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My stomach goes all fluttery and adrenaline surges through me as he locks his serious gaze on mine.
Yes!After a craptastic start to the year, things are finally looking up.
I lick my bottom lip, holding my breath in anticipation of what’s about to happen. Hisin-personresponse to my love note. Possibly our very first kiss.
“Um—sorry to bother you like this—” He runs a hand through his dark hair, shuffling from foot to foot. “But is your dad home?”
I blink, my mind whirring, trying to process the words. “My dad?”
“Yeah. Coach Carter. Is he here?”
Cam shoves a hand in his jeans pocket as crushing disappointment settles like a 200-pound barbell on my chest.
Of course he’s here for my dad. He always came looking for my dad.
The winningest football coach in town history. The man, the myth, the legend. Everybody’s hero.
Dammit.Good to see nothing’s changed.
Feigning neutrality, I hold back a sigh.
“He’s still at school.” I glance at my watch. “But heshould be home soon, usually around three-thirty. You’re welcome to come in and wait.”
I tip my head back toward the dim living room, stepping aside so he can enter. He brushes past me, our arms touching for the briefest of moments, and I catch the faint scent of him. The same masculine-smelling cologne, like he’s come straight out of the forest, mixed with the slightest hint of salty sweat from the south Georgia heat.
The screen door slams shut, the bang echoing loudly through the quiet space. Kicking the main door closed behind me to preserve the precious AC, I turn on my heels and head to the kitchen. Cam trails behind and I wonder if he’s checking out my ass, peeking from beneath the hem of my T-shirt. Just in case, I add in a little extra shimmy.
“Want something to drink while you wait? Water? Lemonade?” I offer, already reaching for a glass from the cabinet.
He shrugs. “Sure. Lemonade’s good.”
I set about fixing drinks, plunking ice cubes into glasses, then pouring a healthy serving of lemonade for both of us from the plastic jug.
“Thanks.”
Taking the drink from me, the tips of our fingers brush, and I work hard to ignore the electric zing shooting up my arm.
“Coach still gets his lemonade from Ingles, huh? They always had the best lemonade.”
“Yep. My dad sticks to the tried-and-true. ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’ is his motto.”
I gesture at the table and he takes the hint, sliding out a chair and maneuvering his massive body into it. He leans back and the old chair creaks under his weight. Cam looksto be solid muscle now and I silently pray this isn’t the moment that chair finally cracks under pressure.
Lifting the glass to his lips, he takes a long gulp, and I fervently try not to stare. I haven’t seen Cam Crawford in years—not since he left for college—and now he’s sitting at my kitchen table.
Did he read the message I sent?
He’s not acting like someone who read the World’s Most Embarrassing Email. But I can’t be sure—maybe he’s playing it cool?
The wall clock ticks loudly behind me, the only other sound the light clink of ice in Cam’s glass. He sets the lemonade down and drums his fingers on the table in an agitated rhythm. I silently shuffle through various conversation starters, my chest tightening as the seconds crawl by.
Damn, this is more awkward than rereading that tequila-drenched missive I typed last night.
I sink into the seat next to him, carefully angling my legs beneath the table to avoid playing footsy. He seems preoccupied—and not with how best to declare his undying love for me.
“So—what brings you back to Thunder Creek?”
There’s a clever line. Good one, Sloane.
