Her mouth opens. Closes.
For once, Lucy—the woman who always has a comeback—is speechless.
I realize, in that moment, that I’m completely screwed. And that’s when the nerves creep in.
“Or, you know—forget I said anything,” I add quickly, trying to sound casual as my heart pounds like a damn jackhammer. “It’s totally fine if you need to go. I thought—”
Then I do what I do best: double down.
“I mean, I can think of a lot worse ways to spend a night.” I sound like a douchebag. “You. Me. No interruptions.”
She arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Interruptions like sleep?”
Exactly.
“I’m not sure if I’m allowed to fraternize with the lumberjack hired help—Annabelle has no idea I’m here. She may want you in bed early so you can be at the lake, practicing.”
“Fuck practicing. I’m a professional. She has no faith whatsoever in my logrolling abilities.” I pause. “The good news is, now she also has me chopping wood.”
My date considers this new information. “Are they giving out participation trophies, too, or is the pile of logs supposed to be your reward?”
I narrow my eyes. “Awards? Don’t get me excited—I love those.
” Especially the shiny trophy they give you after a Super Bowl win.
I stretch out, draping my arm casually over the back of the couch.
“The way I see it, chopping wood is an art form. One swing for a split down the middle. Takes patience,” I boast. “Precision.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Patience? Precision? Wow.”
I fake a wounded look, pressing a hand to my chest. “You think I don’t have it in me?”
I keep reminding myself that we haven’t met before this week and she doesn’t know what I do for a living.
Which suits me fine.
Nothing has been more entertaining than pretending to be a fucking lumberjack, of all things.
“Oh, I think you’ve got a lot in you.” Her voice is smooth, a touch teasing, and the way she leans forward slightly makes my heart thump louder than it should. “But patience? That’s not the first thing I’d associate with you.”
“What do you see when you look at me?” Curious minds want to know.
She studies me for a few quiet moments before saying “I see someone who can’t take himself seriously for more than two seconds.”
She wounds me.
For real.
It’s like she doesn’t know me at all! If only she knew what it took to win a Bowl game. Or get drafted.
So rude . . .
My butthole stings, if I’m being honest.
“Wrong,” I announce, punctuating the word with a buzzer sound. “I can be serious. Dead serious.” I straighten, giving her my best stone-cold look.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, letting my grin soften. “All right, since you think I’m all jokes and no depth, ask me something. Anything. I’ll prove you wrong.”
Lucy tilts her head, that playful sparkle in her eye still there, but I can tell she’s curious now. “Anything?”
“Anything,” I confirm, laying down the challenge with a shrug. “Make it count.”
She bites her lip, thinking—God help me, that bottom lip—and asks, “What’s the most serious thing you’ve ever done?”
I pause, caught off guard. I didn’t think she’d go straight for the deep end. My first instinct is to brush it off with a joke, but for some reason, I don’t.
I lean into the question, running a hand over my jaw, my voice dropping a little as I say, “The most serious thing I’ve ever done? That’s easy. When I was a kid, I took care of my mom after my dad walked out.”
Her smirk vanishes. She blinks at me, surprised. “What?”
“Yeah.” I shrug, trying to keep it casual, even though the memory still stings.
“My dad bailed when I was eight. Left my mom with three kids, a mortgage, and not much else. She worked her ass off—two jobs, sometimes three. Barely had time to breathe, let alone deal with me and my sisters. So I stepped up. Made sure my sisters got to school, did their homework, didn’t burn the house down. You know, the usual stuff.”
“Right. The usual stuff.” Lucy stares at me, her playful demeanor completely replaced by something. “That’s a lot of responsibility for an eight-year-old.”
No shit.
I also had to get myself to and from football practice and sign myself up for camps because Mom would forget to do it. And when we didn’t have the money, I was the kid who begged the coaches to let me practice with the team anyway.
Whatever. It made me the man I am today—and made me appreciate what I’ve earned.
Nothing was more satisfying than retiring my mother the day I signed my contract with Arizona.
Nothing.
“Yeah. It was a lot.” I shrug again, memories coming at me all at once.
“You do what you’ve gotta do, right? It wasn’t all bad.
I learned how to cook—well, mostly how not to set spaghetti on fire.
And I figured out laundry, though that was always a mess.
Turns out you’re not supposed to mix dark colors and light. Who knew?”
She lets out a soft laugh, but her eyes don’t leave mine. They’re softer now, more serious. “I never would have guessed.”
“It’s not exactly first-date material, is it?” I scoff. “‘Hi, I’m Harris. My dad is a deadbeat, and I know how to fold a fitted sheet.’ Such a panty dropper, right?”
“Actually? Yes.” She leans forward, mirroring me, her elbows on her knees. “You’re full of surprises.”