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27
Taylor
As the door to the closet opened, I expected to see someone standing there, ready to retrieve their coat. But that’s not what happened. The door opened, a large man stepped inside, and then he closed the door behind him.
The closet light was dim, but it still gave me a good look at Brody’s handsome face—the strong jawline, the thin, trimmed beard, and the hawkish eyes that gazed at me with a lifetime’s worth of care and concern.
“Taylor?” he reached out and cupped my cheek, wiping away a tear with his thumb. “Fuck. Are you okay?”
My heart soared at his touch. I had wanted, I had craved, this kind of proximity and tenderness with the charming Texan. And now I was finally getting it.
But then I remembered why I was in the closet in the first place.
“I doubt you care,” I replied, pushing his hand away.
“What? Of course I care.”
“You’re probably lying, just like you lied earlier.”
“When did I lie earlier?”
“You said you liked my costume the most,” I replied. I knew I sounded petulant, but I wasn’t in a position to stop myself. “You pointed to that bikini bimbo and made fun of her for not even wearing a costume. You said you liked mine more. And then I see you on the back deck, giving her your charm.”
Brody’s sexy face twisted with anger. “Maybe I wanted to talk to someone who would boost my self-esteem, rather than tearing it down. Like you did. And like your boyfriend, treating me like an idiot jock. You humiliated me!”
“I went too far,” I admitted. “I was trying—”
“Is that what you really think of me?” he pushed on. “That I’m just an overpaid loser who can’t even catch a football?”
“No!”
“I can handle the world judging me harshly,” he said. “Laughing on Twitter and ESPN and sharpening their knives as my career circles the drain. But I can’t handle that from you, Taylor.”
I gave a start. “Me?”
“If you think I’m just a loser…” His voice softened with vulnerability. “I don’t think I can suit up on Sunday.”
“Oh, Brody,” I said. “I think the world of you. You’re awe-inspiring on the field, slump be damned. But what I like the most is how you are off the field. You’re caring, and smart, and funny—so funny! I was having one of the worst moments of my life when you chatted me up at the bar, and within an hour I was laughing so hard my sides hurt. You…”
I wanted to tell him how I felt. To pour my emotions out and see if he somehow felt the same.
But I couldn’t.
“None of it matters,” I said. “We have to stay apart. You can’t come up to me at parties and chat me up…”
“Hey,” He jabbed a finger at me. “It takes two to tango, you know. You were all happy and flirty with me too before Isabella showed up.”
“You’re right, I was,” I admitted.
“I brought you flowers, you know.”
“You—wait, what?”
He nodded in the dim light, which made his fireman helmet tilt awkwardly. He yanked it off his head and dumped it on the ground before saying, “I brought you roses at school. Ended up giving them to some other professor, though.”
A memory tickled in my head. “Oh! That was Beth! She thought the flowers were from John, one of the professors in the science department! Wait. Why did you give them to Beth instead—”
“Because I saw you and Eric!” The pain was thick in his voice, now. “You were in some conference room, laughing and smiling. You were flirting. So I gave the flowers to someone else, turned my tail around, and left.”
