Beside the bag from the little breakfast place down the street, which I’m betting is filled with their famed egg sandwiches, he’s got a coffee cup carrier with four drinks, a donut box, a grocery store bag filled with pre-sliced fruit, and a mini snake plant in a terra cotta pot with a Waves blue bow tied around the lip.
Tenny points his chin toward the green striped plant tucked under his arm. “Momma always said to bring a gift whenever you’re invited over.”
When I simply stare, a slight flush pinks the tips of his cheeks. The disobedient organ in my chest does a little affectionate flip before I remind myself that Tenny isbad news.
Okay, that’s a little harsh. Other women might be okay with dating someone who likes to keep their options open, but that’s not me.
I step back so Tenny can enter, then reconsider, reaching out to relieve him of the donut box and coffee tray before they careen toward the floor. The action brings us chest to chest as I try to get beneath the stacked items without toppling them. My fingers brush his arm as I slide them beneath the box.
“Got it?”
Is it just me or did Tenny’s voice drop three octaves?
I lick my lips, trying not to notice the scent of his cologne over the delectable aroma of coffee and bacon.
“Um…”
I do—in fact—have it, but I’m stuck in that weird tractor-beam, frozen-body spell that only Tenny seems able to cast. My gaze ticks up and, yep, that was a mistake, because now I’m incapable of looking at anything but bright, beautiful blue.
A car door slamming in the parking lot snaps me back into action. Spinning on my heel, I stride into my box-clad apartment and straight through to my balcony. The only furniture I have, besides my mattress—which weare notsitting on—are the two plastic chairs and small side table I picked out for my compact outdoor space. I ordered some essentials for the living room, but they’re still in their shipping boxes, pushed against the wall.
I set everything on the table before turning the cups in the coffee carrier to read each label. When I find an Americano, I release a happy sigh and tuck one leg beneath me on the chair. In an attempt to not overthink today, I’m wearing what I usually would at home—loose, wide-legged lounge pants and an oversized Roxy sweatshirt. My hair is a wavy mess because I showered after the flight last night and went to bed with wet hair. All I have on my face is the SPF moisturizer I use every morning.
I wanted my outfit to screamThis is not a datejust in case Tenny was unclear.
Based on his gray sweats and Waves hoodie, he understood the assignment.
“I set Leaf Erickson on the kitchen counter. I hope that’s okay,” Tenny says while unpacking two egg sandwiches and a container of sliced strawberries.
“Did you…did you name my plant?”
“He just looked like a Leaf.” He keeps his gaze on his work, opening a clamshell of raspberries and placing it near me.
I pop a few tart berries in my mouth, chewing to keep myself from saying anything. Because I get it—that spiky plant could totally have been a Viking in its past life. Screwing my eyes shut, I shake my head. I can’t get swept up in Tenny’s wholesome quirks.
When I hazard a glance in his direction, Tenny is stretched out, his sneakers relaxed against the bottom railing whilecradling the coffee cup labeledCream, Two sugars. His gaze is fixed on the ocean, a slight smile lifting the corner of his mouth.
“What?” I want to ask so much more than that simple, one-word question.
Tenny doesn’t look at me. “This suits you. I didn’t like the idea of you living in Nevada when you were covering the Rattlesnakes’ Triple-A team. You should be by the ocean.”
The second the answer is out of his mouth, he straightens, pulling his feet beneath him with a wince. “I mean…you should do whatever you want and live wherever you want.” His eyes shut with a nasally exhale. “I didn’t—”
“You’re right,” I say, putting him out of his misery.
Tenny glances at me like it’s a trap. “I am?”
“Yes.” I nod, snatching the sandwich with the bacon box checked on the wax wrapper. “That will be one part of this little bargain.”
He relaxes back again, picking up the other sandwich. “Care to elaborate?”
Then I launch into my crazy idea—how I’m going to help him to be free of his superstitions. I give him the main points: how we’ll work on one at a time, lean on performance instead of ritual, and then deliberately challenge the superstition.
“You think that’ll work?”
“I’m sure it will,” I tell him, watching today’s swell. “Because I used those techniques on myself.”
I can feel his intense gaze on the side of my face but focus on the sea. “The first time I went through the Olympic trials, I was highly superstitious. I had to have exactly seven bracelets on my wrist, kiss my fingers and touch them to my board, and wear my hair in Dutch braids every time I competed. Then I learned you can’t always control every circumstance.
