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I waggle my head.
“You’re not wrong,” I say.
I leave my description of the yacht party out of our conversation. James doesn’t need the details, and honestly, just bringing it to the forefront of my mind makes my body shiver. The memory of my father’s longtime lawyer trying to slip his hand down the back of my dress makes my skin crawl. I can still hear the sound of beads spilling on the ground when I jerked away from him, and his hand ripped the pearl string that held the back of my low-cut dress together. Probably ten thousand dollars’ worth of pearls were lost to the floor of my father’s boat, likely swept into the Atlantic Ocean when all was said and done. By the time I got off the boat, I had no intention of attempting to retrieve them. I had worn the dress on loan from an up-and-coming designer. I had my mom buy it outright . . . and then I burned it.
“So, what happens to mimosa man?” James asks.
“I’m sure mimosa man will be fine,” I retort, a little defensive because truth be told, Paul Flannery isn’t exactly innocent. He leapt at the chance to have breakfast with me, knowingexactlywho I was.
“You’re right,” James relents.
His eyes settle on my face and rather than look away, I decide to stare back into them. His lips rest on the verge of opening to speak, but I sense he’s not sure what to say. What is there to say?I’m sorry.What does he have to be sorry about?
“Your dad sounds like a fool,” he finally says, and somehow, it’s the right thing.
I let myself chuckle at the thought and smile faintly.
“I’m sorry to insult him, I know he’syourdad and all, but really, calling it as I see it. The man’s a fool,” he reiterates.
The strangest feeling settles inside my chest, almost like a calmness but more tinged with a dose of confidence. Instead of reminding me that my looks are why I get attention and making me feel guilty for disliking it the way my mother always does, he focuses on my father. On his behavior.
“I think I really like talking to you, James.”
We lock eyes for a few long seconds, and while his touch had me wound up for hours last night, his words have done something entirely more permanent to me now. I think he’s changed me a little. I think I’m better.
“Good. I like listening to you,” he finally says.
The longer we stare at one another, the harder it is to keep our smiles tempered, and eventually the blush hits my cheeks with enough force to cause me to laugh and bury my face in my hands.
“Here, let me help you up,” he says, getting to his own feet then reaching a hand down to me. Our hands lock, his grip tight on mine as he pulls me to my feet, and he doesn’t let go for an extra second or two. The lingering touch is long enough to leave a mark, and long enough to still be happening when his father steps into the gym to join us.
James drops my hand when his dad walks in, and he backs up a few steps, rubbing his neck like a kid caught looking for his Christmas gifts. His dad glances between the two of us, and I tuck my hands under my arms, hugging myself. Imagine if he walked into the locker room and saw us last night.
“Dad, hi. Have you met Morgan?” James’s gaze bounces between me and his dad, and rather than feel offended that he was so fast to rid himself of our physical connection, I’m more amused at his nervous, bashful side.
“I have not. Morgan, nice to meet you. Dave Fuentes,” his dad says, shifting his stack of papers and clipboard under one arm before reaching to shake my hand with the other. I grip his hand tight, the way my father taught me.
“Nice to meet you, officially. Big fan,” I say, glancing at James in my periphery in time to catch him laugh under his breath.
His dad tilts his head to the side, still shaking my hand as he pushes his tongue in his cheek. He’s staring at me with a hint of a smile as if he’s trying to work out what I’m all about.
“This is my sixth year at Welles,” I explain. “I don’t think we have ever won our home opener. So, yeah . . . big fan of your work.”
James’s dad’s laugh sounds just like his—deep and gravelly, the kind that makes people turn their heads and wish they were in on the joke.
“Well, I appreciate that, Morgan. It’s nice to have student buy-in. It helps the team.” The similarities between father and son are uncanny, and as his dad lets go of my hand a brief flash of how similar the two of them are physically also crosses my mind. Coach Fuentes is incredibly handsome, and maybe only an inch or so shorter than his son. While not as built, his body is equally toned, and the sharp angles of his face are clearly the same ones passed down to James. Along with his hazel eyes. And if James is lucky, the slight peppering of gray on the sides of his head will come along too.
“Are you on the volleyball team, Morgan?”
I bust out a quick laugh at his dad’s assumption.
“No, I’m pretty sure I would be a great disservice to the sport by simply being on the court,” I say.
“Ah.” He smiles.
“She was getting her workout in. Seems I’m not the only early weekend riser,” James fills in. I let my mouth hang open as he works to explain my presence to his dad, and for the first time this morning, I feel the need to retreat. His dad is pleasant toward me, but I get the sense that he’s not entirely glad I’m here.
“You have a lot of early mornings in your future. We have work to do,” his dad says, stepping in close enough to grip his son’s shoulder. Their eyes meet in a strange quiet agreement, and I realize that James has his own set of complications in his relationship. Healthier ones, for sure. But still . . . he has some expectations to live up to.
