“You mean Shepherd Haynes, the football star?” she asks, but there’s no mockery in her tone.
“Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love playing football, but at the end of the day what I really crave is…”
“Peace,” she answers for me.
I nod, watching her with the feeling that maybe she totally gets me. “Yeah, exactly. Sometimes I just want to be a guy eating tacos that might give him food poisoning, you know?”
She laughs again, and I swear I could get addicted to that sound. It’s now my goal to make it happen as often as possible.
“And what is Shepherd Haynes the non-football star like when he’s at home?”
I give her my most exaggerated shrug. “I think you’re looking at him.”
She raises a brow. “Really? Non-football star Shepherd Haynes is just a guy walking down the street eating ice cream?”
I nod, a goofy smile playing across my face. “Yep. Well, maybe I’m wearing a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, but I’m still eating ice cream like any other normal person.”
“I bet you have fancy expensive sweatpants though.” She winks.
“I’ll have you know they’re very normal sweatpants,” I tell her, trying to look offended but failing miserably. “I mean, I don’t go shopping for the most expensive pair I can find.”
“Sure, you don’t. I bet they’re cashmere or something equally ridiculous.” A small drop of ice cream threatens to run down the side of her cone, and she catches it with her tongue in a way that makes my throat dry.
“They’re cotton. Regular cotton from regular cotton plants grown by regular cotton farmers.”
She laughs again, and I silently congratulate myself on another victory. “Regular cotton farmers? Is that what they’re called?”
“I have no idea,” I admit. “But I know they’re not made of gold thread or whatever you think I wear around my house.”
“Fair enough,” she says, but I can tell she’s not entirely convinced. “What do you do when you’re home alone? Besides eat ice cream in your totally normal, not-at-all fancy sweatpants.”
I consider this for a moment. The truth seems too mundane to share, but I’ve been honest with her so far, and it seems to be working.
“Woodworking,” I tell her.
Her eyebrows lift in surprise. “You’re serious? Like actual woodworking? With tools and everything?”
“Yes, with actual tools,” I laugh. “What did you think I meant? That I whittle little figurines with a pocketknife?”
“I don’t know.” She throws up her free hand. “I just didn’t expect…that.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Video games? Watching film? Having models feed you grapes while you count your money?”
I nearly choke on my ice cream. “Models feeding me grapes? Is that what you think rich athletes do?”
She shrugs, but there’s a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I’ve never met one before, so my information is limited to bad reality TV.”
“Well, I hate to disappoint, but there’s a severe grape shortage at my house. And a model shortage, too, come to think of it.”
“Tragic,” she says, finishing the last of her cone.
“My workshop is my favorite place in the house,” I continue. “I build things. Tables, chairs, shelves. Sometimes just small stuff like cutting boards or picture frames.
I like working with my hands. Creating something tangible, you know? Something real that exists because I made it.”
Sutton studies me for a long moment, her dark eyes searching mine like she’s trying to…what? Figure me out? Find the lie? I hope she sees there isn’t one.
