Page 148 of The Backup Plan

“Huh. Interesting.”

“Did you ever play sports?” I ask.

“Let’s just say I tried a lot of different ones and wasn’t particularly good at any of them.” She laughs. “And it’s not for a lack of trying.”

“What was your favorite?”

“Volleyball? I think.” She shrugs. “I liked being part of a team more than anything. The friends. The inside jokes. The feeling like I belonged.” She meets my eyes and tilts her head. “So yes, I understand that part when you talk about it.”

I nod in response.

“What did your parents say about all those different sports? You don’t talk about them much.”

Her smile is automatic. “They let me try whatever I wanted. They thought all the experiences would make me a more well-rounded person.”

“I have to agree with them there.”

“And I guess I don’t talk about them much because they’ve always just been there. Dependable and unchanging. Does that make sense? Like they’re a constant. We text randomly throughout the week. I don’t know.” She falls quiet.

“What is it?”

“I feel bad talking to you about how I take my parents for granted when yours . . .”

“Don’t feel bad for me. They’re there in the background, but the connection is just flat. Besides, I have Brendan. I have the families I’ve created at each club I’ve played for. I can’t complain in the least.”

Her smile is soft. I see compassion there but not pity, and I appreciate that.

“I can’t believe you got me to play hooky, Lucas Hale. I do not play hooky. Ever.”

“You and your rules,” I say, but when our eyes meet, I realize just how much they’re a part of who she is.

She relented on disclosing my scans. She’s going against her own moral code for me. She’s challenging everything she believes about herself, everything that she’s built her career around—for me.

Oof.

Unable to resist, I lean in to kiss her—slow, easy—and the boat rocks with the sudden transfer of weight.

She yelps and tumbles forward, landing half on my chest, half tangled in the fishing line.

I bark out a laugh while somehow making sure to grab her pole so it doesn’t fall overboard.

“We were going to tip,” she says breathlessly, bracing her hands on my chest.

“We were not going to tip.” I brush my lips against hers. “But it was my foolproof plan to get you a little closer to me.”

“Is that so?” she asks as she pushes herself up, cautious not to rock the boat again.

I hand her back her pole, use my now free hand to cup the back of her neck, and pull her in closer so I can taste her kiss.

Christ. Fishing and my woman. What more can a man ask for?

“Hmm,” she murmurs. “You can rock my boat any day.” She laughs as I narrow my eyes at her and shake my head. “Too cheesy?”

“Way too cheesy, but I’ll take it.”

“So will I.”

She grins and falls silent as she reels her pole in to check to see if the worm is still on it. I watch her. Can’t help but not.