Page 55 of The Backup Plan

“You’re working today?”

“Yep.”

He frowns. “That’s criminal.”

I snort. “Says the man who I’m sure put in reps on the field this morning and who is now standing in my living room in a towel.”

He glances down at himself and shrugs. “Emergency circumstances.”

“Uh-huh.”

He leans against the counter like he belongs here, is fully dressed, and hasn’t just hijacked my thoughts and brought them to places they shouldn’t be. “C’mon, Doc. You need a day off.”

“I’m fine. It’s the end of week two, and I still have so much to figure out.” Wasn’t I just telling myself to stop working and leave the house?

“Liar.”

I narrow my eyes. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough,” he says easily. “You run when you hate it, you work when you shouldn’t, and you haven’t explored the city yet.”

“Says one Type A to another.”

“True, but still . . .”

Something tightens in my chest because he’s right.

“The last time I explored, I ended up drugged in a bar.”

His expression shifts instantly. “That wasn’t exploration. That was someone else trying to rob you of your free will.”

The knot under my breastbone loosens a fraction.

He straightens as if he just had an epiphany. “Come with me.”

“What?” I laugh out. “Where?”

“Anywhere.” He grins. “Flea market. Coffee shop. You said something about home décor before—so let’s do that. I’ll even pretend to care deeply about throw pillows or curtains or whatever it is you want to buy.”

I laugh despite myself. “Don’t you have other friends you need to drag around?”

“Nope.” He shrugs. “Haven’t made any that I know I want to hang around with just yet.”

“Says the man who willingly stands for hours after practice and rehab talking and listening to every player who approaches him. I don’t buy your story for a second.”

“At times. Other times not so much.” He shrugs and clearly lies. “Sometimes mixing friends with business doesn’t always work.”

“Except for me.”

“There’s always an exception.” He resecures the tail of his towel into his waistband. “Besides, it’ll be nice spending some time with you when you’re not panting and cursing exercise.”

“Rude.”

“But accurate.”

I chew on my lip as if there really is a choice. My tablet is already half-forgotten.

“Fine,” I say finally. “But I need a minute to look more . . . presentable.”