Chapter 10
SUTTON
Iwake up before my alarm, which is deeply offensive considering I decided to take the day off. For a solid thirty seconds, I lie here staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself to go back to sleep, but my brain refuses.
Instead, it immediately replays Shepherd Haynes’ texts from last night. The way I teased him about Nebraska fans, the way he didn’t text bomb me in response. The way I smiled like a fucking giddy teenager while I was writing him.
What is even happening to me?
I groan and drag a pillow over my face. This is exactly why I don’t let people get comfortable in my space. Comfort leads to thinking and thinking leads to feelings and feelings…well, feelings lead to bad decisions. Case in point: the fact that I check my phone before I even get out of bed.
No messages.
I’m smacked in the chest with a pang of disappointment but also, what did I expect?
Shepherd isn’t the type to text me at all hours of the day, thank God.
He’s not needy or controlling and I appreciate that about him more than he will ever know.
I toss the phone aside, get up, and immediately decide I need a distraction.
A real one.
Something that doesn’t involve work or football or thinking about a quarterback who somehow manages to make calm feel dangerous.
Thrifting.
Yes.
Perfect.
I could use a little mindless browsing. It’s low stakes and cheap dopamine and that’s just what I need to knock off a little stress.
I grab my coffee and scroll through a few local thrift store locations, planning my route like I’m preparing for a treasure hunt, when my phone dings in my hand with an incoming text.
Shepherd
Morning. I know you’ll be heading to work today so thought I’d ask if it’s okay if I stop by the bar tonight?
My stomach does an annoying little flip that he’s even texting me let alone asking permission to be in my place of employment. It’s not like it isn’t a public place. But then I remember that I forgot to tell him I was taking the day off, so I type back quickly.
Me
Actually, I decided to take the day off.
Three dots appear immediately.
Shepherd
Good for you? Or are you sick? In which case, what can I do to help?
Me
Not sick. Just need to destress a little.
Shepherd
That’s fair. So, what does someone like yourself do to destress? Jog? Dance down the street like nobody’s watching? Stuff your face with tacos and ice cream?
Me
Nah. I tend to avoid people and hunt for treasure.
There’s a lag in our conversation and I wonder what he’s doing on the other end of this text string. Is he lying in bed? Did he just get out of the shower? Does he have clothes on? Or is he at the stadium bright and early this morning?
Shepherd
That sounds illegal.
Me
Thrifting, Haynes. I’m going thrifting.
Shepherd
Oooh! LOL. Sorry. My mind forgot to go there. I’ve never been to a thrift store.
He’s never been to a thrift store? That surprises me given his background. But now, as a professional athlete who wears fancy pants and expensive sneakers, he probably owns socks that cost more than my monthly coffee budget alone.
Me
That tracks.
Three dots again.
Shepherd
I feel your judgement. So, what would you tell a beginner thrifter?
I stare at the screen for a moment. Is he asking if he can come?
Do I want him with me? Inviting him into my world feels…
different. Riskier. Much more personal than meeting at the bar, but then again, maybe I can learn more about him by watching him maneuver through a thrift shop where other peoples’ trash is often my treasure.
Before I can overthink it, I type my response.
Me
I’d tell him to meet me at Funky Junk on Hawthorne in twenty.
The reply comes instantly.
Shepherd
On my way.
I blink at the screen and murmur, “Holy shit! I didn’t expect him to say yes. I guess we’re doing this.”
Since I showered last night, I pull my hair into a messy bun, my signature look most days because I just don’t have enough energy to give a shit what I look like, and tug on a pair of ripped jeans and a T-shirt.
I drag my newest favorite sweatshirt over my head, it definitely hangs on me, but still smells like Shepherd, and slip into my teal Converse sneakers.
I take a quick peek in the mirror to make sure I don’t look like a troll and then grab my cross-body bag and head out the door.
I step inside Funky Junk, the familiar bell jingling overhead, and stop dead. Mari stands inside with Shepherd, her head tilted back to look up at him, laughing at something he’s said. My fingers tighten around my keys until the metal bites into my palm.
“Oh hey!” Mari’s eyes dart to me, widening slightly. “Your friend just got here.”
I cross the worn floorboards slowly, counting my steps. Mari’s smile has that particular curve to it. The one she gets when she’s met someone famous or found a vintage Chanel at the bottom of a dollar bin.
“Hi,” I manage, my gaze bouncing between them like a pinball.
Shepherd turns. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles, a genuine smile that reaches all the way to his irises. “Morning,” he says, his voice like a warm hug. “I was just introducing myself to Mari. She was telling me about your cup collection.”
I shoot Mari a look that could wither houseplants, but she simply responds with an innocent flutter of her lashes.
He extends a paper cup toward me, steam curling from the lid. “Coffee?”
“Uh…thanks.” My fingers brush his as I take it.
“I told him you have impeccable taste in damaged goods,” Mari says with a wink that’s about as subtle as a foghorn.
“Aaaand thanks for that,” I mutter as heat crawls up my neck like ivy.
Shepherd’s wearing dark jeans and a simple gray henley that somehow manages to make his shoulders look even broader.
The sleeves hug his biceps in a way that puts them on display and I have to actively remind myself not to lick my lips.
His hair is slightly damp, like he showered right before coming here.
He looks ridiculously out of place among the delicate dishes.
I grin. “You look terrified.”
“A little,” he admits with a sheepish smile. “I feel like I’m going to break something just by existing in here.”
“That’s a valid fear.” I sip the coffee he brought—perfectly sweetened, which makes me wonder if he asked Mari how I take it or just got lucky. “There are rules to this place.”
“Rules?” His eyebrows lift. “No one mentioned rules.”
“Rule number one,” I say, leading him deeper into the store, “no rushing. Thrifting is about patience.”
He follows me, careful to keep his broad shoulders from knocking into the precariously stacked merchandise. “I can do patient,” he murmurs from behind me, his tone sounding almost like he isn’t talking about the items in this store at all.
“Rule number two: be open-minded. Sometimes the best finds are things you weren’t looking for.”
“Like bartenders who collect broken teacups?” he asks, his voice soft enough that only I can hear it.
My stomach does that stupid fluttering thing again. “Yeah…I guess.” I take another sip of my coffee simply to allow myself a moment to breathe and look at Shepherd Haynes in all his rough-and-tumble football-God glory. “How did you know, by the way?”
He tilts his head. “Know what?”
“How I like my coffee.”
“Oh.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “I watched you make it at the bar once.” He shrugs. “And I pay attention.”
Of course he does. Shepherd Haynes notices everything. It’s equal parts flattering and unnerving.
Mari appears beside us, her vintage cat-eye glasses catching the light.
“You two have fun. I’ll be up front if either of you need anything.
The good stuff just came in yesterday, Sutton.
Back corner, blue bin.” She squeezes my arm before disappearing behind a display of vintage lamps and making her way to the front of the shop.
I turn to Shepherd, suddenly aware that we’re alone—well, as alone as you can be in a jam-packed thrift store with Mari pretending not to eavesdrop from behind a bookshelf.
“So,” I say, taking another sip of the coffee, “what exactly brings you thrifting with me on your day off? Shouldn’t you be icing…something?” I gesture to his whole body.
He chuckles, the sound warming me more than the coffee. “I ice plenty. I’m usually my brother’s top priority when it comes to ice or heat or rehabilitation.
“Your brother?” I ask, my brows furrowed.
“My brother, Sebastian. He’s one of the team’s athletic trainers. He’s head of the department, actually.”
“Ah.” I nod. “I see. The non-trifecta brother. Must be nice having a brother sort of on your team.”
“Killian and Bishop, my other brothers, can tell you all about being on the same team, but yeah. Having Sebastian around isn’t half bad. I know he’s always got my best interest at heart.”
“You played a big game yesterday…”
“Tag.” He shrugs, playing off my words. “It was just a quick game of tag.”
I chuckle. “Right. But don’t kid yourself, Haynes. I’m sure it was full contact tag so give yourself some credit.”
“Right.” He beams. “You’re absolutely right.”
“Which probably means you should be resting today. So, what made you choose a thrift shop over lounging around and eating your protein?”
“I’ve never been thrifting before, like I said,” he tells me. “And I’m curious about what makes you love it so much.” He smiles, his eyes soft. “So, if it’s okay with you, I’ll follow your lead.”
And something about that hits me harder than it should.
“I’m not sure you’re ready for the full Sutton Price thrifting experience.”
He raises an eyebrow, intrigue lighting his eyes. “Is that a challenge?”
“What if it is?” I tease.
“Throw down the gauntlet, Price.” He grins. “And I will gladly pick it up.”
I cross my arms and cock my brow. “You know you have to actually touch things.”
He stares at me for a moment, and I wish so much that I could read his expression, but then he whispers, “I don’t want to break anything.”