Page 19 of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend (Catching Feelings #1)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SEAN

L et me tell you something about emotional havoc.

Emotional havoc is brushing your teeth in the same bathroom with the most gorgeous woman you’ve ever known after she’s washed her face and you see her without makeup for the first time.

Emotional havoc is seeing her walk out of your bedroom—now hers —in pajamas. A silky navy set with the buttons and short sleeves and short bottoms and crazy hotness.

Emotional havoc is sleeping twenty feet away from this woman … and wondering if you’re hearing the fan or hearing her breathe.

Emotional havoc is getting up in the middle of the night to use the restroom and wanting so badly to peek on her but knowing that would make you a creep of the highest order and you’ve never been a creep and you don’t even know who you are anymore because after seven hours in bed, you didn’t sleep a wink.

When my alarm goes off on my phone, I don’t even complain.

I’m relieved for this torture to end.

I set my workout clothes on a chair last night, so I slip into the bathroom to change, and then I walk over to the kitchen to make coffee.

Does she even drink coffee?

I’ve never seen her with anything except one of those water bottles. It looks a little like a Stanley, except the lettering on the handle is in a language I don’t recognize, and frankly, hers makes a Stanley look like a cheap dupe.

So I make enough coffee for both of us but pull out electrolytes and one of her water bottles from the cabinets, too (Scottie brought in twelve yesterday. They take up an entire shelf.). I set it all down by the fridge, where the filtered water is, in case she wants one.

And then I pull out a pen and paper to write a note.

And stop.

Who writes a note to his wife the day after they get married? Sure, we’re not leaving on our “honeymoon” yet, because she has her meeting with the town council today where they’re planning to drop the residency bomb on her.

And sure, it ain’t that kind of marriage.

But still. I’m not the guy who writes a note for his wife and then goes for a run.

No sir.

Instead, I wait for her. I pull out my phone to see a text from my brother.

PATTY

How was the wedding night?

And by that, I clearly mean sleeping on the couch while the woman you have feelings for sleeps in your bed. Without you.

SEAN

Shut up.

PATTY

Does she know you want to date her?

SEAN

I married her.

PATTY

I repeat: does she know you want to date her?

SEAN

No.

How do I start that conversation? Hey, I know I asked you to marry me so you wouldn’t get kicked out of town, but I actually had ulterior motives. But I’m not a creep, I swear.

PATTY

Not like that. That’s a terrible approach.

SEAN

Your face is a terrible approach.

PATTY

Good luck, bro.

I move on to other messages. My parents, teammates, friends, including Fletch.

I read and respond to texts until Kayla comes out of the bedroom.

She’s … also wearing workout gear. She’s in leggings and a cropped tank top, with her hair up in a high ponytail that somehow makes her look both casual and CEO-material at the same time.

How does she manage to make spandex look like luxury wear?

She laughs as soon as she sees me. “Well, aren’t we adorable? Twins!”

I look down and realize we’re both wearing slate-blue bottoms and white tops. I chuckle and get up to give her a hug.

Then I stop myself.

Are we even on hugging terms?

I fold my arms when I get to her and give her a once-over that feels both too much and too little.

“I don’t think I like you thinking of me in that way.”

She scrunches her nose and laughs again. “Good point. In that case, we coordinate, and I love it.”

She reaches up on her tiptoes and kisses my cheek, and it’s everything I can do not to close my eyes and wince in pain.

Then she gets back down, and her cheeks are flushed a deep, rosy pink. “Sorry. I’m not sure what came over me.”

“It’s okay,” I say stupidly. “I’m hard to resist,” I add, even stupider.

But she’s laughing, and then she pats my chest. “You’re not wrong.”

I smile but don’t say anything else. In fact, I just stand there, smiling at her while she stands a foot away, smiling at me.

Great. Anytime things get awkward, we can smile each other to death.

“It looks like we both had the same idea to go for a run. Or do you go to a gym?” she asks. And then her eyes widen. “Wait, this is the morning after our wedding. If we go for a run at six in the morning, people are going to think something’s suspicious.”

Shoot. She’s right.

“In that case, let’s have a bit more of a traditional wedding morning,” I say. Her eyes widen. “Not that kind of traditional. More breakfast and stuff.” I don’t remember the last time I blushed, but I feel like my cheeks have been roasted over a campfire.

Kayla’s face is in her hands as she laughs. But my ring is on her finger, and the sight fills me with an ache I don’t want to think about.

“Let me try that again,” I say. “Kayla, can I make you breakfast? Then maybe we could … strategize before you have your meeting with the town council.”

“Strategize? You have to know I find business jargon very attractive, so if you’re trying to seduce me, Captain?—”

“Stop,” I chuckle. “Come into the kitchen and I’ll make you breakfast, Boss.”

Kayla follows me.

My kitchen is small but well-stocked. I’m not the kind of bachelor who sits around crushing protein shakes and pizza all day.

I like to cook, and I’m careful about what I put in my body.

I’m usually more casual during the off season, but with radio silence from the Arsenal about a contract next year, I’ll keep it up a little longer.

And if it means Kayla might try to sneak a peek at me shirtless at some point, I may keep it up forever.

“What do you like? I could make omelets, crepes, pancakes, oatmeal. I’ve got berries, spinach, ham.”

Kayla appears next to me at the fridge. “Did you buy all of this for me?”

“Sorry, I should have asked you what you eat so I could stock it with your favorites, not mine.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m impressed you have real food on hand. I think my brothers subsist on protein shakes and Cheetos when they’re not on a date.”

“Is your family going to be in town for long? I’d like to get to know them,” I say.

“Uh, no. It was an in-and-out trip. They have meetings tomorrow in Zurich, so they’re probably already on a plane.”

The alarm on my fridge goes off, signaling it’s been open for too long.

“Sorry, how about an omelet and crepes?” I supply, because something tells me Kayla isn’t going to make a decision on food. I could be wrong, but I think when she doesn’t want to commit to an idea, she changes the subject with an observation.

“That sounds great.” She sounds almost relieved. “Can I help at all?”

“I don’t know, can you?”

She gives me a fake glare. “On second thought, maybe I’ll watch. Admire the view. After all, you’re hard to resist.”

She can’t know how much I like the idea of her admiring me.

I pull out eggs, spinach and some different veggies, and then move on to what I need for crepes. Anytime I glance at Kayla, it looks like she’s cataloguing where everything goes, memorizing her new environment.

Her new home.

Kayla Carville’s new home.

I could groan in embarrassment. How is Kayla living here? It’s not a man cave, but it’s closer to an actual cave than the mansion she grew up in.

“This must be a shock for you,” I say as I start chopping vegetables. “You’ve gone from a palace to a shack.”

“This isn’t a shack,” she says, looking around. “It’s comfortable. And I didn’t live in a palace. I’ve lived in a condo for the last five, six years?”

“What was it like?”

“It was in Midtown, in Atlanta. It had wall-to-ceiling windows and floors you weren’t supposed to wear shoes on. It looked like something out of a magazine.”

“That sounds nice,” I say, feeling worse about my dingy apartment by the minute.

“It was … what people expected. Curated and monochromatic. I never sat on the couch without smoothing the pillows afterward. I never burned anything in the oven or left dishes in the sink. It was perfect.”

I sauté the veggies first, just enough to take the bite off, then pour the eggs over top and let it all set together. I steal a quick glance at Kayla. “And you … liked that?”

“I hated it. That’s not how a woman should feel in her home. Like she’s not safe to make a mistake.”

An alarm sounds in my head .

I set down my spatula and fix my full attention on her.

“Kayla, you are always safe to make a mistake here. With me. I know you said this living arrangement works for you, but if you change your mind, you need to know that wherever we are, you’re safe to make a mistake.”

She leans back like the words packed a punch. And then she blinks a few times and fans herself. “Whew. You are really pulling out all the stops, aren’t you?”

“I’m not trying to seduce you.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “No, but if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to make me fall for you.”

I grab the pan and take it over to her, shaking my head all the way. I let the omelet fold onto her plate. “Do you know better?”

She holds my eye, the corner of her mouth barely curving up. “Maybe not.”

Soon, we’re sitting at the table with crepes, berries, and omelets, and I hear Kayla’s stomach growl. I’m starving, too, but I’m surprised when she takes a moment to stare at the food. She looks like she’s giving herself a pep talk. Psyching herself up to eat something she really doesn’t want to.

I’m a good cook, but maybe she hates eggs and feels bad admitting it? The idea that she doesn’t feel comfortable enough to tell me sends a sharp jab somewhere behind my ribs.

Between my bites, I notice her cut a small piece of her crepe with a knife. She carefully brings it up, like the movement requires intense, concentrated effort.

I look down when she covers her mouth to take a bite. It feels like it’s taking more courage for her to sit down to breakfast than it did to marry me.

“I’m going to pour myself a glass of milk,” I say, getting up and purposefully keeping my eyes off her plate. “Can I get you some?” I pull open the fridge, like I’m looking over my options instead of trying to give her space to eat without an audience. “Or I have juice. Or coconut water.”

I’m making such a show of looking around, I think she must know what I’m doing. But after a pause that I hope is her swallowing food, she says, “I’d love coconut water. Thank you.”

I pour our two glasses—slowly—and come back to the table to see she’s finished one crepe and has picked around the edges of the omelet. Enough to say she’s full, even though that can’t be possible.

I don’t say anything about it. Don’t ask her if she liked it, if she wants more, if she wants something different.

I just hand her the glass. She takes it, her fingers brushing mine.

It’s brief, casual. But she doesn’t pull away right away.

Doesn’t flinch or apologize. She keeps her eyes on our fingers around the cup for an extra beat, and then I let go, sit down, and resume my own meal.

She doesn’t seem to have a problem watching me eat (thank goodness; I’m a big eater).

So we talk. And the more we talk—swapping childhood stories, laughing about grade school antics and awkward crushes—the more she picks at her omelet.

She pokes at a pepper and then puts it in her mouth absentmindedly.

Maybe I’m wrong, but it feels like a victory.

When I’m finished, we take our dishes to the kitchen—she rinses, I load. And then we make a plan for the day. Kayla grabs a notebook and pen and starts writing, like she lives for itineraries.

“You want to get a meal after the run?” I ask, looking down at her list.

“Or we could get a smoothie. Or a coffee. I just think it’ll be helpful if the town sees us together. The faster they get used to this, the easier everything will be.”

“I don’t know,” I say, and for a moment, worry flits over her face. “I think you’re trying to get that kiss.”

She tips her head back in a laugh. “You’re incorrigible.”

I pepper her with questions about the team, the town council meeting, everything I can think of. I’d say I’m trying to be helpful, but I’m really stalling, trying to eat up the clock.

“Should we get going?” she asks around 11:30.

“Why don’t we unpack the books your assistant sent over. I would have set them up for you, but I wasn’t sure if you have an organizational system.”

“Okay, now you’re definitely trying to seduce me.”

I laugh and grab her hand, tugging her into the main room, where the bookshelves are.

“Why do I get the feeling you don’t want to be seen with me?” she teases as she puts Anne of Green Gables on the shelf first.

“Believe me, that’s not it,” I say, handing her the next book in the series.

“Really? Then why aren’t we going out?”

“Because it’s the day after our wedding. Nothing could be less believable than us leaving the house before noon.”

She flushes, but she’s smiling.

“Oh. Right.”

Is this really coming as a surprise to her? Has she met herself? Does she have any idea how captivating she is?

Only a fool wouldn’t hoard her like a dragon hoarding treasure.

I might be simple.

But I ain’t a fool.