Page 105 of On His Team

She gives me a tired look.

I smile into my coffee.

Lucy stops. She keeps looking at me.

“What?” I ask.

“You’re happy.”

That should not be an accusation. Still, my whole body reacts like she just found contraband in my pocket.

“I am frequently happy.”

“You’re smiling at coffee.”

I shrug. “Maybe because I used the rest of the creamer.”

She narrows her eyes at me. I throw my head back and laugh.

For one terrifying second I think she knows, which is impossible unless Rowan ran upstairs after I left last night and gave Benson a full incident report.

Then Lucy looks at her phone. “Benson wants to know if we’re coming over.”

My heart gives one hard, humiliating beat.

I set my mug down carefully. “Yeah.”

Her eyes come back to me. “You said yeah like Rowan does. Same tone and all. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Oh my God, Lucy. Go shower.”

She laughs and disappears down the hallway.

I stand alone in the kitchen afterward, staring into my coffee. Shit.

Normal. I am going to be extremely normal. Not obsessive. Not dying to kiss him again. I am going to be a normal girl. I can be that.

By the time we get to Hawthorne, I have repeated this enough times that it has become a threat.

The house is in its usual Sunday state. Nobody has enough energy to leave but everybody has enough energy to make noise. Music is on. Somebody started laundry and then abandoned the basket in front of the stairs. Stanley has ordered food despite the fact that there is already food, and Benson is stretched across the couch with his head in Lucy’s lap before she has been inside for two minutes.

I am taking off my sweater when Rowan comes through from the kitchen.

My brain stops.

Not dramatically. I still know where I am. I remember my own name. I could probably answer an easy math question.

But I know what his mouth feels like now. That turns out to be a piece of information capable of fundamentally changing the experience of seeing a man walk through a room.

He’s wearing grey sweats and a black T-shirt. His hair is resting against his forehead, dark and luscious, and when he sees me, his expression changes in that small Rowan way.

His mouth pulls at one side.

Mine immediately does the same.

“What’s up, G?”

I hate that I have those three words imprinted in my brain. “Hey, Laurens.”