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“I think there were plenty of times when it was your idea, but you talked him into thinking it was his,” Lawson says.

A smile tugs at my lips. I don’t even think about denying it or trying to convince Lawson otherwise. He has me figured out.

How interesting.

“It was a win-win,” I say. “He liked being first. Which worked for me because if the floorboard was loose, or there was a beehive in the rafters we were climbing on, or the stove was hot—figuratively, and once literally—he figured it out first. And yes, sometimes he got the praise and applause, but he was also the one to get caught and in trouble.” I shrug. “Everyone always assumed he talked me into things, or that I was going along to try to talk him out of it or, at least, keep him safe.”

Lawson’s eyes narrow slightly, but he’s smiling. “And did Beckett believe that? That it was his idea and you were just going along.”

I finally laugh as I nod. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Lawson’s smile seems almost proud. “Beautiful and brilliant. I knew it.”

Well, damn, I like that. The man of my dreams calling me beautiful and brilliant could energize me for days without a drop of added caffeine needed.

“But here’s the thing,” Lawson says, growing more serious. “You have been letting someone else take the credit—and sure, sometimes the blame—for so long that you still do it. With people other than Beckett too. And you very much need to shine.”

“Do I?” I ask, my heart pitter-pattering.

“Yes,” he says firmly.

I don’t know why he's decided this or why it’s so important, but he seems adamant.

“I am okay, Lawson,” I tell him, trying to sound reassuring. This seems to really be bothering him.

“Well, maybe I should put it this way,” he says. “If you do a bunch of amazing things out loud and out in front where people can see it, that will give… people… lots of reasons to praise you.”

Heat swirls through me from my scalp to my toes.

Clearly those ‘people’ include him.

And do I want praise from him? Stupidly, yes. Is it a little pathetic? Maybe? I’m not sure. Should I discuss it with a therapist? Also maybe.

But I am sure that the idea of Lawson telling me he’s proud of me and that I’m doing a good job makes me very warm and tingly.

The things that Lawson Landry is figuring out about me could be dangerous.

Or they could be amazing.

Does he want to praise me?

And for what?

Knowing that he likes my cinnamon rolls was practically an aphrodisiac. Him praising me for more might actually set me on fire.

In a good way.

I swallow hard. “Lawson⁠—”

“That was a very good idea,” he says, his voice a little gruff. “Tonight was a great practice. You add so much to this team. You are really, really good at this.”

So, yeah. I do like being good at things that matter to people and help them. And I do like when they notice. And I very much like being praised.

And I like being praised by Lawson Landry very, very, very much.

He leans in, presses a kiss to the top of my head, and says, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sutton.”

I’m holding my breath again and expect him to pull back so that I can suck in oxygen.