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Chloe arches her brow. “She’s good.”
“CeCe, Jillian, and a couple of CeCe’s friends got into an argument?—”
“Jumped. We got jumped by a bimbo wearing a Locke jersey,” Jillian, who happens to be a complete knockout and has that extra bit of sass that some unknowing fool is going to fall face-first in and never be the same, cuts Roman off.
“Well, I certainly do apologize for that, but I can tell you that I’ve only ever given out one jersey with my name and number on it,” I assure her.
“You must be hungry, Leland. Here, have a taco; they’re delicious.” Mrs. Hart hands me a plate.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hart.”
“Call me Linda.”
* * *
Less than half an hour ago, I sent a text.
Me
Time to make nice, Gwendolyn. Am I coming to you, or are you coming to me? X
I then said goodnight to the Harts and Aikens and headed to the townhouse.
Once inside, I turned on ESPN to catch the highlights, stripped off my clothes, and went full slut mode, throwing on a pair of gray sweats, no shirt. I then grabbed two bottles of Berg from my fridge, lit a candle, and set our song on repeat.
As soon as my ass hits the brown leather couch, my door flies open, and Gwendolyn York crosses the threshold into the townhouse.
I push up off the couch, stretch specifically to show off the six-pack, and groan as I look her over, from the thick waves spilling out of a bun perched on top of her head to her navy-blue painted toenails peeking out of a pair of Birkenstock slides.
“Bring it over here so we have nice to make.”
“Have you lost your damn mind?” she snaps, crossing her arms over her chest, but not so fast that I don’t notice her nipples trying to tear through her shirt to get to me. “Stupid question. Of course, you have. Could you turn this shit off?”
“It’s ‘Our Song.’”
“We don’t have a song, Locke. We broke up like a hundred years ago.”
“This is still ‘Our Song,’” I point out.
She covers her ears, and her cheeks start getting pink. “Turn this shit off now.”
“You’re adorable.”
“Swear to Jesus, I will smash the fucking—” She’s got that wild critter look while glancing around, trying to find where the music is coming from, and when she spots the speaker, she heads toward it.
In order to get there before she does, I make the decision to jump over the couch to stop her, knowing damn well she will, in fact, fulfill that promise.
I land a little fucked up and realize my ankle’s a bit more tender than I realized. Not enough to stop me, though.
I get to her in time to wrap my arm around her waist, pull her in tight, and sing the words in her ear, “Our song is a slamming screen door, sneaking out late, tapping on Gwendolyn’s window, when you’re on the phone and you talk real low, ’cause it’s late and Miss Deb… oof.”
“Turn. It. Off.”
“You win, but do me a solid?”
“No,” she snips.
I can’t help but chuckle. “Tell me I’m right; this is ‘Our Song.’”
