With fall in full swing, we’re preparing the farm for winter, which on top of our normal operations has made this week especially grueling. At this point, my engine’s running in the red. Doesn’t help that it’s been months since we last played, and all the sprinting and jumping doesn’t come as easily as it did in my teens.
Not that Eliza or JJ give a damn.
Steadying his breaths beside me, Anson’s in the same rickety, tired boat as me. Lala just got over a nasty week-long sickness, and he pulled a few sleepless nights to help her through it.
“C’mon, Uncle JJ!” her little voice shouts from the sideline, where she’s curled up beside Anson’s dog, arms slung around the German Shepherd’s torso.
“Took care of her all damn week, and this is what I get,” Anson grumbles under his breath.
JJ observes his scowl as he dribbles down the court. “Don’t you worry, Miss Lala. We’re kicking their butts.”
“I wouldn’t gothatfar,” Anson argues.
JJ pauses at the half-court line, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Hey Lala, remind me of the score?”
She peers at the little notepad splayed on the pavement beside her. “Sixteen to…nine!”
Anson’s jaw hardens, and JJ’s smile only widens. “That’s right. Thanks, honey.”
Eliza arrives, a wash of flower-scented air coming with her as she sets her legs wide, back to me. “You boys need a break?” she goads over her shoulder.
She’s breathing as hard as I am, but she’s bouncing on her feet like a caffeinated bunny. Not that I’m surprised. Nothing—and I mean,nothing—gets her revved up like a good challenge.
And I don’t mind that one bit. Whether I win or lose, I always come out on top, because she’s hotter than the summer sun like this, her chin all stubborn and eyes fiery.
Hell, she’s hotallthe time—when she leaves another trinket of hers at my place, or pads around my kitchen wearing nothing but my shirt, or gushes about some new genius marketing strategy she’s developed for Anson. The only wines I know are reds and whites, but when fancy, multisyllabic words likeZinfandelandCabernetcome out of her sweet mouth,I’m ready to replace that big vocabulary with moans.
A muffledwumpyanks me back to the court. Eliza’s got the ball in her hands, already dribbling toward the basket.Fuck.
Before I can take two steps, she pulls back, shoots, and drains it.
“Gray, what the hell are youdoing?” Anson yells, eyes bulging as he chases after the ball.
Just obsessing over my girl.
There’s no need to say it. Everyone knows I’m completely, irreversibly gone for Eliza Attleburn. When she’s in the room, I can’t keep my hands off her. When people ask how I’m doing, I somehow turn the conversation to how brilliant she is. I stop by Anson’s office at least three times a week now, when I used to avoid it like the plague.
I’m walking around with big cartoon hearts in my eyes—and I’m happy as goddamn clam about it.
Except right now.
Because I’m objectively sucking ass, and Boston’s starting to getrealcocky about it.
Proving my point, she shoots me a cheeky wink and says, “I think he’s just traumatized from last time. Knows he can’t win, so why bother?”
Fuck, I love that mouth of hers.
She runs to the sidelines to give Lala a high five, andAnson comes up next to me, dribbling the ball. “In case you forgot, you’re not on a fucking date. You can do the whole love-blind bullshit later.I need to win fuckingsomethingthis week.”
“That new neighbor of yours not running away as quickly as you’d hoped?”
“No, but she will. That thing’s not up to code, no matter how hard she tries,” he mutters.
I first heard about her in September—the new owner of the broken-down house on his vineyard. Turns out the elderly owner passed away a few months ago and left it toher granddaughter in the will, hence why Anson’s lawyer’s letters have gone unanswered.
He figured he could buy the new owner out, no bullying necessary. She’s young, and the place needs a shit-ton of work to be livable. But she’s actuallystayingthere, trying to fix it up, despite Anson’s increasing pressure. And it’s driving big brother up a wall.
Doesn’t help that he thinks she’s pretty.
