Raiden already sat in a booth, his arms spread along the cushion and a Nighthawks hoodie framing that all-American grin. Glancing around at the crowd, I tossed him a smug look since he’d argued that we’d never have enough patrons in the morning to make it worth it.
He ignored my grin, then clocked my limp and snorted. “You’re getting old.”
“Fuck you,” I muttered, sliding opposite him. “I could out-bench you in my sleep.”
“In your dreams, Alabama.”
Before I came up with a response, my eyes slid toward the counter, as if they’d been magnetically pulled there. Rylin wasbehind it, pouring coffee into several mugs on her tray. A long braid kept her hair out of her face, but dark gold wisps still escaped at her temples. She laughed at something Lionel said, and the sound arrowed straight through my body, causing my cock to throb more painfully than my hamstrings. I grunted.
“Micah?” I vaguely heard Raiden say my name in an exasperated tone that made it clear he’d been trying to get my attention.
“What?” I growled absently, still watching Rylin’s every step.
“That’s her?”
My head swiveled, and I stared at him, my face carefully blank.
“Who?”
Raiden shook his head. “I’d heard from Tammi you were mooning over someone, but I didn’t believe it.”
“You gossip more than my nosy, eighty-year-old neighbor.”
He ignored my jibe, and a shit-eating grin spread across his face as he leaned back again, spreading his arms out across the back of the booth. “So this is happening? She’s the one?”
My eyes darted over to Rylin for a half second before I snarled, “Keep your fucking voice down.”
He raised both hands. “Apologies, Romeo.”
Raiden had already ordered us both a coffee when I arrived, so I took a sip to buy a second, then admitted, “Yes. She’s mine.”
“Does she know that?” he teased.
“I’ll let her know when she’s ready to hear it.” Which was the truth. Rylin wasn’t temporary, and I was prepared to play the slow game, even if it killed me. And the blue balls just might. But she was worth anything…worth everything.
Raiden chuckled. “You should work out that frustration on the field tomorrow. Coach’ll appreciate the hits.”
Before I could answer, Rylin approached, her order pad in hand. She slowed a fraction when she saw Raiden, recognition sparking, but she recovered fast.
“Morning, gentlemen. What can I get for you?”
“The Pancake Audible,” Raiden declared. It was a triple-stack of buttermilk pancakes layered with cinnamon-maple butter, crispy bacon shards, and a drizzle of bourbon-spiked syrup. Flip the play, score in syrup. It wasn’t the kind of breakfast we normally ate during the season, but he was obviously in the mood to indulge.
Since what I wanted to indulge in wasn’t on the menu, I ordered one of the healthier options. “The Morning Safety."
Smashed-avocado toast on seeded sourdough, everything-bagel dust, blistered cherry tomatoes, and pickled red-onion crunch. Kept the day from blitzing your blind side.
Rylin wrote fast, her smile polite as usual. I noticed a faint bruise on her forearm—just a shadow—and wanted to know who or what put it there. Probably the corner of the counter, or a bump with the dishwasher, something completely innocuous, but my fists clenched anyway. I didn’t like seeing her hurt.
She refilled our coffee mugs, fingers steady, then turned away.
Raiden waited until she crossed the room before leaning in. “You’re fucked, you know that?”
“That obvious?” I muttered, stealing one more glance.
“Dude, it’s clear to the toddlers over there. You look at her like I look at Marissa.” His grin softened. “It’s good, though. You deserve it.”
I thanked him with a lift of my chin.
