She’s in a skin-tight red dress that reaches mid-calf, withher dark hair twisted up in a fancy knot. “Fletcher calls this myfuck youdress. It’s his favorite.”
“Only when we’re home alone,” he grumbles as he turns to us after kissing Mom on the cheek and thanking her for having them.
“That might be too much information,” I say.
Goldie’s golden-hazel eyes sparkle with mischief. “That’s what my brother said too.”
“We really getting steak?” Fletcher asks me.
I point toward the double glass doors to the patio, where plumes of grill smoke are billowing around the patio and an older gentleman in a cowboy hat is flipping steaks at the grill. “I’ve been in catering and hospitality too long to disappoint. The wine is fabulous too. Which I won’t be having. But I still know it’s great.”
“The decorations are beautiful,” Goldie says, gesturing to the glinting silver streamers and the balloon arch at the photo station.
“Miranda told me what to do there. I just put it in motion.”
“You both did a fantastic job.” She squeezes my hand. “So now you get to enjoy the evening, yeah?”
“Yes,” I say out loud while my brain saysI’m going to try.
Fletcher pats me on the shoulder. “Good job. See you later.”
Holt’s getting another hug from my mom, who pulls out of it and smiles at me. “Ziggy, do you remember Holt? He sent flowers when we lost our sweet Oreo last year, and he’s always the first to hold a door for any of us when he has both feet. Which he does. Finally. He was going to leave us to play in Europe but decided to come back to the Pounders after all, and we couldn’t be more thrilled.”
The whisper campaign is clearly working.
I hold out a hand when I want to leap into his arms and ask him to please take me somewhere to hide from an arranged dinner date. “Nice to see you again.”
He takes my hand in his large, warm one, and he squeezes. “Likewise.”
Swear that’s alikewiseto my internal thoughts rather than my boring greeting. “If my mom is happy you’re still on the team, then I’m happy too.”
“One of the best teams I’ve ever played for.”
We’re still shaking hands. I need to let him go.
But this is the only time I’ll get to touch him at all tonight.
“Oh, you,” Mom says, playfully batting his arm. She shakes her head at me. “He’s the kind who would say that about any team he played for. Always looking for the bright side.”
And he struggles to find it.
I know that much after getting to know him the past couple months.
But he’s here, and I’m glad.
I give his hand one last squeeze, then drop it. “I hope you have a lovely time tonight. The food should be good.”
“Hope so,” Silas says behind him.
“Oh, Silas, so good to see you too.” Mom hugs him as well. “I was sorry to hear your dad couldn’t make it this year.”
Holt snorts.
Silas grimaces too, behind Mom’s back. “Yeah. Really sad.”
He extricates himself from Mom’s grip and holds out a hand to me. “So you’re Ziggy. Goldie keeps talking about you.”
“Who are you, and how do you know Goldie?” I ask.
