Carson scoffs beside me. "Bullshit."
Landon finally glances at him, but barely. His focus is right back on me. “Think whatever you want. But I’ve been watching your games, Willow. Studying film, breaking down plays, seeing what’s working and what’s not.” His lips press together for a second, frustration flickering over his face. “I want to help you win.”
Something painful lodges itself in my chest. Because Landon isn’t just here for some half-assed attempt to grovel. He’s here because he actually knows what’s important to me.
I don’t know much about his past, just that he played hockey, some roller derby, and that he’s stupidly good at golf; I learned that the one time I let Chad and Lilah drag me to a course.
Maybe he really does know what he’s talking about.
Hunter doesn’t move, muscles wired tight, a predator seconds from pouncing. Graham’s jaw is stone, but that vein at his temple throbs, screaming restraint. Carson’s fingers flex, twitchy, restless—he’s one heartbeat away from throwing me over his shoulder and marching out.
They’re all on edge, seconds from snapping. And it only lights me up more. Heat claws through me, low, deep, impossible to ignore.
I catch the exact moment my perfume rips through them. Graham’s jaw grinds down, brutal, unyielding. Carson’s spine stiffens, his smirk gone, replaced by something hungrier, darker. Hunter’s nostrils flare, fists curling, breath dragging slow and deliberate—because if he doesn’t, he’ll cave and carry me out caveman-style.
Their control just makes me hotter. My thighs squeeze together, desperate, but it’s not enough.
Then Landon inhales. Deep. His gaze locks on me, and I watch it wreck him. His lips part, chest jerks sharp, body locking up as though my scent punched the air out of his lungs.
Because now he knows for sure I haven’t just been sitting around mourning him.
I’ve moved on.
Maybe not completely, maybe not in the ways that he thinks I have, but I can’t hide what my body is saying right now. Not from him. Not from them. It’s all on display, and I really regret not wearing blockers.
Not wearing them was my only way to be defiant thismorning. A way to say, fuck you, you can smell me, but you can’t touch me. Well, that move is backfiring because I am pretty sure I’d let them touch me if they tried.
Obviously, the peaches and cream blooming around us tells Landon exactly that, too. He knows, it’s written all over his face.
Pain.
Regret.
Jealousy.
The truth of it makes something tighten in my chest. I blink the moisture out of my eyes. Then I swallow, trying to get my body under control, trying to focus on what the hell I’m supposed to say to him right now.
I should tell them to back off.
Should tell Landon to leave. But instead, I just stare at him. Because I don’t hate him the way I did when he first showed up. No, I think I still love him, even after everything that’s happened.
And that’s almost worse. I inhale slowly, pulse hammering in my throat. “Give us a minute.”
Silence.
Three sets of eyes snap to mine—disbelief, irritation, and a territorial fury they’re barely keeping on a leash. I blink slow, refusing to back down. Yeah, I might want them to bend me over and fuck me until I forget my own name, but that doesn’t mean they own me.
Hunter’s lips flatten, jaw ticking hard. Not impressed.
Carson exhales through his nose, eyes flashing, but there’s a spark of tease there too—daring me to keep pushing.
Graham is last. Always last. Always the hardest to win over. His nostrils flare, his jaw locking so tight I wonder if his teeth will shatter. The silence stretches, taut and unforgiving, until finally—finally—he gives me the barest nod.
One nod. That’s all it takes.
A command rolls off him, silent but sharp, when he reaches out and taps Hunter and Carson on the arm. They don’t argue. Don’t like it, not one bit. But they listen.
Still, when they back off, it’s only a few steps. Just enough to be out of earshot—but not far enough for Landon to forget they’re there.
