Right.
Mel’s footsteps were a compelling reason. But I’ve been giving reasons for a long time now—good ones, logical ones, reasons that hold up under examination and that are handy when to reach for when the real answer makes me too uncomfortable.
The real answer is that I don’t know how to let someone come looking for me. I don’t know how to be the person someone else cares for.
I pick up both drinks—the prickly pear latte and the sea salt caramel mocha.
Maybe it starts like this.
***
When I get down to the dining room early, I find Lucas sitting alone at a small corner table. The only other people in the dining room aren’t with the Firebirds—two older men in golf polos murmuring over oatmeal.
It sends a thrill through me that rivals pulling him into my room this morning.
We’re in public, but there are no teammates. No front office. No eyes that know us.
I head over to the table before I can second guess myself and sit right across from him. He gives a small jump, and then he smiles. His eyes are less puffy than they were at five, but his blond hair is still a mess so wild, I’m filled with an urge to fix it. Or fluff it up more.
“Are you sitting on your hand?” Lucas asks, tipping over to look under the table.
“No. That’s absurd,” I say, pulling my hand from under my thigh before he can catch me.
“Oh my gosh, you want to touch me so bad, you had to sit on your hand,” he whispers.
I roll my eyes but let one corner of my mouth nudge up.
“I wanted to fix your hair, okay? You look crazy.”
“Crazy hot, though,” he says. “It’s okay, you can admit it.”
I inhale loudly, trying not to smile. Wishing I could flirt back.
Or maybe wishing we were back in my room …
He digs his fork into a huge omelet with green chiles that makes my stomach growl.
“Is that as good as it smells?” I ask.
“Try it,” he says, pushing the plate toward me.
The thrill I felt earlier intensifies. This is more than a stolen moment at breakfast or touching feet under the table.
This is sharing food.
Using the same fork.
“Sure,” I say, looking him in the eye as he lifts it toward my mouth. It feels reckless in a way that makes no logical sense—like we’re not just sharing breakfast, we’re making a public declaration.
I really shouldn’t do this …
I lean forward and bite.
The eggs are fluffy and salty, the green chiles bright and sharp, and the cheese has melted perfectly into everything. It’s warm, tangy, and strangely comforting.
“Um, yeah,” I say after I swallow. “I’m getting one. Be right back.”
I stand quickly and grab a plate before I can spiral over the fact that I just ate off his fork.
