Page 68 of Worth the Fight

He’s standing at the back door, looking out at the yard, and I hate the little flip-flop that my belly does seeing him there.

“Seen what coming?” I ask.

He turns, his smile crooked and hair disheveled from sleeping. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

“It isn’t that late—oh it is,” I say when I look at the clock to see that it’s past ten. “I worked late. I was on a roll and didn’t want it to stop. You worked late though, too. I mean in the backyard. Not at the station. But you never called for me to pick you up. So I was surprised when I heard the hammer. I should have come out and said hi. I should have . . .”

Am I rambling? Stop rambling. When did these nerves start around him? And are they why I stood in the kitchen and watched him but was too chicken shit to go out and talk to him? Add to that it felt awkward not heading to sleep in the same room as him.

“I know you did. You were still going at it when I went to bed.”

“Sorry if I was too loud and kept you up. I lost track of time.”

“No. Don’t apologize. I like listening to you sing.” I blush, suddenly self-conscious knowing he was listening. “It’s Sunday.”

I nod my head.” And . . .?”

“My family has a Sunday tradition of having dinner together.” I narrow my eyes as I try to see where he’s going with this. “Do you have plans today?”

“No, why?”

“Do you want to go to dinner with me?”

“But it’s not dinner time.” I smile.

“You’re right. It isn’t. Let me start over.” His grin widens. “Good morning, Dylan.”

I laugh. “Good morning, Grady.”

“I’m going to apologize in advance for this, but I’d like to know if you have any plans today.”

“If I didn’t, your approach is telling me I should pretend I do,” I play along.

“No, it isn’t that bad.” He chuckles. “It’s just my mother scheming to meet the girl who’s staying at my house and make an excuse for me to show up to a family Sunday dinner. When my dad drove me home last night, he was asking about you . . . so I should have expected an invitation from my mom like the one I just received.” He holds up his cell as if I can read the text or email from where I stand.

“For what?”

“They’re having a barbecue at the lake house. They invited a bunch of people, so don’t worry, it won’t just be you and me and them trying to figure out what’s going on between us . . . but you were invited.”

Invited. As a friend or as . . .?

“To Sunday dinner during the day?”

“Yes. Something like that.” His dimples deepen and every part of me wants to melt at the little-boy appeal they give to such a virile man’s body.

“The lake house?” I ask, my first thought is that there’s water, which means wearing a bathing suit, and bathing suits and I don’t get along in the least. Or rather, we do get along but the mirror and me wearing a bathing suit aren’t exactly the best of friends.

And my second thought is I’m still trying to figure out what’s going on between us, so it isn’t fair for his family to know before I do.

“Yes, the lake house. Sunshine. A rope swing over the water. Good food.” He shrugs and smiles. “You can’t stay locked away writing forever, can you?”

“Actually, I can.” I laugh, thinking of how many days I’ve felt like a vampire because I’m knee-deep in an album and hardly see the sun.

“But I won’t let you.” He grins. “Grab your suit and sunscreen. I’m not letting you say no.”

* * *

Bathing suit.