“And you’re one of those people?” I played coy.
“I am. In fact, watch.” He strode ahead of me with those long legs of his and opened the passenger door of his Wrangler, and with a dramatic sweeping gesture motioned for me to get in.
“Cute.” I smirked at him as I climbed into the passenger seat.
“I know.”
>> <<
Cota Coffee was on the other side of the island, tucked away a block from the beach under a massive oak tree. It even looked like a little treehouse, and faint jazz music fluttered from a hidden speaker. But even in the shade, the late May heat was stagnant and thick, and I breathed a sigh of relief as Brooklyn came back out to our table with our lattes, the cups already dripping with perspiration.
“So, I should have told you this earlier, but I didn’t wanna freak you out,” Brooklyn said as he sat down across from me. “Cota is a locals-only secret spot. If you tell anyone about this place, you’ll be cursed for eternity.”
“I’ll take my chances.” I smiled, stirring my latte with the straw. “How long does one have to live here to be considered a local?”
“Well, how long haveyoulived here?”
“Technically since this past January,” I told him. “But I was finishing school, so I’ve only lived here full-time for almost three weeks.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Sky Valley.” I sat back in the wrought-iron chair and folded my arms over my chest. “When do I get to askyoua question?”
“Whenever you want.” Brooklyn mirrored my movements, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms, and I wished I hadn’t noticed how his biceps flexed against the thin cotton of his T-shirt. “Ask me anything.”
“Anything?” I echoed.
“Yeah, anything.”
I sipped my latte, contemplating my question carefully. Of course I wanted to know why he was at Otter House, but I wanted to know so much more than that. I figured starting with the basics was the best way to ease into it without sounding overeager.
“Fine.” I nodded. “Where didyougo to school?”
“Clayton University.”
I chuckled and shook my head. “Oh my god, that makes so much sense.”
Clayton University was the big, exciting D1 counterpart to the tiny liberal arts school of Sky Valley. They were a half hour drive apart, and the distance was about the closest thing about them.
Brooklyn, arms still folded and biceps still flexing, arched a challenging eyebrow at me. “You mean as much sense as you going to Sky Valley?”
“Oh, of course,” I said. “What sport did you play?”
“Why do you assume I played a sport?”
“Because nobody goes to Clayton unless they play a sport.”
Clayton was good at almosteverysport, but football was the big one, and they were deeply steeped in tradition, like ringing the giant bell in the clocktower that loomed above the football stadium at the beginning of every game while “For Whom the Bell Tolls” by Metallica blasted from every speaker in the building.
I, of course, had only learned all of this against my will by being in such close proximity to it practically my whole life. Football in the South was a whole thing—it just wasn’t reallymything. Hence my enrollment at Sky Valley, the schoolwithouta football team.
Brooklyn snickered. “Sounds like something someone who went to Sky Valley would say.”
“You still haven’t actually answered my question.”
Brooklyn paused, and thank god he was wearing sunglasses because I was sure I would have melted like chocolate in the sun under the heat of his gaze. “Baseball. Full scholarship. Satisfied?”
“I just like knowing things, that’s all.”
