Page 87 of Promise

Lying next to Dart, I was reminded of when we first started hooking up. How we’d linger in bed when we could. How he’d tease me before we parted. Sometimes a simple kiss led to a morning quicky. A race against the alarm clock. Dart always made sure I was satisfied before I started my day and had something to remind me of him throughout it.

I never forgot.

We were so carefree back then. But then again, that’s how one feels in their twenties, I guess.

Still, was it wrong that I wanted a little quicky this morning? A refresher on what we’d done last night.

Despite my emotions pinging all over the place, I felt calmer this morning. Dart’s attempts to talk last night and his care in the shower made me feel seen by him. Made me feel special. Waking up next to him renewed that feeling.

He didn’t slip out of bed like we’d done something we should not have done. He stayed.

“You okay?” he asks me, interrupting my thoughts.

“Are you?” I ask, arching a brow. An altercation with Tate could be fruitless. Tate was always determined to win, even if he was wrong.

“Never better,” Dart lies, the heaviness of whatever happened between him and his old friend still weighs on him.

I slip my arm around his back and settle into his side. Then I glance across the room at Vale.

She grins like the Cheshire cat. Like she knows what I’ve done with the man beside me. She winks in solidarity.

I glance at Tate next, who purposely does not look in our direction, but takes a seat next to Cortland

“Who is ready to eat? I’m starving,” Mom says, momentarily breaking the tension so everyone’s focus shifts to breakfast.

The next hour includes the sound of plates being scraped clean and loud chatter about the baseball team Cort and Clint coach. The Haven Hitters, a twelve-and-under group of kids, are ripe with stories.

Mom speaks mainly to Vale and me about new romance novels at The Babbling Bean.

Dart appears like he’s soaking it all in, holding Mirabelle in the crook of his arm while I eat. He casually leans back in his seat, with his arm draped over the back of my chair. A satisfied expression fills his face.

Dart Rivers is home. With his extended family.

Tate is unusually quiet before he stands abruptly and clears his plate.

“I need to head out,” he states, looking only at Mom. “Summer camps start this week.”

“It’s Saturday,” Mom reminds him, but Tate’s excuse goes without further question.

As athletic director at the high school, he developed a summer sport camp program for younger kids. The six-week program builds community with the older kids and brings additional funds to the high school’s athletic program.

Tate kisses Mom on the cheek and slaps Cort on the shoulder before heading out.

“Well, that was fun,” I mutter as Tate’s exit takes a bit of the stale air with it.

“Trinity, be nice,” Mom warns, but she loosely smiles in agreement.

“Nice? I’m always nice,” I tease, shifting sideways in my seat.

Dart chuckles while Clint snorts.

“Oh, I see how this is,” I continue. “Two against one.” I arch a brow.

“Sounds like a ping-pong matchup,” Clint challenges.

I laugh until I realize he’s serious.

When we were kids, our mother would send us out to the garage to clean up the countless pieces of sports equipment or wash our bikes. Any excuse to get us out from underfoot. We spent enough time in the garage that Clint eventually brought home a ping-pong table someone was giving away for free.