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Her lips pucker to kiss my thumb, a move that’s somehow sweet and painfully erotic, and she cups my face in her hand.
“I wanna dance with you for the rest of my life, too.”
“To Snoop Dogg?”
“Yes.”
“What about Queen?”
“Definitely.”
“And Dave Matthews?”
“I’d rather make out to his music, but yeah, if you wanna dance to it, too, then sure.”
“I’d rather make out to Dave, too.”
I roll on top of her, bracketing her head with my elbows. I slide my thumb over and kiss her. Drinking her in, her tongue in my mouth, my heart in hers. I pull and she gives.
She’s always giving.
We make out like that for a while. Until her body starts to go slack. It’s gotta be late. I’m definitely going to regret staying up so late tomorrow.
“Put your arms around my neck,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her neck. “I’ll carry you to bed.”
I tuck her in. As I’m turning out the light beside the bed, Eva’s eyes flutter open. Meet mine.
“I love you too, Ford.”
My heart takes a tumble. “Love you, baby.”
And you know what? It doesn’t hurt as much as it usually does when my alarm wakes me up at the ass crack of dawn the next morning for my workout.
I’m in love. Eva and I and Bryce—I think we’re going to be okay.
Hell, I think things are going to be great.Chapter Twenty-EightEvaYou know you’re a real adult when you have to set an alarm on Saturdays.
Mine goes off at six. I hit snooze twice, resisting a third attempt. I’d just be delaying the inevitable. I’ve got so much work to get done between now and Wednesday if I’m going to make this deadline. If I get up now, I can get in a couple thousand words before I have to leave for Bryce’s soccer game at nine.
Which reminds me—damn it—I meant to make a list of all the things we worked on at practice this week so we can put them into action today. And that whiteboard with the soccer field on it that I meant to order online—completely spaced on that one. Maybe I have time for a quick Target run before the game? What time does Target open on Saturdays anyway? Oh! And maybe I can grab a pumpkin spice latte while I’m there. Grab Ford a black coffee and Bryce something fun. I heard they have these unicorn milkshake things. If it doesn’t have coffee in it, it may be worth a try? I know how much Bryce likes unicorns.
I drag myself out of bed, curling a hand around the nape of my neck. It aches. So do my back and head. This damn headache. I’ve had it for days now.
Then again, I’ve been having an inordinate amount of very athletic sex with an inordinately athletic gentleman. I smile at the memory of the quickie we managed to squeeze in yesterday after pizza night. Quick and dirty in the front seat of Ford’s Range Rover. I climbed on his lap. Then he bent me over the center console and went to town.
Worth it.
I take two ibuprofen and make myself some scrambled eggs and toast. Two cups of very strong coffee. None of it agrees with my stomach, and my brain feels more than a little foggy. But I still manage to get fifteen hundred words in before I throw on some shorts and sneakers and dash out the door at a quarter past eight.
Ford, being the awesome guy he is, is already at the field. We laugh as we approach each other through the wet grass, both of us holding styrofoam carriers of coffee.
“Great minds,” I say.
“No kidding. Thought you might need an extra boost of caffeine today. I sure as hell do.”
“Miss Eva! Miss Eva!” Bryce wraps herself around my legs. Her version of a hug. “We’re gonna win today, aren’t we? I have my new cleats. Look! Aren’t they beautiful? I got red ones, just like you. Even though I don’t really like red very much.”
I rub my hand across her little back, tilting my head to grab a quick kiss from Ford. His scruff chafes against my chin and cheek. He smells freshly showered, body wash and clean skin. Electricity spreads through my skin at the simple contact, kicking my pulse up a notch. The attraction I feel for this man is next level. I feel the pull of his body on mine, tension already building between us after one kiss.
I can’t help but smile.
Despite the extra coffee, I can’t seem to focus very well during the game. I catch Bryce rubbing her little forehead on the sideline, like she’s got a headache she can’t kick, either.
One of our players, a little boy named Joe, throws up halfway through the game.
Five minutes later, Bryce does, too.
A sense of foreboding creeps up my spine as our players drop like flies. While it’s certainly not cool outside—down here, summer lasts well into September—it’s not hot enough to warrant this kind of reaction.
