Her eyes are too sharp, too curious, and it throws me off balance. I glance at the TV for a second, pretending to be engrossed in the movie.
I take a breath and say it. “I was gonna suggest you stay over. If you want.”
Lucy blinks, caught off guard. “Stay over?”
“Well, if you’re not too traumatized, there’s always the chance for an encore.” I clear my throat, scratching the back of my neck. “You could stay. Tonight.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, her phone lowering slightly. “What?”
“You heard me.” I meet her gaze, praying I don’t look as nervous as I feel. “You don’t have to, obviously. But if you’re comfortable—and if you want to—I’d like it if you stayed.”
The words hang there, and for a split second, I swear I see her cheeks flush.
Her mouth opens. Closes.
For once, Lucy—the woman whoalwayshas a comeback—is speechless.
I realize, in that moment, that I’m completely screwed. And that’s when the nerves creep in.
“Or, you know—forget I said anything,” I add quickly, trying to sound casual as my heart pounds like a damn jackhammer. “It’s totally fine if you need to go. I thought—”
Then I do what I do best:double down.
“I mean, I can think of a lot worse ways to spend a night.” I sound like a douchebag. “You. Me. No interruptions.”
She arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Interruptions likesleep?”
Exactly.
“I’m not sure if I’m allowed to fraternize with the lumberjack hired help—Annabelle has no idea I’m here. She may want you in bed early so you can be at the lake, practicing.”
“Fuck practicing. I’m a professional. She has no faith whatsoever in my logrolling abilities.” I pause. “The good news is, now she also has me chopping wood.”
My date considers this new information. “Are they giving out participation trophies, too, or is the pile of logs supposed to be your reward?”
I narrow my eyes. “Awards? Don’t get me excited—I love those.” Especially the shiny trophy they give you after a Super Bowl win. I stretch out, draping my arm casually over the back of the couch. “The way I see it, chopping wood is an art form. One swing for a split down the middle. Takes patience,” I boast. “Precision.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Patience? Precision? Wow.”
I fake a wounded look, pressing a hand to my chest. “You think I don’t have it in me?”
I keep reminding myself that we haven’t met before this week and she doesn’t know what I do for a living.
Which suits me fine.
Nothing has been more entertaining than pretending to be a fucking lumberjack, of all things.
“Oh, I think you’ve got a lot in you.” Her voice is smooth, a touch teasing, and the way she leans forward slightly makes my heart thump louder than it should. “But patience? That’s not the first thing I’d associate with you.”
“What do you see when you look at me?”Curious minds want to know.
She studies me for a few quiet moments before saying “I see someone who can’t take himself seriously for more than two seconds.”
She wounds me.
For real.
It’s like she doesn’t know me at all! If only she knew what it took to win a Bowl game. Or get drafted.
