Chapter Twelve
Anna
I need perspective. I need to remember why keeping my resolve is a good plan. I need to go home. Mom’s off on Mondays. Fuck it; I’m skipping class.
I give her a call to let her know I’m coming. It’s a perfect autumn morning when I climb on my Vespa and head toward my mother’s house. The scooter isn’t very practical; I can’t use the highway and must stick to back roads. I know I’ll catch hell from my mom yet again for driving it to her house. But I love the feel of air rushing over me, and the ability to weave in and out of traffic.
Even so, it would be smart to trade my scooter in and buy a car. I don’t like driving the Vespa in rain, and the winter months flat-out suck. I have some savings—hell, my mom would buy a car for me, she hates the scooter so much.
Indecision regarding my scooter fills my thoughts, and I’m happy about that. It keeps me from thinking about other things, other people. Soon enough, I’m pulling up in front of the house I grew up in. It’s a 1920s colonial made of Georgia red brick.
I love this house, with its five windows along the top floor and four windows, two each flanking the red center door, on the ground floor. I love that somehow it managed to escape the dreaded Tara-style front porch that so many southern homes try to emulate.
It’s a simple, unpretentious house. And though the front walk has always been clean and inviting, I’ve never really used it, choosing to go in through the side door instead.
I pull up into the carport, parking next to my mother’s ancient blue Mercedes. She’s had the car as long as she’s had me. Just looking at it fills me with a sense of homecoming, as does the smell of old brick and decaying crepe myrtle flowers.
Through the window, I spot Mom at the stove. It’s been months since I’ve seen her, but she hasn’t aged. Then again, my mom never seems to age. She’s magically preserved. Slim and fit, she wears sky blue silk lounge pants and a thin cream cashmere sweater. Her glossy black hair tumbles artfully around her shoulders, and she gives it an impatient flick as she pulls the old battered moka pot off the stove.
Although my mother is a southern lady, she’s also a doctor and second-generation Italian, which means I’m getting a cappuccino and fruit for breakfast instead of biscuits and gravy. Her one concession might be some fresh low-fat scones.
She turns as I open the door, and her heart-shaped face brightens. “Banana!”
Mom hurries over to me and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I’m surrounded by the scent of lavender that she favors. “How has my baby been?”
“Good.” It’s the only answer I can think to give.
With a nod, she sways back to the moka pot and proceeds to pour thick, rich coffee into a waiting cup half filled with heated milk. The scent is homey and mouthwatering. If I could just once achieve my mother’s coffee perfection, I’d be a happy girl indeed.
“Come,” she urges. “Let’s sit and talk.”
She places the cup next to a set place, complete with linen napkin. Freshly cut melons, strawberries, and raspberries wait in a crystal bowl. This is my mom at her finest. Warning bells ring in my mind. More so when she turns and pulls a tray of hot scones from the oven. Those do not look low-fat.
“So,” she says as she serves me a scone and doles out some fruit. “Anything new going on?”
This is standard fare. Mom doesn’t like to pry, but at least she’s interested in my life. I think she’d be less gracious about it, however, if I told her that I’ve been fucking the star quarterback in my bedroom. My cheeks heat as I take a sip of coffee. God, that’s good.
I close my eyes and savor the flavor. “I’ve missed you, Mom.” I don’t know where that came from, but it’s the truth.
Silence falls over me, and I open my eyes. Her eyes, so like mine in shape but a deep, dark brown, stare at me. “Is something wrong, Banana?”
I shrug and take another needed sip. “Can’t a girl miss her mother?”
“Of course she can.” She cups my cheek with her cool hand. My mom’s skin is always cool. “Only, I know my baby and something’s upsetting you.”
Sighing, I start in on my scone. I was right. This is not low-fat, and it’s my favorite orange and lemon flavor. There’s even fresh butter on the table, soft and waiting for me to dive in. I slather some on a section of scone before popping it into my mouth. Heaven.
“I’m fine. Happy.” And though doubt assails me on a constant basis, I am happy.
The truth slaps so hard that I flinch in my seat. I’m happy. I awake filled with anticipation. Fight sleep to keep the feeling close to me. Why can’t I enjoy it? Accept it? God, what a fucked-up mess I am.
“Mom—”
The back door opens again, and Terrance, my mom’s boyfriend of the hour, walks in. I should say “of the year” because that’s about as long as these guys last. I’ve hated every one of them. And while that might sound petulant, it’s always been with good reason.
There was Marcus, who called her trash to her face, spat in her food, and then cried that she didn’t love him enough. All in front of me.
There was Oliver, a thin spaced-out professor who ended up stealing ten grand out of her bank account. And Jeremy, who criticized her so much that she gained twenty pounds and forgot to wear makeup to work one day, which is the equivalent of a mental breakdown for my mother.
At least none of them hit her. Not that I know of, anyway.
Terrance owns a used bookstore and pinches pennies by collecting packets of salt, pepper, ketchup, and whatnot from various fast-food restaurants around the area. I can’t make this shit up. He also generally loathes being left out of any of Mom’s business.
“Hello, Anna,” he says as he comes further into the kitchen and stares at my boobs. Intently.
He takes a seat next to my mom and immediately drapes an arm around her shoulder, leaving his long, pale fingers to dangle right over her breast. Because, while he might stare at my boobs, he takes any opportunity he can to touch my mom’s when I’m around.
My stomach turns. “Hello, Terrance.” I keep my eyes on his greasy hair, parted severely down the middle. Like Hitler’s. When my stomach turns again, I look at my mother, who is trying to appear casual and calm, even though some creep is stroking her like she’s a lapdog.
I don’t bother giving my mother a dirty look even though he’s here on my day with her. He does it every time.
If I live a hundred years, I’ll never understand my mother. She’s smart, brilliant, beautiful, and talented. And she has the self-esteem of a gnat. I cannot fathom why she’d rather not be alone than settle for these... I don’t even want to call them men.
“Did you tell Anna the good news, Cecelia?”
Mom has the grace to flinch, and I know it will be bad. God, please don’t let it be marriage. I’ve feared that since I was ten and finally realized that one of these jerks might become a permanent fixture if Mom actually married one of them. Luckily, the relationships ended before then.
“Well, dear—” She neatly shrugs out of Terrance’s grasp as she leans forward. “I’m getting older now.”
She’s fifty-five. Hardly old.
“And there’s so much to see in this world.”
Okay, true.
Terrance’s hand lands on her hip, and he strokes her butt. I’m now officially ill.
“So I’ve decided to retire,” Mom says with forced excitement.
“That’s...” I struggle. “Well, that’s great, if that’s what you want, Mom.” I’m happy to think of Mom relaxing, even though I suspect she’ll be bored within months.
But she’s not done. She shifts in her seat, and my heart plummets. God, please not the marriage thing.
“What?” I ask.
“I’ve also decided to sell the house.”
The words set off a bomb within my skull. I just sit there, my brain scrambled, leaving me unable to speak.
“We’re going on a world cruise,” Terrance puts in, grinning at me with his gray teeth.
“Are you selling your house?” I ask him. “Oh, right, I forgot. You rent.” Because I’m beginning to get the idea.
Terrance’s beady eyes narrow. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“Yet you’re here, when this conversation is really between me and my mom.”
“Anna,” Mom begins.
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand. Then take a deep breath. “Can I say anything to change your mind?”
“You should be happy for your mother, young lady.” Terrance is turning an ugly shade of red. “Not making her feel bad.”
“Do not fucking call me young lady again. And I’m not talking to you.”
“Anna, language.” Mom eases closer to me, like she might reach out and pat my hand.
I place my hands in my lap.
“Can I talk you out of it?” I ask again.
Her expression turns sad, regretful. “You don’t live here anymore, and I thought I’d buy something smaller when I return.”
“Never mind that your parents gave you this house. That it’s the only home I’ve ever known.”
Terrance all but crows. “I told you she’d covet the house, Cecelia.”
“Like you are, Terry?” I snap back.
“Anna.” It’s a plea from my mom.
“Cece, don’t baby her,” Terrance cuts in, rising to glare at me. “She can take care of herself.”
“All evidence to the contrary.” I stare down his looming figure. “And if you come any closer to me, you’ll see how easily I can take care of myself.”
Mom jumps up then. “Anna, Terrance, stop this now.” She places a hand on the sleaze. “Let me handle this.”
I can’t watch anymore. In truth, I should have left long ago. I know the drill. She might love me, but she always chooses her boyfriend’s side.
“I have to go.”
Mom’s mouth falls open, as if this is a shock to her. “But you just got here. You haven’t even eaten.”
If I eat now, I’ll throw up.
“I’ll talk to you later.” I grab my purse and leave. And she doesn’t try to stop me again.
Hurt, anger, and disgust is an ugly cocktail in my veins. Well, I think ruefully, I wanted a reminder, and I sure as hell got one.
I drive around until my arms are tired and I’m nearly out of gas. I don’t want to go back to my apartment. I don’t want to talk to Iris or George about it; they’ve both heard the saga of my mom many times before, and whatever they say is not going to help. Nothing is going to change the situation. Which only makes my agitation burn stronger.
The beautiful fall day is totally incongruent with my mood. Fluffy clouds bump around in a blue sky. The air is just this shade of cool, and the sun shines hot on my head as I walk across the campus parking lot, leaving my Vespa behind.
The stadium looms over me, and my heartbeat picks up. The closer I get, the easier it is to hear the sounds of play, the errant trill of a whistle, and the grunts and thuds of young men throwing themselves against each other or those padded training contraptions, the name of which I cannot recall.
Scattered about the stadium seats like birds alighting for feed are people watching the football team practice. Heads crane forward to see Drew throw a pass. The ball spirals through the air, fast and sure, and lands with perfect precision in a wide receiver’s hand. The player laughs and jogs lightly back to Drew, tossing him the ball before one of the coaches makes a comment to them. I’m too far away to hear it, and I like it that way.
Sitting a few feet from a couple of younger guys who wax on about the awesomeness that is Battle Baylor, I feel anonymous. Safe. The sun has slipped behind the line of the stadium, and my spot falls into shadows. Sweet relief from the heat.
Drew makes a few more throws, each one farther, each in a different direction, with a different approach. He’s wearing a helmet, loose basketball shorts that hit him at the knees, and his jersey without the extra bulk of pads. And every time he throws, a swath of tawny skin shows along the bottom of his jersey—a sight that makes all my happy places clench sweetly.
I shouldn’t be here, mooning like some groupie. It’s a clamor in my head, which grows as people slip away and I become more exposed sitting alone on the bench. But I can’t find it in myself to leave. I like watching him move, like seeing the way his team and coaches interact with him. They love him. It’s clear to see. As is the joy he feels. He’s lit up from within. And this is only a practice. I envy him. Never in my life have I felt that way about something I’ve done.
The team breaks up again, moving into clusters, and Drew starts some strange squat-then-jump-into-a-lunge exercise with a group of guys who must be backup quarterbacks, because they’re all holding footballs and pretending to throw them with each lunge. It should look ridiculous, but it’s more like a dance: graceful, powerful. None more than Drew.
God, he’s fast. My thigh muscles would rip away from my bones if I tried to move that quickly. But he just keeps going, as if it’s effortless.
My butt goes numb from sitting, but on the inside, a calm settles over me. I take a deep breath, drawing in the scent of grass, the metal seats, and a faint trace of clean, male sweat. A loud whistle rings, and they’re jogging off, leaving the field.
All but Drew. He’s pulling his helmet off, his eyes on me, as if he’s known all along that I was there. Maybe he has. I don’t know. My breath surges, as my heart rate increases. I find myself rising, my legs taking me down the concrete steps while he walks my way, his stride long and confident.
By the time I reach the emerald green field, he’s grinning. And though part of me wants to grin back, suddenly I am nearly in tears. Shit.
He draws close, still holding a football in his hand as if it’s an extension of himself.
“Miss Jones.” His voice is light with teasing. “For a while, I thought you were a mirage.”
I can’t quite look him in the eyes. Not when mine are burning. Inside, I’m shaking. Drew is so near, I could reach out and touch him with ease. I could press my cold palms to the dense muscles of his chest, where I know it will be warm.
I need you. I need you so badly...
I think of smug, fucking Terrance groping my mother’s ass, and I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my light jacket. “And here I thought I was being stealthy.”
“I thought I told you, Jones. I always notice when you’re around.” His smile wavers as he sees my expression. “Something wrong?”
I blink hard and look away.
“There is.” He takes a step closer, the ball dropping at his feet. “Are you okay?”
“No.” Shit, shit, shit. I’m going to lose it. “I, ah... No.”
On the next breath, his arms are wrapped around me, holding me against his lean body. For a moment, I tense, feeling exposed in too many ways. I’ve never been held like this by a man. Not one of my supposed boyfriends or hook ups has ever really hugged me. And I certainly haven’t been hugged by my father. The knowledge is a shock, as is the all-encompassing comfort I feel in Drew’s embrace.
I burrow my nose into the center of his chest as I wrap my arms around his lean waist. He’s damp with sweat, reeks of it. I don’t care. He feels so freaking good, his hard body solid and warm against mine, that I want to stay this way until he has the sense to let me go.
But he doesn’t. He holds me. Not weaving or speaking, just holding me strong and secure, his lips pressed into the crown of my head. I’m tucked into the shelter of his body. Safe from the entire world.
When I fully sink into Drew’s embrace, my body relaxing, he speaks. “Want to talk about it?”
I love this particular tone of his voice. I’ve never heard him use it with anyone but me. But I ease away from him. I can’t talk about this and cling to him at the same time. Not if I want to maintain any dignity.
Thankfully, he lets me go, but his expression is fierce, as if he’ll go kick someone’s ass if I ask him. Were I not so drained I’d smile. “I went to visit my mom.”
Fear, stark and deep fills his eyes, and I curse myself. “She’s fine,” I say quickly. “It was... She just... Ah...” Shit-fuck, how can I be complaining about my mother’s antics to him when I know he’d do anything to have his mother back?
He reads me too well, and a wry look comes into his eyes. “You’re allowed to be in a fight with your mother, Anna. I promise, it’s not going to upset me.”
My shoulders fall on a sigh. “It just seems petty when...” I trail off again, strangled with frustration.
He touches my cheek, brushing back a lock of my hair. “What happened?”
I rock back on my heels as I stare down at the fresh-cut grass. There’s a bit of chalk on the toe of my boot.
“She’s selling the house.” Bitterness fills my mouth. “So she can go on a world cruise with Terrance-The-Ass-Fuck.”
Drew braces his hands low on his narrow hips. “Shit, Anna. I’m sorry.”
Yeah, because he knows how it feels to lose his childhood home. Again, I wince. I shouldn’t be complaining, but he doesn’t seem upset. In fact, his nose wrinkles a bit along the high bridge.
“Er... Who is Terrance-The-Ass-Fuck?”
Despite myself, I fight a smile. “Her boyfriend of the moment. I wasn’t being literal, thank God.” My smile falls flat. “Though I really should call him ‘He of the Roving Hands.’”
Drew’s brows snap together, his nostrils flaring as he straightens. “He hasn’t touched you, has he?”
I can see old Terrance in a hospital bed if I say yes, but I shake my head and Drew relaxes.
“No. But he feels up my mom in front of me.”
Drew’s scowl returns. “I think I’d lose it if I’d had to see some guy grope my mom.”
“He does it to bother me. It’s because of him that she’s selling our house. Old Terry doesn’t have the funds to pay his way.” I curse again. “There is nothing I can do. She won’t hear me, no matter what I say.”
I blink rapidly, try to calm myself.
“I know I’m being a baby about this. It isn’t like I live there, or plan to anymore. But it’s like that final safety net is gone. And now I’ll never be able to go...” My words die, horror invading me, as I realize what I’ve said.
But Drew finishes my sentence for me. “Go home again? Don’t hold back your words out of pity, Anna. I don’t need that.”
I want to shrivel into the grass. “I think there’s a difference between pity and sympathy, don’t you?”
He slowly nods. “Sometimes, without warning, I’ll catch the scents of my old home. I don’t know what it will be exactly, maybe a mix of old books and coffee, or laundry detergent and cool air.” His gaze turns inward. “But it smells just like home. And I’ll miss mine so fucking badly that I can’t breathe.”
“I wish you could go home again,” I say, wanting to cry.
Drew’s eyes lock onto me. “I do too. But I think we have to make our own homes.”
Looking at him, gilded by sunlight, his expression tight with weariness but earnest as he watches me, I think that I could love this man. I could love him forever. My breath grows short.
“When I do find my own home,” I say, “I’m never letting it go.”
His throat moves on a swallow. “Good plan.” He takes a step closer to me. “I’m sorry, Anna.”
I know he’s speaking of my mother, my loss of safe harbor. “Me too.” But I’m talking about him. Because Drew should never have lost his family. He shouldn’t have to wear a piece of his childhood home around his neck because that’s all he has left.
The tight, antsy feeling has returned. I shift on my feet, my gaze roving the field.
Drew takes an audible breath and runs a hand along his sweat-damp hair. His eyes squint as the setting sun’s rays fall full on his face. “You want to try something?”
I raise a brow, and he laughs. “Such a dirty mind, Jones.”
“Why would you assume that?” I cross my arms in front of my chest. But I’m smiling too. Smiling is better. “Unless you have a dirty mind as well.”
“Of course I do.” He touches the tip of my nose with a finger, making me bat him off in annoyance. He only grins. “Why do you think we’re so perfect together?”
My breath gets a little unsteady, and the light in his eyes dims a bit. But he simply picks up his football.
“However, this time, I was just going to ask if you’d like to toss around the ball.”
“Throw a football?”
“Such a sour face,” Drew observes way too happily. “It isn’t going to blow up in your hand.”
“Says you. I suck at sports.”
He rolls his eyes. “No one is asking you to be good. Just throw it.” He tosses the ball high and catches it without looking. Show off. “Trust me, Jones. It’s an excellent stress reliever.”
Drew proceeds to show me how to hold the ball, placing my fingers on the laces, and my thumb positioned beneath the ball. “Hold it lightly with your fingertips. Finger control is very important.”
“Oh, believe me, bud, I’m a big proponent of finger control,” I say, just this side of saucy.
Oh, but it’s a mistake to joke, because I’m remembering those long fingers of his pushing inside of me, curling just so to find that spot that drives me wild.
Sunlight gilds the tips of his long lashes as he blinks down at me. “Stop trying to distract me, Jones. Your cheap seduction tactics won’t work on this hallowed field.” The roughness in his voice tells me otherwise, but I decide to be good.
“Can I throw now?” I fight a grin. “Or do you have any more deluded fantasies running through your brain?”
“I have tons of fantasies. But you only get to hear them when we have a place to act them out. Now do as you’re told, Miss Jones.”
I submit and place myself in his capable hands as he rattles off instructions—step back this way, hold the ball up by your ear, wind up your arm like so, throw it here, step thusly. I’ll be surprised if I retain half of it.
“Remember.” He steps back to give me space. “Let the ball roll off your fingers. Your power comes from your core and your legs. It’s all about momentum and confidence.”
“Right.” I’m going to mess this up royally.
Drew grins wide. “Yes, the first throw is going to suck.”
“Get out of my head,” I mutter.
He just laughs. “More like reading your expression. Now stop stalling.”
I go through the motions, feeling like an uncoordinated goober. And the ball wobbles through the air to land with a dull thud some ten feet away. Awesome.
“Welp.” I dust off my hands. “That was fun.”
I turn to go, when he grabs my arm, still laughing. The jerk. “Nice try, Anna. But I don’t think so.” He slaps the ball back in my hand. “Again.”
“So bossy.”
“You like it.” His eyes are gold now, glinting in the sun.
Yeah, I do. I grumble and try again. And again. Drew stops me every once in a while to give pointers. Suddenly, it’s fun. Not spectacular fun, but kind of addictive.
I say this to Drew, and he positively shines.
“Exactly,” he says. “Why do you think I do this? It’s the need to do better every time.”
“To do better?” I stare up at him, shocked. “But you’re already perfect.”
His expression turns soft, warm. “You think so, huh?”
I know that tone too. And when his lids lower, his gaze going to my mouth, my heart kicks in my chest. I grip the ball between my hands.
“Show me,” I blurt out.
He blinks, and a furrow wrinkles between his brows. “What do you mean?”
“Show me how far you can throw the ball.”
One corner of his mouth kicks up. “You want me to show off for you?”
“If I’m asking, it isn’t showing off. But, yeah, I want to see what you can do.”
Drew studies me for a moment, the soft breeze lifting the ends of his hair. “Okay, but you’re going to have to snap the ball to me.”
“Snap the ball?” I make a face. “Like bend over...”
His grin is evil. “And I put my hands between your legs. Don’t give me that look. Dex does this for me every game.”
“Is this the point where I launch into a diatribe about the blatant homoeroticism found in football?”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. But since we’re talking about me putting my hands on you, I don’t think it applies here.”
He leans close to my cheek, and his deep voice rumbles in my ear. “I promise to let you know the next time the team hits the showers.”
“Oh my—” I wave a hand as if to cool myself off, which is only half in jest. “That’s a pretty picture you’re painting, Baylor.”
Drew gives me a nudge with the football. “Just snap the ball, Jones, before I change my mind.” But he’s grinning as he steps back.
“Fine.” I sigh and get into the position I’ve seen players assume.
Drew moves in closer than I think is strictly necessary. His size and strength is a wall over me.
“Mmm, spread those legs wider and get that sweet butt up higher, babe.”
Despite our teasing, heat floods my belly. But I give him a dirty look over my shoulder. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
He winks. “You know it. Snap count on three.”
“What does that mean?”
“Third sound I make, you hand me the ball.” He gives my butt a light slap. “Keep up, Jones.”
And then his voice rolls over me like thunder. “Hut, hut, hut!”
Jesus. My nipples tighten, and a thrill courses through me as I obey and toss. He manages to catch the bobbling ball. I turn to watch him, and it’s gorgeous. He’s gorgeous. Up close, his body is poetry. His muscles ripple along his torso and up his arm as he throws, his expression fierce and focused. I want to tackle him, throw myself on his body and devour him bite by delicious bite.
I’m so caught up in gaping at him that I nearly forget to watch the ball, but I keep it together and look.
“Damn,” I say. The ball is a rocket, hurtling through the air in a high arc. It keeps going. Until finally it comes down from space to land with a hard bounce in the end zone.
Drew’s lips curl up at the corners. “Good throw.” He says this to himself, not exactly as praise, but satisfied, and I wonder if he always appraises his work.
My curiosity is drowned out by a long, appreciative male whistle.
The tall blond guy I often see hanging with Drew jogs down the stairs. “Beautiful, fucking bomb, man. But you missed me by a mile.”
Drew laughs. “And we know how hard it is to miss that big head of yours.”
“You best be thinking about connecting with my hands and not my head, dude.”
The blond holds a hand up against the sun’s glare to study the field. “What was that, anyway? Sixty-five yards?”
He whistles in appreciation again and then lopes across the grass, moving as though walking is never an option when he can run.
“Seventy-one,” Drew answers. “But who’s counting?”
Drew’s shoulder brushes mine as the guy stops before us. He is massive, an inch or two taller than Drew and easily twenty pounds of muscle heavier. The guy eyes me with caution, but he puts on a polite smile. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I’m pretty sure Drew’s talked about me, us, and his friend doesn’t approve.
“Anna,” Drew says, “this is Gray Grayson. He plays tight end.”
“Ass jokes are welcome and encouraged,” Gray adds with a wag of his brows. Like Drew, he’s extremely good-looking, but in a California surfer way, with his mop of sun-streaked blond hair flopping over his tanned forehead.
“Gray Grayson?” I shouldn’t repeat his name that way, but I can’t help myself. What were his parents thinking?
Gray winces. But beneath dark blond brows, his blue eyes show no hint of annoyance. “I know, right?” he says to my unanswered question, which he must get a lot. “My mom had a total crush on Gray Grantham, a character from this John Grisham book, The Pelican Brief.”
“She named you after a character in a book?” I blurt out. Atticus Finch is one thing. Hell, I’m pretty sure the South is peppered with Atticuses and Rhetts for that very reason. But this is a new one to me.
“She was reading it during the end of her pregnancy. Anyway—” Gray shrugs “—she thought Gray Grayson would be ‘just so cute.’”
He makes a face, but there’s no real anger behind it, only fondness, and a slight wince as if it pains him to think of his mother. “So that’s what I got stuck with.”
“Sometimes we call him ‘Gray-Gray,’” Drew puts in helpfully and earns a punch on the arm from Gray.
“And sometimes I call him—” Gray nods toward Drew “—‘QB with my foot up his ass.’”
Gray eyes the ball waiting in the end zone then looks at Drew. “You ready, man?”
Because Drew is standing so close, I feel the tension in his arm.
“Yep.” Drew glances as me. “It’s Gray’s birthday.”
I give Gray a polite smile, because I’m still pretty sure he doesn’t like me. “Happy Birthday.”
Gray’s answering smile turns more genuine. “Thanks. Though I don’t know about turning twenty-two. It’s like the beginning of the end.”
“I don’t know what he’s crying about,” Drew says to me. “He’s the baby of the bunch.”
Gray sighs loud and long. “Feels like yesterday when I retired my fake ID.”
The corners of Drew’s eyes crinkle. “The way you carried on over that damn thing, you’d think it was your baby.”
“Hey, it gave me years of service, devoted to finding me pleasure.”
I smile at their interplay, but then catch on to what Drew says. “You’re already twenty-two?”
“I told you I was older, Jones.”
“I thought you meant by a day.” I glance between him and Gray. “How is it you’re both twenty-two?” Hell, Drew’s almost twenty-three.
“We redshirted our freshman year,” Gray says, as if this is obvious.
Drew understands that I have no idea what the hell Gray’s talking about. “Basically, we spent our freshman year on the sidelines, taking classes but not playing. It’s called a redshirt.”
“Think of it this way,” Gray puts in. “We’re aged like wine. The longer we’re here, the bigger, stronger, and better we get. Why should a program lose out on playing us when we’re reedy little eighteen-year-olds instead of waiting until we’ve reached maximum efficiency?”
It all sounds kind of mercenary, but smart, I suppose. And because there’s a hesitancy in Drew’s eyes, like he expects me to think less of him because of the redshirt, I tell him this, watching as he visibly relaxes.
“College football is nothing if not mercenary,” he says lightly.
Gray gives Drew’s arm a slap. “The guys are waiting. Let’s get a move on.”
But Drew hesitates. “You want to go, Anna? We’re just hitting a couple of bars.”
It’s sweet the way he’s visibly conflicted, as if he doesn’t want to leave me but wants to go out with his friends too. I smile and shake my head. “Thanks, but I’ve got a paper due.”
“I’ll walk you to your car.” His fingertips graze my elbow, and my insides flutter. Jesus, I’ve got it bad.
While Gray runs off to gather the other guys, Drew and I leave the stadium. The air between us is subdued, as if both of us are too aware that we don’t hang out like this. And it’s just as clear to anyone who’d bother to look that we aren’t just friends. Not by the way we walk so close, our arms nearly touching. His hand brushes against mine, and I wonder if he’ll hold it if I reached for him. But we’re already at my scooter, and I reach in my bag for my keys instead.
Drew sizes up my ride with a quirked brow.
“You ride a red Vespa. With a basket on the front?” His dimple is showing. “God.” He clutches his chest. “The urge to make a Red Riding Hood joke is killing me.” An exaggerated groan of frustration leaves him.
I roll my eyes as I crouch down to unlock my chain. “I knew it.”
He’s unrepentant. “It’s fucking adorable, Jones.” Warm brown eyes look me over. “You’re adorable.”
“And you’re about to lose valuable equipment, Baylor.”
He gives me that shit-eating Drew Baylor grin. “I’d be worried if I didn’t know you have a vested interest in my equipment.”
“God, I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
For a moment we just grin at each other, then something changes. My heart begins to beat faster and another wave of warmth washes over me. I think I’ll want him always. And by the way his eyes darken and his body tightens, leaning closer to mine, he wants me too.
But he’s looking at my mouth, his lids lowering, his own mouth going soft. I stand and abruptly smash on my helmet. My hair springs out around my neck like red tentacles.
“Well,” I say with false brightness. “Have fun tonight.”
Drew’s quiet as he steps up to me. Everything inside me seizes, but he simply lowers my visor with a gentle hand. “See you, Jones,” he says. “Take care.”
I straddle my bike and start it, but I pause and lift the visor.
“Drew...” I take a small, unsteady breath. “Thanks for listening, for making me feel better.”
He rests his hands low on his lean hips, and when he speaks, it comes out just a bit rough. “Thanks for trusting me enough to share.”
My throat aches as I leave him standing in the parking lot, my neck tight with the knowledge that he’s watching as I drive away.