Her body takes mine down, but I shift to keep from eating the laundry room tile floor. Years of taking charges on the basketball court have prepared me for moments like this.
Except no coach ever prepared me for the feeling of Nicole Farrarah sprawled across my chest, her face inches from mine.
We freeze, her baby blue eyes locked onto mine. My heart jumps to my throat at the heat of her body against my own.
Her hair has fallen forward, creating a curtain around our faces. This close, I can count the light freckles across her nose that areusually invisible, a secret only revealed in proximity. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated, and there’s a flush across her cheeks that could be from exertion or embarrassment or something else entirely.
“Are you hurt?” I manage to ask, my voice coming out rough.
“I should be asking you that,” she replies, making no attempt to get up. “You’re the one who hit the floor.”
I’m suddenly aware of every point of contact between us. Her hands pressed against my chest. Her legs tangled with mine. The warmth of her body seeping through my workout clothes, a sharp contrast to the cold tile beneath my back.
I realize I’ve been silent for too long, just staring up at her like an idiot. But she isn’t moving either, and there’s something in her expression I can’t quite read—a vulnerability that makes my heart pound against my ribs.
“I’m fine,” I finally say, though “fine” doesn’t begin to cover the riot of sensations coursing through me. “Professional athletes are built to take falls.”
She laughs softly, and I feel it more than hear it—a vibration that travels from her body into mine. “Lucky me,” she murmurs.
Time stretches between us. Somewhere in the room, a washing machine switches cycles with a mechanical click. A dryer buzzes to signal its completion. But these sounds feel distant, unimportant compared to the sound of Nicole’s breathing and the thunderous beating of my own heart.
Without conscious thought, my hand moves up to brush a strand of hair from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear. My fingers graze her cheek, and I feel rather than see her slight intake of breath.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice husky.
The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning deeper than the simple wording. I’m not just asking about the fall. I’m asking about everything—the humiliating networking event, the women who were cruel to her, the constant string of mishaps that seem to follow her around like shadows.
Her eyes soften as if she understands all the layers beneath my question. She opens her mouth to answer, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting. But before she can speak, a furry missile launches itself at us. Cocoa, apparently tired of being ignored, bounds over and plants himself squarely between our faces, enthusiastically licking Nicole’s cheek and then mine with equal fervor.
“Cocoa!” Nicole sputters, her serious expression dissolving into laughter. “Gross!”
The tension breaks, replaced by the absurdity of the moment. I can’t help but laugh, too, even as I wipe off dog slobber with the back of my hand.
“I think he felt left out,” I say, grinning up at Nicole, who’s still half-sprawled across me, now trying to fend off Cocoa’s determined affection.
“Or he’s apologizing for making us chase him across half the building,” she suggests, finally rolling off me and onto the floor. She sits up, running a hand through her tousled hair.
I push myself up, and my back protests mildly—the tile floor isn’t exactly forgiving—but I barely register the discomfort. I’m too focused on the way Nicole is now sitting cross-legged beside me, her cheeks still flushed.
Cocoa prances around us, clearly delighted with himself and the chaos he’s caused. He jumps onto Nicole’s lap, tail wagging like a metronome set to maximum speed.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she tells him, scratching behind his ears despite her stern tone. “Otherwise you’d be in serious trouble right now.”
I watch them together—this woman who can’t seem to catch a break and her completely unrepentant dog—and something warm unfurls in my chest. Back in Alabama, my life was orderly, predictable, safe. Since moving to LA, everything’s been unsettled, uncomfortable, strange.
But for a weird, perfect second, I forget why I ever wanted to be anywhere but here, in this ridiculous laundry room with this girl and her disaster dog.
I push myself to my feet, then extend a hand to Nicole. She looks up at me, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, before placing her hand in mine. Her palm is soft against my calloused one, her fingers slender compared to mine. I pull her up perhaps a little too enthusiastically—she rises quickly, momentarily swaying into my space before finding her balance. My free hand instinctively moves to steady her, resting lightly on her arm.
Neither of us immediately steps back.
Cocoa circles our feet, seemingly pleased with himself for bringing us together like this, his mission accomplished.
“I could help you train him, you know.” The words come out before I’ve fully thought them through. “So this doesn’t happen again.”
Her eyes widen. “Really? You’d do that?”
I nod, my hand still resting on her arm, my thumb unconsciously tracing small circles against her skin. “I told you I grew up training dogs. It wouldn’t be that hard to teach him some basic commands, maybe work on his recall.”
