“Belt buckles?” I gaped at Braden, who was turning the most adorable shade of red.
He had one that lit up like a marquee billboard. He could customize it to say whatever he wanted.
I nearly wheezed with laughter. “What did you program it to say?”
“That is for me to know, you to never find out, and you,” he said, pointing at Ginny. “To drop immediately before I hang up this call.”
Would you rather I tell her about the diamond-encrusted ones?
Ginny and I snickered as Braden shook his head. “How about you tell me about how you are instead,” Braden said.
All good here. Just playing my games and bracing for the winter. We’ve already had snow.
“You love the snow,” Braden teased.
Yeah, but it’s not as fun when you’re not here to peg with snowballs.
I chuckled, but noted the pain under Braden’s laugh. I remembered then that Ginny couldn’t throw snowballs anymore and wondered if Braden was wishing for a time when that wasn’t true.
Mom wants to talk to you. Dinner is almost ready. I just wanted to say hi. Glad I got to meet your friend.
“I’m glad I got to meet you, too,” I said.
“Bye, Sis. Love you.”
Love you.
The phone was picked up then, and Braden’s mother came on. She was stunning, a warm, older woman with those same honey eyes that Braden had. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise when she saw me, and I swore I saw her and Ginny exchange a knowing glance.
“Hello, dear. I’m Braden’s Mom, Angela.”
“Hi, I’m Emily.”
“Glad to see Braden is making some friends. He gets so focused sometimes I think he forgets life is not all about football,” she teased.
I slid my hand over Braden’s ass out of frame, squeezing playfully. “I do my best to get him to take breaks and live a little.”
“Love to hear it,” Angela said. Her smile slipped as she exited Ginny’s room. “Braden, do you have a moment?”
I felt Braden stiffen next to me. “Always.”
He muted us before telling me what to keep an eye on while he was gone, and then disappeared back down the hall.
For a few seconds, I stood there staring after him, the kitchen suddenly too quiet after the warmth and laughter of the last several hours.
Then I turned back to the stove.
The chicken was done, the edges golden beneath the creamy Tuscan sauce that bubbled softly around the spinach and sun-dried tomatoes. I used a pair of tongs to transfer the chicken breasts to a plate, then draped a sheet of foil loosely over the top like he’d instructed. When I lifted the lid on the rice, a cloud of steam curled into my face, warm and fragrant, and I gave it a quick fluff with a fork before lowering the heat.
Dinner was ready.
Braden wasn’t back.
I found myself glancing down the hall more than once, listening for his footsteps, trying not to let my mind run ahead of me.
When he finally returned to the kitchen, the change in him was immediate.
His face had gone pale, and whatever softness had lived there before was gone now, replaced by something tighter and more guarded. He looked like someone who’d been pulled abruptly out of a dream and dropped back into real life.
