When I give him a repressive glare, March rests his arm around my shoulders and turns to a stone-faced August. “How long has it been since we’ve seen Penny, Gus-Gus?”
“Since your high school graduation,” August answers woodenly.
March and I are the same age, and we graduated together. Has it been that long? I suddenly feel ashamed that I’ve been neglectful in visiting the Lucks. Well, not all of them, just the males. Then I note the blank stare August is still subjecting me to. There’s a good reason I’ve stayed away from him.
March doesn’t seem to notice our weird tension. He pulls me more securely against him. It’s strange. Once, I might have swooned if he’d done that, but now it feels more nostalgic and comfortable than anything.
“Doesn’t Penny look great?” he asks August.
Okay, now I’m uncomfortable. I resist the urge to pinch March.
August blinks down at me. “She looks nice.”
The compliment sounds like it’s been dragged from him, delivered in such a deadpan, disingenuous manner that I give him an overly bright smile.How’s that for nice, mister?
As if reading my mind, he frowns and tries again. “You have nice teeth.”
What!
“What?” March manages through a snort.
August blinks again, then turns heel and strides into the kitchen.
Margo shakes her head softly, watching him go.
“Is he okay?” I ask. “I mean, he didn’t get a concussion or anything lately?”
This sets March completely off and he’s doubling over. I’d been serious in my query, but I guess that sounded bad. I wait for the floor to grant my wish and swallow me whole.
Sadly, the floor remains solid.
Margo, however, huffs in exasperated humor and gives her son an affectionate punch on the shoulder. “Quiet you.” To me, she simply shrugs. “Augie’s had a rough week.”
So I’ve heard.
Three
August
You have nice teeth.Holy shit. What the hell was that? Nice teeth?? Why the great fuck did I say that? Grimacing, I run my hands through my hair and plop down on the old leather couch in the study. My head hurts as though I’ve had my bell rung.
Might as well have, what with that absolutely nonsensical exchange out there. I still don’t exactly know what happened. I’d opened the front door and there she was, Penelope Morrow.
I’d recognize her anywhere—we’ve known each other our entire lives, of course I would. Except, she’s also completely different. She’s grown up. Grown upwell.
How is it that a mere five years can change a sweet little elfin face into... art?
I’d majored in art history, much to the amusement of both the press and some of my teammates. Not that I care—art and beauty soothe me in a way that is necessary given the stresses of playing at the top of my chosen sport.
Regardless, when I looked at grown-up Penelope Morrow, with her creamy oval of a face, framed by flowing chocolate-brown hair, and wide brown eyes that seemed both innocent and wise, all I could think was that she resembled the John William Waterhouse painting,Destiny.
All the little hairs on my arms had lifted at the thought. Destiny. It had felt... portentous. Which is plain ridiculous. I’m clearly on edge with this whole Funky Chicken Gate.
I blow out a breath to dispel that horrible memory. But it doesn’t dismiss the image of Pen’s face floating around in my head. Her lips are rose pink and pouty. The kind of mouth that needs kissing. And often.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I let out an expansive sigh. I don’t need to be thinking about Pen. I’ve got enough problems as it is. One huge fucking problem in particular. My insides roil when I think about today’s meeting with public relations, my coaches, manager, and my agent—specifically, about how to handle the mess I’ve made of my image.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I mutter under my breath. I don’t have to toe the line like a criminal let out early on parole. It is, of course, up to me. Laughable, because we all know I either show up as a team player willing to do what it takes to make amends, or I dig in and look uncooperative. Doesn’t matter that I am their number one pick, shiny new toy; image is everything, and I’ve done too much to tarnish it already.
