Her gaze goes to my knee. “How does it feel today? After, you know ...”
After carrying her through the woods, tripping all the way back to the cottage? After going for a late-night swim? Fucking her in the yard? Feeling great, for the most part.
“Surprisingly good. I need to check in with my trainer today, give him an update. But yeah, can’t complain.” I sip my coffee. “Maybe it’s all the sex that’s doing my body good.”
Annabelle rolls her eyes. “What are some of your red flags?”
Easy. “I drink out of milk cartons—but in my defense, I live alone, so it’s my fucking milk.”
She laughs. “Fair.” Pause. “What else?”
“Hmm. I talk to myself. Out loud. Especially when I’m pissed off or working out. Mostly grumbling.” I grin. “Also, I hate texting back. Real bad at it.”
She narrows her eyes. “Ah. So you’re one ofthose.”
“Terrible,” I confirm. “Don’t take it personally.”
There’s a pause—one of those lingering, charged silences where we both sip our coffee but neither of us breaks eye contact. Now she’s biting her bottom lip like she’s fighting a smile, and I can feel the pull of her across the table. The low burn of comfort and tension simmering at the same time.
I clear my throat. “Your turn. Red flags?”
She exhales. “Okay. I overthink everything. I rewatch comfort movies over and over. For example, I’ve seenHow to Lose a Guy in 10 Daysat least forty times. And I talk during movies.”
She talks during movies? That’s the worst. “Wow.” I lean back, hand over my heart. “You might be the true monster in this marriage.”
Annabelle rolls her eyes again. “Ha ha, funny.” She meets my gaze, raising her brows. “I’ve got more.”
“More?”
She grins. “I have a terrible memory for names, but I’ll remember what someone was wearing on a random Tuesday in 2019. Also, I once fake cried to get out of a speeding ticket.”
I lift my mug in salute. “Respect.”
Annabelle laughs, shaking her head. “Your turn. Give me another one.”
“Fine.” I think for a beat. “I once broke up with a girl because she ate string cheese like a psychopath.”
Her face scrunches. “How do you eatstringcheese like a psychopath?”
“She bit it. Like it was a stick. Just—Chomp.” Not cool, not okay.
She gasps, truly horrified. “No stringing?”
“Nope.”
Annabelle leans forward, resting her chin on her palm, expression somber. “Okay, serious question.”
I raise a brow. “Hit me.”
She pauses, eyes soft. “Do you think we’re actually compatible? In real life?”
I’m confused. “This is real life.”
Her head shakes back and forth. “No it’s not—this is likeLove Island. All smoke and mirrors and fantasy dates.”
“First of all,” I correct her. “If this wereLove Island, there’d be at least three cameras in our faces and someone yelling ‘I’ve got a text!’ every ten minutes before a new bombshell enters the villa.”
“I’m just saying ...” She trails off, toying with the edge of a napkin she plucked from the center of the table. “It’s easy to likesomeone when everything is beautiful weather and there’s sunshine and lake swims and crashing a wedding reception. But when we go back to our real lives—you’ll go back to being a football star, and I’ll go back to Star Lake and being a wedding planner for other people.”
