Page 331 of Wild Card 13

Lucy at the hospital, whispering that Lena’s hands were so tiny, then pressing her face into my chest when Bea cried.

Lucy’s sketch pad on my counter.

I wanted the rest. The thought had been living in me for days, maybe longer. Growing roots. Getting loud.

Move in with me.I had almost said it three different times already.

Tonight, though, the words sat behind my teeth with a steadiness that did not feel like panic.

“Pasta,” Lucy said softly.

I blinked. “What?”

She laughed under her breath and took the spoon from me. “Move, professional athlete. You’re a liability.”

Dinner tasted better than it deserved to. Pasta, jarred sauce I had tried to improve with garlic and whatever herbs were still alive in the fridge, bread I absolutely almost burned, and a salad Lucy made because she said adults needed something green on the table.

“We are adults,” I said, looking at the salad with suspicion.

“Technically.”

“I have a mortgage.”

“That does not prove maturity.”

“I kept a basil plant alive for eleven days.” I shrugged flippantly. “It was weak, but I loved it.”

“Rest in peace, Basil Burns.” Lucy laughed so hard she had to put her fork down.

After dinner, I was loading plates into the dishwasher when Lucy walked back out of the hallway in sleep shorts and a soft gray long-sleeved shirt that looked familiar because it was mine. Her hairwas down now, damp from the rain and curling around her shoulders. Her glasses were back on her face. She had washed off the workday, all the arena polish gone, leaving just Lucy. Bare feet. Tired smile. One hand pushing her hair away from her cheek.

I stared.

She stopped beside the island. “Subtle.”

“I was not trying to be.”

“That shirt was in my bag.”

“Was it?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

“I stole it weeks ago.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I liked where it ended up.”

Her cheeks colored, but she rolled her eyes like that would save her. “You are getting very smooth in your old age.”

“I’m twenty-six.”

“Ancient.”