Page 103 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

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CLEMENTINE

“Come on, Clem! You’re not even trying!” Henry called out, dribbling the basketball between his legs.

I wiped sweat from my forehead and grinned at my little brother—though at seventeen and six-foot-two, there was nothing little about him anymore. “I’m trying! You’re just showing off because you had a good game yesterday.”

“Had a good game?” He shot the ball, and it swished through the net without even touching the rim. “I had the game of my life. Coach said the scout from Syracuse was taking notes the entire fourth quarter.”

My heart swelled with pride as I watched him retrieve the ball. “Henry, that’s incredible!”

The kid was an athlete through and through. Football was his game, but if it didn’t work out, he was pretty damn good at basketball as well. And baseball.

Henry had gotten all the athleticism in the family.

He launched into a play-by-play of yesterday’s game, complete with dramatic reenactments of his best moves. The way his eyes lit up when he talked about football reminded me of how I felt in the kitchen. It was that pure, unfiltered passion for something you loved.

It was why I never ignored him when he wanted to talk about plays and first downs. He listened to me talk about cooking and was the guinea pig for many of my failed recipes.

And lived to tell the tale.

“I really think this is it, Clem,” he said, bouncing the ball absently. “I think I’m going to get that scholarship.”

“Of course you are,” I said, meaning every word. “You’re amazing, Henry. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks.” He grinned and threw me a gentle pass. “And when I’m at Syracuse, you’ll have to come visit all the time. Make your famous chocolate chip cookies for my teammates.”

“Deal.” I laughed. “I’ll make sure you’re the most popular guy in your dorm. Nothing wins friends like homemade food.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

We kept shooting around for another few minutes, just enjoying the crisp November afternoon. Being home felt surreal after weeks on the road. I missed hanging out with Henry in our backyard like we had a thousand times before. It felt like exactly what I needed.

The tour had been stressful. Emotionally exhausting. It ended on a high note, but boy had it taken a while to get there.

And there was the little issue of what happened next. I had no idea where Rhett’s head was at. I didn’t feel like it was necessary to push the issue right away. We had to worry about the service tonight. I knew it was a lot of pressure on him. I didn’t want to add to his stress. We could figure it out later.

The last thing I wanted to do was be one of those women that needed him to plan out the next year with me. And label it. He was older. I knew that was a point of contention for him. If I started acting all needy and demanding things of him, it was going to confirm every one of his hesitations about getting together.

“I’ll show you what I’m really made of,” I declared, squaring up against Henry with the ball in my hands.

“You’re like five-foot-two, Clem. This isn’t going to end well for you.” He laughed, crouching down into his defensive stance.

“Height isn’t everything,” I said, dribbling the ball awkwardly. I wasn’t exactly blessed with coordination, but I’d been playing basketball with Henry since he was twelve. I had to have picked up something over the years.

I faked left, then drove right. Henry, probably assuming I’d fumble the ball or trip over my own feet, didn’t react fast enough. I managed to get around him and took a shot from about six feet away.

Swish.

“Holy shit!” Henry yelled, then immediately looked toward the house. “Sorry, Mom!”

“Language, Henry!” came Mom’s voice from the kitchen window.

I did a little victory dance, pumping my fists in the air. “Did you see that? Pure skill!”

“That was luck,” Henry said, but he was grinning. “There’s no way you can do that again.”

“Oh, you want to bet?” I retrieved the ball and dribbled it with slightly more confidence. “What do I get when I make another one?”