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Jace shifts his eyes from the hoop to me, his eyes wide. “No way…”
Dad passes me the ball again, and I dribble slowly. Stop at the free-throw line. Shoot. Score.
“Okay, Miss Buckets,” Jace says, almost impressed.
“Two v one?” Dad questions, and Jace agrees.
I stand near or under the hoop mainly and catch whatever Dadthrows my way. Dribble a little. Then stop to shoot. Most of the time, it goes in. But, after a few minutes of “game play,” Jace chuckles, and Dad laughs with him.
“What?” I ask, standing still as I bounce the ball.
“She shoots well, huh?” Dad asks.
“Very well,” Jace agrees.
“She can dribble just fine too.”
“Yep,” Jace replies.
“And run, I suppose,” Dad adds, and Jace laughs. “She just can’t do any at the same time.”
My jaw drops, and I stop bouncing the ball, hold it at my side.
“Lay-ups?” Dad continues. “Forget about it.”
“Thanks,Dad. Just point out all my flaws. Cool cool.” I glare at him, start bouncing the ball again.
Jace murmurs, “That’s a double dribble.” And I throw the ball at his head. He catches it without even blinking. “Personally, I like the sound effects.”
Dad laughs at that, and I…
I have no idea what they’re talking about. “What sound effects?”
Dad stifles his laugh, but I still hear it.
“What sound effects?” I repeat, looking between them.
“Every time you shoot, you make this—” Jace looks to Dad, but Dad merely shakes his head, refusing to take part in this nonsense. Jace lifts the ball, his elbows bent, and as soon as the ball leaves his hand, he makes a high-pitched, feminine grunt.
“I do not!” I say, indignant.
“You do, Harlow,” Dad chimes in, and Jace is laughing as he chases after the ball.
“No, I don’t!”
Jace shoots again, makes the same sound.
“Shut up!” I laugh out, because it’s only now I realize he’s right.
Jace approaches and strokes my upper arm, bending his knees so we’re eye level. “It’s kind of adorable,” he says.
And I almost tell him thathe’skind of adorable, especially when he’s up this close and I can see those freckles I’ve come to adore. Butterfliesswarm in my stomach again, their tiny wings creating goosebumps all across my flesh, and I wish he would kiss me. I wish he would hold me in his arms and press his lips to mine anddevourme.
Maybe not right here, right now, but soon, just so I know that I’m not crazy.
That I’m not the only one who feels this spark of need between us.
I wish he would kiss me, just to show me he feels it too—this visceral need to be near him.