And she’s pretty. That’s the word that lands, simple and annoyingly accurate. Now that it’s on a roll, my brain, unhelpfully, keeps going. I think about the way her hair had been slightly damp and the way that towel had done absolutely nothing to hide her curves—feminine, strong, and real in a way that doesn’t feel put together for anyone else.
I exhale, slowly. This is not relevant. Except, well. It is, apparently. Because the next thing that surfaces is her hand, and the moment she’d taken my wrist to gift me the bracelet.
My jaw tightens as I remember the pressure. The exact point where her fingers rested. The way her thumb brushed just slightly as she adjusted it. Precise, tender, and I’m pretty sure my brain was then as it is now. Completely useless. Mush.
Because instead of focusing on what she was saying, or the fact that we were standing in a room full of thirteen-and fourteen-year-old girls, all I could think about was her lips. The fact that I’d kissed her. The way it felt. How soft her lips were. How much I…
I drag a hand down my face, rolling my eyes and groaning out loud. That had not been the moment for that. There I was, supposed to be helping, being present, doing something objectively good, and I was standing there thinking about kissing her again like an idiot.
“That was not appropriate,” I state out loud.
And yet, even now, the memory doesn’t file away cleanly. It lingers—and it’s not just the kiss. There’s more. It’s her smell, the blend of citrus and coconut and a perfect summer day I’ve only dreamt about. The way she feels, or rather the way I feel when she touches me.
Usually, it takes time for the noise to fade. For my brain to acclimate to the contact enough that I can actually focus on the person instead of the sensation. With her, the quiet was immediate.
Vivian Sullivan literally gave me peace.
She anchored me in a way that I simply don’t have a better word for. It’s a new feeling to me, and it’s foreign. It’s not uncomfortable, but enough ofsomethingto throw the edges off.
And I don’t have a category for that. Yet.
Which is the problem.
I stare out through the windshield for a second longer than necessary.
Dr. Hale would say?—
I cut the thought off.
“No,” I say under my breath. This is part of my homework. We’re not analyzing anything. We’re not naming it.
I am going to practice.Practice.That’s the focus.
The Birdcage comes into view ahead, solid and familiar, and something in my chest settles just a fraction. Monday offseason practice with the guys. It’s a happy place for me. It’s routine. It’s structure. It’s what I know I need right now.
I reach for the door handle, pushing it open, the warm air hitting my face, and noticing as I step out, that there’s still a part of my brain that doesn’t let her go.
Pretty.
She really is pretty.
CHAPTER 11
VIVIAN
“Yes, I understand you’d like it to feelmeaningful,” I say into the phone, pressing it a little closer to my ear as I force my voice into its brightest, most accommodating tone. “I just—when you say ‘subtle but also very large,’ can you walk me through what that means for you?”
I close my eyes briefly, as if that helps me to hear her better.
“Mm-hmm,” I murmur, nodding like she can see me. “No, I hear you. A statement piece that doesn’tfeellike a statement piece.”
My gaze drifts to the display case in front of me, to the neat rows of rings that are very clearly either statements…or not.
“Right,” I say. “And you’d like it by Friday.”
Silence stretches just long enough for me to consider pretending the call dropped.
“Of course you would,” I add, smile firmly in place even though there is absolutely no one here to witness it.
