Page 9

Cass snaps her head away from me and says, “Bryce! Really? Kissing my forehead?”

“Please, Cass,” Lizzy says. “It’s not like he’s kissing your lips. The kissing photos always do the best.”

“Fine,” she says, tipping her head and returning her gaze to meet mine.

I lean down and place a kiss on her forehead, lingering so Bryce can capture the shot. She smells like … oranges? … No. It’s lemons. And sugar. How fitting.

I smile, suppressing a laugh.

Cass quietly asks, “What’s so funny?” But she makes it look like she’s saying something tender and sweet to me.

Bryce keeps shooting. Lizzie’s got the video camera rolling, but they’re both at a slight distance.

“Nothing,” I say. Then, for no logical reason I add, “Just how you smell.”

Cass breaks her act of adoringly holding my gaze for the briefest moment. “How I smell?”

Lizzy shouts over, “Marcus, could you brush a lock of Cass’s hair off her face?”

I’ve felt safer during a blitz than I do gently touching Cass right now. But I reach up and slowly push a strand of Cass’s wavy brown hair off her face, accidentally trailing my fingers down her cheek afterward.

“Great! Got it,” Bryce says. “That shot was amazing!”

As soon as he speaks, Cass breaks away from me and puts a few feet of distance between us.

“Do you have what you need?” Cass asks Lizzy.

“Maybe we should wait for them to tell us when we’re done,” I suggest.

I regret my words immediately.

I’m the oldest son. My mom worked long hours. I ran the house in her absence. In football, I gravitated toward the quarterback position. I lead the offense. It comes naturally. No one has ever seemed to have any problems with my leadership—not until Cass.

“Just a few more,” Lizzy begs us.

Then she directs us to stand face to face.

“Marcus, loop your hands around Cass’s lower back. Cass, put your arms around Marcus’s neck. Now, look up into his eyes.”

Bryce chimes in. “Marcus, could you lower your forehead to rest it on Cass’s?”

I do. We’re staring into one another’s eyes, foreheads touching. I can’t even remember the last time I wrapped my arms around a woman, let alone stood still, staring at her.

Cass is practically holding her breath. Her fingertips brush the nape of my neck and I suppress a shudder. She’d revel in eliciting any reaction from me—I’d never live it down.

Our eyes are locked in a staring contest. From the vantage point of the camera, we may look like a romantic couple having a private moment. Our silent showdown is as potent as any I’ve had with a defender on the field.

We move from the bridge to a private shady part of the park with a picnic blanket where Lizzy and Bryce instruct Cass to sit on my lap with my arms around her. My body and mind are at war with one another. She feels too good in my arms. An unexpected urge to protect her and care for her rushes through me. My grip on her tightens just the slightest—just in time for my brain to catch up.

This is Cass.

You don’t protect her, you protect yourself from her.

She bristles and pinches my thigh.

“Keep your grip loose, QB. I’m not your pigskin.”

“Smiles!” Lizzie reminds us.