“Not so much of a star,” she muttered. “Didn’t even make it through one full game.”
“Still got three more years.” I brushed my thumb along her cheek. “Four if you redshirt smart.”
Her mouth softened.
“Look at you knowing NCAA eligibility.”
“I read.”
“Hot.”
“Yeah?”
She leaned in and kissed me quick. Soft. Too sweet for the place we were about to walk into.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “Hot.”
The knot in my chest loosened another fraction.
I kissed her back harder than I meant to, then forced myself to pull away before I said something stupid like—‘I love you’ in Richard Montgomery’s driveway.
The driver took us the rest of the way up.
We walked into the house together.
The second we stepped through the front door, I felt every eye in the room land on her.
My father’s first.
Richard Montgomery stood near the marble fireplace with a glass in one hand and the other tucked into the pocket of navy slacks. Silver threaded through his dark hair in that controlled, expensive way men on business television aged when they paid entire teams to keep them looking authoritative.
He didn’t look like a father.
He looked like a closing bell.
Tall. Lean. Tailored. Calm enough to make people nervous.
He had the kind of face investors trusted and employees feared.
He didn’t look at me first.
He looked at Isa.
Of course he did.
Everyone did.
She stood beside me in a cream sweater, jeans, boots, and that effortless Texas polish that made the whole foyer look like it had been staged around her. Her hair fell over one shoulder in glossy waves. Her mouth held the kind of smile that could cut glass without breaking shape.
But I knew her better now.
I saw the tiny tension at the corners.
The calculation behind her eyes.
The way her fingers brushed mine once, hidden between us, before she stepped half an inch closer.
She was nervous.
