My words died when I saw the man on my porch. It wasn’t the cocky football player.
It was his coach.
And he looked pissed.
19
Preston
My eyes traveled over Trinity’s face, across her T-shirt, and down her bare legs, searching for any sign that JaggermotherfuckingRoss had his hands on her. I cataloged her fuzzy slippers, then the lean muscles of her legs before I moved my gaze back to her face. It wasn’t flushed. Her lips were pressed in a firm line, a furrow in her brow. Her hair was slightly damp, hanging over one shoulder.She just showered?
She already washed him off.
Fuck, that was worse.
My hands clenched at my sides, my neck tense when she tilted her head.
“Coach? You need something?”
I said the first thing that popped into my mind. “A cup of sugar.”
It was a neighborly thing to do, right? Borrow a cup of sugar here and there. An egg or some milk. Very suburbia.
“A cup of sugar?” she repeated, a question hanging at the tail end.
“Yes. Sugar.” I cleared my throat as her eyebrow lifted.
“Okay.” She stepped aside. “Come in.”
My feet moved, following behind her before I closed the door. The house smelled like warm cookies and a hint of cinnamon. I’m assuming from the candle she had burning on the coffee table.
“What do you need sugar for?” she asked as she rounded the kitchen island.
“Baking,” I muttered, my eyes moving to the couch.
It looked unused.Thank fuck.
Wait, I bet they used the bed.
I’m losing it.
“Baking,” she mused. “At eight thirty at night?”
“Sweet tooth,” I responded, my hands gripping the edge of the counter.
“Wow.” She reached out to open her pantry door.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just surprised, is all. Someone like you…baking.”
Now it was my turn to lift a brow. “A bit judgmental, don’t you think?”
She shrugged a shoulder. “Just an observation from past experience.”
“I learned to cook at a young age. You kind of have to when your mom leaves you for days at a time with a toddler who needs to eat.”
The words tumbled out before I could reel them back in.
