95. A Wink and a Grin
A WINK AND A GRIN
LIVY
I wake after the sun and head to the beach with Kyle in tow. I also bring my phone and that old kitchen knife I found last night.
I got to sleep way too late. After the police showed and let Tustin go with a warning, I had a hard time settling my racing heart and my worried mind.
My body was exhausted from the orgasms, but it wasn’t enough to overcome the stress of knowing he was following me. Following me and photographing me.
I had held it together, but when they rolled Tustin to stand and we all realized that he’d not just been watching me, but touching himself while doing it.
If he’d done that at my house, it would’ve been different, but since I didn’t own the property and there was no proof of voyeurism, it was my presumption versus his denial.
The pictures on his phone could have put him in jail, but they’d have put me in unemployment at the same time, so I was deep in that pickle.
Layton texted—three times, to be exact—but I didn’t respond. I took a hot bath, indulged in more wine than I typically drink, and spooned with Kyle, all the while trying to listen for any noise that indicated a threat.
I woke after fitful dreams and a few hours of that sleep where I’d swear I’d been awake except for evidence to the contrary—wild dreams, a crick in my neck, and crust in the corner of my eyes.
Kyle’s barks pull me from my focus on my body, my breathwork, and the rolling waves.
I turn and lunge for the knife in my bag.
Dr. Silverberg approaches. The athletic shorts and long-sleeved tee show a side of my boss I rarely see.
He holds his hands up as his eyes shoot to my hand.
I release my death grip on the knife—his knife—and wait.
“Eventful night?” he asks, stepping along the sidewalk, not entering the sand.
I nod. “I’ve had enough of those for a while. Two is too many as far as I’m concerned.”
He nods.
“I’ll be good if I never need to see squad cars with lights or have my name in another police report.”
“They contacted me. It’s a small community, and they know Georgia and me. She sits on the board of the community theater here, among other things. They saw our address and gave us a call.”
“I’m sorry. I—”
“Don’t apologize, Livy. I’m only here to check on you.”
“I’m okay, Dr. Silverberg.”
He looks at my hand again. “Livy, you’re white-knuckling a boning knife that you brought to the beach.” It’s half statement, half question.
“I didn’t sleep real well last night.”
“Ah. Why don’t you come back to the house, and I’ll make you breakfast? How does an omelet sound?”
“I don’t eat eggs.”
“Vegan. Right. I forgot. Fruit and sprouted toast with avocado?”
“Doc, I’d just be up for the company. The thoughts in my head aren’t kind.”
We make our way back to his home, and true to his word, he makes me breakfast. It doesn’t take long for me to relax, and by the time he leaves, I’ve shaken off the worst of the night before.
Within moments of him leaving, Kyle indicates he needs to go outside. We make the block, and upon our return, we find Layton in the living room, lounging and scrolling through the channels on the TV.
He lifts his head to peer over the back of the sofa, and a grin pulls across his face.
My life is ridiculous.
Out of nowhere, this man I barely know is everywhere.
Kyle rips himself from my hand, leash still attached, and circles the sofa. His tail wags, and his body does too.
“Hey, good boy.” Layton scratches him, snout to ears and back, circling under his chin. “Have you taken care of Mama today?”
Layton’s face looks up to mine. “I thought he’d never leave.”
“Dr. Silverberg?”
“Yeah. I had to move my truck so he didn’t see me.”
I’m sure confusion is all over my face. “When did you get here?”
“Pix.” He says my nickname like I need to be spoken to slowly. “I never left.”
Layton
“What?” Her disbelieving slow blink makes me wonder what she must’ve looked like as a little girl. The wide eyes. The upturned nose. The freckles.
She’s all woman now, and everything about her makes me want to be more… everything.
More protective. More playful. More masculine. More gentle. More sexual.
She deserves more.
“Baby, I never left last night. You can’t think I’d have left you vulnerable and alone with that fucker.”
She cocks her head before staring at her feet.
“Did you think I’d drive away and not give a damn what happened before the cops got here? Or after? Did you think I went home and didn’t think twice about whether you were safe? Protected?”
She shrugs.
I clench my teeth. She lays me bare and she doesn’t know me at all.
“Did you sleep at all?”
“A little.” Her voice is small. “It wasn’t a good night.”
“Come here, Livy.” I extend a hand, and she walks around the sofa and accepts it. I tug her down next to me as I lay on the couch. I sandwich her so she’s on her side with her face on my chest, her back to the sofa. I draw little circles on her hip and lower back.
Kyle sprawls on the floor in front of the sofa, propping his face on the cushion at my hip. I scratch his head until he groans and wilts onto the floor. His snores come just before Livy’s breathing changes, and her body gets heavy in my arms.
I flip through channels, settling on an old bowl game one of the ESPNs has playing. I don’t think I’ve seen this one, though I remember how it ends. A couple of these guys are in the league now, and I can see why. They shine. Men among boys. Beasts in the making.
Nearly two hours later, Livy stirs and then freezes.
I resume my circles on her hip. When I look down into her warm, sleepy eyes, I smile. The shy one she returns my way is the opposite of the coy, sexy smiles women aim at me. It’s open, trusting, and cute.
“Morning, Sleeping Beauty. Did you rest well?”
She nods, scrubbing her face across my tee, stopping to stare at something.
“What is it?”
“You’re wearing yesterday’s shirt.”
“It happens when you sleep in your truck. I probably smell like yesterday too.”
She takes a deep whiff and pretends to gag. In return, she gets a swat on the ass.
“I can’t believe you slept in your truck.”
“I’m not complaining about being stretched out here. I can assure you of that.”
“How are you not at work?”
“We don’t have the same schedules right now that we do during the on-season. I’m usually in Texas in the spring.” I stop that thought in its tracks. “We’re expected to train. They don’t care where that is. They will in a couple of months, though.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a lot easier to maintain a routine than it is to create one, so keeping the same hours and the same commute helps me remember that my job isn’t eighteen Sundays or Mondays a year. Or Thursdays as things are going these days.”
She stretches an arm across my abs tentatively before flattening her hand there.
“You don’t seem to be someone who forgets his job. In fact, you strike me as someone who is the job.”
“How do you figure?” I turn my head to hold her eyes.
“Well, you’re committed, driven, single-minded, and laser-focused.”
“Is that it?”
She shakes her head again from where it’s propped on my pec, her gaze never leaving mine. “If I were to think like my therapist—I’d wonder if it’s your only love. Are you chasing it? Or is something else chasing you, and it’s your refuge? I’d wonder if you love it or if you fear not having it.”
“I see.”
I do. And she does too. Straight through me, slicing me open with just a few sentences.
“But mostly I see someone who has a gift, who’s lucky enough to have a place to use it, and one that pays him to do so. It’s kind of a trifecta, you know. Doing what you love. Loving what you do and getting paid for it. I’d be jealous if I didn’t have something similar.”
“So you’re living your passion? Physical therapy with the league?”
“You mean direct health care for people who want to be well. My patients are willing to do whatever it takes to be healthy again. Elite in my field, if I do say so myself. It’s a pretty good gig—nonfraternization clause aside.”
“And who do you want to fraternize with, Pix? Who’s my competition?”
“Sadly, Layton, what I want and what I can have are two different things. Who I want and who I can have are worlds apart. So it doesn’t really matter who might be on my list… when I can’t have a list at all.” She closes her eyes and rests her head back on my chest.
“But if you could…” My voice lacks the bravado I often show.
“If I could, I’d take a risk with a man who is deeper than he lets on, who is kinder than he wants people to know, and who could charm me out of my pants with a wink and a grin.”
I lift my head. “Is that all it takes? A wink and a grin?”
She smacks my stomach where her hand rests.
“It takes the whole package, Layton.”
“For what it’s worth, I’d work my ass off to win you. I mean, the deep shit, the kind shit, and the wink-and-a-grin shit too. Shame, Pix. Such a shame.” I turn back to the television and mindlessly scroll. My mind is focused one hundred percent on the girl in my arms.
“Are you less scared now?” I ask the television.
“About what?”
“Being here.”
She shrugs against my body.
“I want to stay, Pix. I do. But after last night and Silverberg this morning, I wonder if I should show my face at the practice field, or at least meet with someone. You being gone is reasonable. Us both being gone on the same day, the day after another Tustin encounter, could come off fishy.”
I feel her head crane to look at mine.
“Make no mistake, I’d rather be here, wrapped up in you, and I’ll definitely be back…” I turn to look at her. “But this whole package”—I gesture up and down my body with my free hand—“Won’t compromise your dream job.”
I pull her up so she’s prone over my body, lying atop me. I frame her face with my hands, staring up into her sun-kissed, makeup-less face. I search her eyes as she searches mine.
Fuck my life. It’s always a matter of what I want versus what is right.
I diet. I train. I lift. I work.
I won’t accept the junior varsity squad when I could be varsity.
Not good enough to make the team, I need to start.
It’s not enough to start, I need to set records.
It’s not enough to be drafted, it’s got to be first round.
It’s not enough to get hired, I need to get reps.
It’s not enough to get reps, I want to make highlights.
It’s always about putting off what I want now for what I want most.
And looking up into Olivia Morgan’s eyes, I don’t know that I want anything enough to sacrifice knowing her for it.
But I risk nothing, and she risks everything.
She lowers her face to mine. “Layton,” she whispers as she tentatively kisses me.
And every thought of what she’s jeopardizing, her job on the line, her career, everything she’s worked for is out the window with all my chivalry and discipline. In the game of what is right versus what I want, for the first time in my life, I’m choosing what I want.
And I want her.