I know the simple compliment shocks him, because he’s just taken a bite and starts coughing like crazy.
“You okay?” I thump on his back as he downs his water in one gulp then gets up and heads to the sink for a refill. Felix has had me discombobulated for days, so it’s more than a little bit gratifying to return the favor.
“’M fine,” he mutters after taking another long drink. “Chicken went down the wrong pipe.”
“It happens.”
He swipes under each watering eye with his sleeve. “For the record, I don’t need to be more than football. Football made me what I am, and I’m fucking grateful for it. It’s all I need.”
“Okay,” I answer, even though we both know he’s lying.
“You want wine?” he asks suddenly, grabbing a bottle he must have brought up from the small cellar in the basement. “I meant to uncork it earlier. I can pour you?—”
“I can’t—” I catch myself, clearing my throat. “I mean, I shouldn’t. Since you’re not drinking because of training, I’m not going to either.”
He sets the bottle down, a small smile playing around his lips. “You’re a solidarity gal, Hart?”
“Something like that.”
“Ronnie used to love my dry spells,” he says, slicing more bread and pushing the cutting board toward me. “It meant she had a designated driver.”
My eyes roll to the ceiling. “Your ex was a real treat.”
“We have that in common.”
His eyes meet mine, and his gaze goes dark. There’s a lot we haven’t said about Bradley and Veronica. About choices and mistakes and the invisible scars we carry from all of it.
“Tell me more about your secret bread obsession,” I say as I study the piece in my hand. “Are you in a baking club?”
He lets out a long exhale and then takes a seat next to me again. “No sourdough clubhouse,” he says as he polishes off the last of his dinner and shakes his head when I push my plate toward him. “Eat your veggies.”
“Carb loading is way more fun.” I nudge my knee against his. “Besides, I see you eyeing my food. Don’t act like you don’t want it.”
His low laugh sends shivers skating up my spine. “I wouldn’t dare.”
“Back to the bread.” Oh, crap. Why does my voice suddenly sound husky?
“I get a lot of tips from the forums.”
I blink and try to force myself back to the conversation for real. “Felix Barlowe hangs out in sourdough forums?”
“I don’t go by Receiver Paws Felix or anything,” he says like, duh.
“Color me fermentation bubble intrigued.” I point my last bite at him. “What do you go by?”
He leans closer. “You planning to online stalk me?”
“I don’t need to go online,” I answer. “I can stalk you in real life.”
“Kind of creepy,” he murmurs, but his eyes are dancing.
My heart does that annoying topsy-turvy thing again. If I were a puppy, this would be the point where I’d flop on my back and offer up my belly. “Spill it, Felix. You know you want to.”
He grunts—or maybe it’s supposed to be a scoff—and after finishing off my veggies in two bites, takes both of our clean plates to the sink. I collect the water glasses and follow him over, resigned to the fact that he’s not going to spill a thing. Why does it even matter? His bread forum username is none of my business, and I’m clearly not the person he would share it with. I don’t want to be that person for Felix, I remind myself.
Who’s lying now?
“Filsbury Dough Boy.”
