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“Looks like everyone’s smiling today!” one of the reporters shouted.
“And such similar smiles,” another reporter laughed.
It wasn’t a secret that Sterling and I were brothers, but no one had been bold enough to make jokes about it with our father in the room before.
“You hang around enough and all the Reapers start to look alike,” Coach joked, and the reporters all chuckled.
“You must be proud,” a reporter from ESPN asked Dad, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“How could I not be?” he answered with an icy, fake smile.
We got out of there as quickly as possible and I didn’t miss when Coach casually stepped into the middle of the hallway to take more questions, effectively blocking Dad from getting to either of us.
“On a scale of one to ten, I’d say that was an awkward level nine,” Sterling muttered.
“That’s a generous rating,” I answered as the girls came around the corner.
“Shutout!” London yelled, flinging herself into her husband’s arms.
“Hey,” Evie said, a shy smile playing at her mouth. “Nice game.”
I looked down the hallway, made sure we were clear of reporters and pulled her around the corner, tugging her into my arms. “It was way better with you in the stands.”
“Your little good luck charm?” She smiled up at me, cradling my face with her hands.
I brushed my mouth over hers. “I’m feeling lucky right now—”
“Hey, you two, a bunch of us are headed over to Scythe,” Briggs said, coming up behind Evie. “Want to join?”
Evie raised her eyebrows at me, but I shook my head. “We have plans.”
“We do?” she asked.
“We do.” I answered with a nod, my chest drawing tight.
“We do,” she repeated, smiling over at Briggs.
I may have broken the speed limit to get us home.
“Thanks for sneaking us past the reporters,” Evie said as we walked in the door.
“Not a problem. I know how you feel about that.” I moved her keys over a peg and put mine on the hook.
“Especially with your Dad—” Her mouth dropped open. “Do you do that every time?”
“Every time I notice that you’ve hung your keys on my hook, I move them,” I answered with a shrug. “It matters.”
“You. Are. Ridiculous.” She laughed, leaning up on her toes and kissing me.
“Hey, there’s no scientific evidence that superstitions don’t work.” I kissed her back, sliding my tongue into her mouth and coaxing hers right back into mine.
She moaned softly, then pulled back, breaking the kiss. “You’re distracting me. I watched the conference with London.”
“Okay?” I kissed her jaw, running one hand down the side of her jersey to palm her waist.
“Things got weird with your dad in there. Are you okay? Is Sterling okay?”
“We both walked out of there, so I’d say we’re fine.” I leaned down and kissed that little patch of skin just below her ear and she shivered.
“But, I mean, it has to be hard—”
“It’s hard,” I promised, bringing her hand to my cock.
“Maxim,” she moaned. “It’s just that you don’t talk about it.”
I lifted my head and stared down into her eyes. “It’s not my favorite topic when I have you in my arms.”
“It’s not your favorite topic, ever,” she muttered.
“Maybe I just like using my mouth for other things.” I pulled her back into my arms and kissed her breathless, until her fingers clutched at my neck and our breathing was ragged. “When are you going to let me show you off to the world, Evie?”
“I like the world we have right here in the house,” she nipped at my lower lip.
“There’s a gala next week—”
“Maxim.” She shook her head, her body going tense.
“Can we at least talk about it? No pressure. Just talk.”
She nodded and I breathed a sigh of relief, taking her hand and moving backwards. “I’d like to talk about it in the bedroom.”
“You like to talk about everything in the bedroom,” she teased, but followed, her eyes lighting up.
“I may have done something.” I barely contained my grin as I led her up the stairs and down the hall to what I’d begun to think of as our bedroom. “Don’t be mad.”
“Because every woman loves it when a guy starts with that,” she laughed.
I flipped on the lights and watched her face, backing into the room so I wouldn’t miss a single moment of her reaction.
Her lips parted and her jaw dropped as her gaze jumped from wall to wall, taking in the photographs I’d had blown up and framed. They were all of her—of us.
“You stole my memory card,” she accused, her focus still jumping from one picture to the next.
“Guilty. But I put it right back.” After I’d ordered the prints, the mattes, the framing, and installation.
The biggest shot was the one of her back arched next to the window, her hands above her head, her entire figure on display like a forties pin-up. “That one gets me hard the second I see it,” I whispered, coming up behind her as she studied it.
