Well. Rodney Wilsonisflirting with me. And it feelsincredible.
What in the world does one do when their celebrity crush appears before them and starts dropping hints? Hell if I know. I literally cannot believe this. Play it cool, Jor.
I ever-so-quickly and ever-so-awkwardly step away and, of course, Rod follows what I do motion for motion. ‘Thanks,’ I say around a forced cough, crossing my arms over the bull on my ratty Coors Rodeo T-shirt.
‘Don’t mention it.’ Rod extends the bag sheepishly. ‘Doubt I’d benefit from taking this home with me.’
‘Not unless you know how to garden. Do you?’
‘Poorly.’
I laugh, shaking my head. Some of the awkward slides off my shoulders, and I accept the bag. The brush of our hands leaves a tingling dancing across the pads of my fingers, the sort of sensation that I realize I kind of want to feel more of. ‘You could plant something, sometime. Just ask.’
‘I have the opposite of a green thumb,’ he says with a wince.
I take a daring little step forward, lean in. I get the briefest note of his cologne, a piece of what I’d caught all the parts of just a moment ago. Musk? ‘Once upon a time, me, too.’
‘You? Miss Farm Fresh?’ Rod raises his hands in disbelief, but I take that moment to turn and head for the patio doors to the guesthouse, a hand pressed to my chest once more. It’s no longer the calm evenness. My heart is fucking pounding, and the more I think about it, the more I realize that there’s only one reason for that, one person causing it.
‘How’d you do it?’ he calls after me. I will myself to blink away the thoughts of what that strong chest looks like without the layer of fabric between us. Jeez. You literally just got here, girl. Leaning into whatever this is, even if it’s Rod Wilson at the other end, is so random, so counterproductive, and such a far-fetched dream. Actually, this is about as far from reality as far gets.
‘Go get your pie!’ I shout back. I roll my eyes. And I slide the door shut behind me.
But the second I’m inside, I press a hand to my forehead, wide-eyed for a minute like I’ve almost hit a coyote driving at night. Holyshit.
‘Holy shit,’ I repeat. And then I clap my hands over my mouth. What I think is a squeal comes out. Foreign sound, one I was pretty sure I was incapable of making. Until now.
I close my eyes, and unfortunately, all I see is the unfairly handsome face of Rodney Wilson. I can literally still feel his hand against my bare skin. I touch the place he’d held me. I have some irrational need to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
I take a big old breath. My pulse doesn’t slow.
So. Not hallucinating.
Chapter Six
Don’t Look
Rod
The image of Jordan walking away, towards the patio doors, is practically burned into my brain, and whether she realized it or not, the little glance, the cut of her eyes back at me replays over and over every time I catch sight of her with her group of campers on the other side of the field.
What the heck is going on with me? This enigma of a woman, whether I care to admit it or not, is suddenly taking up real estate in my head – no asking, no telling – and I can’t get her out. When I’d reached for that gardening bag, the warmth of her body against the heat of mine, some instinct I thought I’d lost a long time ago came right back to life, hot-wired like a stolen car. I don’t really care to admit Genny’s right about anything at all, but something about Jordan Gutierrez-Hawkins is already turning my peaceful summer into a mindfuck.
I watch as she practises the cradle technique with her campers, smiling in approval, and I wonder if her eyes are doing that slight crease of amusement behind her sunglasses. The defined muscles of her arms are fully visible owing to the rolled-up sleeves of her tie-dyed Whittaker Lax Camp T-shirt.
Back to it, Rod.It takes a pretty good amount of effort to return to the task at hand, but I turn back to my group of very theatrical campers, all of whom are spread-eagled in the grass with various brightly coloured water bottles. I give them a sharp, short toot of my whistle. ‘C’mon, folks. Let’s get to work.’
‘Puh-leese, Coach Rod,’ Jacob lays on the drama, pretending to collapse with his arms over his eyes in mock agony. ‘We’redyingout here.’
I find this par for the course, considering this camp consists exclusively of kids who’ve already been playing club for the tri-town under-twelve team spanning Whittaker, Crosley and Joyce: the Bobcats. Lacrosse players, from a young age, are great at putting on a show. Jake is our number one. He’s been coming to camp since I started coaching, and he’s our main character. He’s a natural ringleader, a troublemaker, a ball hog, but I remember being much the same when I was younger, save for the fact that Jake only ever brings the most explosive peanut-butter sandwiches to lunch at camp: peanut butter everywhere, hands, face, grass, you name it. Give him a couple of years, and he’ll be a high-school team captain better than I ever was.
‘You know that scrimmage is Friday!’ I retort with a raised eyebrow. ‘Do you really want Coach Jordan’s team beating ours?’
‘Well—’
‘He means ‘no’.’ Lyla, Jake’s very level-headed older sister clambers to her feet and gives her brother an irritated huff asshe picks up her stick. Lyla is Jake’s polar opposite. When I first met their family, I struggled to remember that they were siblings, because Jake, ginger, green-eyed, and freckles, looks nothing like Lyla, who’s dark-haired and about a foot and a half taller than her brother. She is also the biggest hater of Jake’s peanut-butter sandwiches. ‘We definitely do not want to be beaten.’
I’m relieved when some of the other kids start to catch the vibe and get up, though begrudgingly. This is sort of a Whittaker camp tradition, a little healthy intra-camp rivalry to start off the summer. With Benny strolling between the two groups, we have some extra coach manpower to hold the affair down, too, which can never hurt, considering last year’s camp scrimmage involved an unexpected stick check scheme and the throwing of numerous rubber chickens (don’t ask).
