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One second before I open the door, I pull out my hair tie and fling it into a far, shadowy corner of the living room.
And then Baylor’s standing before me, hands shoved in his pockets, short hair tousled as if he’s run his fingers through it. Golden eyes under straight dark brows, a little dimple on his left cheek, body to kill or die for. He makes my knees weak. Every damn time.
We stare at each other, him grinning, and me with my heart pounding like a kettledrum. Do we talk? Are we just supposed to go at it?
“Hey.” My stunningly witty opener.
“Hey, yourself.” His gaze runs over me. “You look pretty. Flushed,” he adds, his grin deepening. “But pretty.”
“Yeah well—” I stand back and wave him inside. “I’ve just run all over the house cleaning it so...” I shrug.
He laughs a little, walking into the center of the living room. God, but he’s tall. Without heels on, I’m an elf next to him.
“I’d say you were joking with me, Jones.” He turns and catches my eye. “But I know how honest you are.”
I bite back a smile and close the door. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Funny, I thought I was giving you a compliment.”
“Have we drifted into the compliment stage?” I’m a little too breathless, and I have no idea what to do except babble.
“Jones, I’ve been giving you compliments since day one.” His voice is low and easy, and it makes my toes curl into the carpet. “You just haven’t been paying attention.”
Taking a breath, I ask him the important question. “You want a drink?” Or do we just start fucking like bunnies?
I don’t even know what answer I’d prefer until he says, “A drink’s good.” Something in me eases a bit, when really I ought to be more agitated.
He follows me into the open kitchen, his eyes taking in everything, from the decorating by IKEA and secondhand furniture to Iris’s hot firemen of NYC calendar hanging on the dividing wall to the kitchen.
“Nice place,” he says kindly. Because it isn’t that nice.
“We did what we could with my mom’s castoffs. Though some of it has seen better days.” I glance at the big brown sofa. “I think Mom got that thing when I was ten.”
“I did the same. When my parents...” He trails off, looking pained.
“When they what?”
He clears his throat, ducking his head as he gives the back of his neck a scratch. “Ah, when they died.”
My insides lurch on a jolt of prickly heat. “Your parents are dead?” Of course they are, he just said that. “I mean... Hell, Drew, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
The corner of his mouth lifts in a weak attempt at a smile. “How could you be expected to know?”
“This is probably one of those common knowledge things about you, isn’t it?”
“Maybe. But then we both know you don’t follow football or my life.” He sounds oddly relieved about that.
“Did you—” I fight to keep my voice from wavering “—go live with your grandparents or relatives?”
He clutches the back of his neck again. “Naw. I don’t have any. It was just me and my parents left at the time.”
Jesus. All I can think is that he’s an orphan. Alone in life. And look at what he’s accomplished. It isn’t my business to feel it, but pride and admiration swell within me. Not that I can tell him that without it sounding patronizing.
“Drew, I am sorry. That sucks.”
“Yeah. It does.” He doesn’t look at me.
“How...” I wince. “Never mind.”
