I will honestly and unexpectedly miss him when I leave.
Which, clearly, I should not tell him right now. Instead, I settle on a soft, “Thank you.”
He moves closer to me while we talk, squatting with apopin one of his joints and a grimace on his face that says he’s feeling every bit of today’s training. “You saythank you, but you have no idea how many books I hid in my pants while you were sleeping.”
“Ooh, which ones?”
“That’s classified.”
“Did you hear that a lot when you were growing up too?”
“Every single day. It’s fascinating to me that you stored books on the history of eggs next to historical pirate porn.”
“If you call my romance novelspornagain, I’ll spread the rumor among the athletes in town that you think their partners are ugly.”
He smirks as he drops to kneel on the floor beside me. “They won’t believe you.”
“Yes, they will.”
“You couldn’t lie effectively about that.”
“Wanna bet?”
His smirk has turned into a full-on grin that makes my heart do a little pitter-patter the same way it sometimes does when I’m watching the best part of a rom-com film. Fletcher Huxley grinning with that beard and those eyes and that jawline—yes.
Yes, please.
“I salute your competitive streak, but you’d lose this one,” he tells me.
I involuntarily twist on the floor as a tight flare of pain shoots across my pelvis, making Sweet Peahmphand lift half a sleepy eyelid. Poor pup. She’s gonna have to move, because I need to move. I gave my rug away last week, so there’s hard wood beneath me. My neck is getting stiff and achy, but not for the same reason as the throbbing in my hip.
Fletcher gently pulls her off of me, the back of his hand sliding across my stomach and making it drop like I’m on a roller coaster. “Sorry, pup. Your bed has needs. I’ll buy you a steak later to make up for it.”
She yawns loudly, but when he grabs my shark blanket from the chair Odette loaned me for the next week and makes a nest with it on the floor, Sweet Pea happily settles into the soft fleece and goes back to sleep.
“She doesn’t go crazy if she wakes up in the middle of the night?” I ask.
He grins. “Don’t fuck with my dog’s sleep schedule. She’ll cut a bitch.”
And then he wraps his massive hand around my shin as I pull my knee toward my chest. “Need help?”
He’s snuck into my brain a time or two in the years since that incident at the college showcase. I don’t remember everything he was wearing that day, but I remember the jacket. It was loud and flashy, neon green and ripped with some designer’s logo printed on it so large, the entire word didn’t fit. One of those fashion pieces that most of the world would call ugly—neon green? Really?—but those in the industry would probably call abreathtaking statement piecethat cost more than some people’s annual rent. Any time I’d think about him, I’d tell myself he was all arrogant swagger and no substance.
But this Fletcher?
The one who’s quietly adding the smallest amount of extra stretch to my hip that I couldn’t reach on my own? Who brought me a cookie and packed my boxes? Who’s watching me with an alertness that he has no right to have this late at night after a long, grueling day of his own?
This Fletcher is all substance.
He’s still swagger. But it’s a different kind of swagger. It’s inherent rather than flashy. Earned. Natural.
Sometimes hilarious, like when he uses it while attempting to beat me in Monopoly.
“More?” I say quietly.
He slowly adds pressure to my shin, putting enough extra pull in my glute that it hurts. I close my eyes and breathe into the pain.
“Goldie?”
