Page 124 of Falling Offsides

I nod eagerly, putting Samson’s wagging tail to shame. “What are you making?”

“Cornbread and meringues. My dad loves Eton Mess, and after our lunch yesterday, I wanted to do something nice for him. Apparently I’ve been distracting his star player…”

“Did he tell you that? That I’m his star player?”

She chuckles, the lines of her face relaxing in spite of the puffiness that’s still present. “Figure out how to work my oven and I’ll tell you.”

With that she plucks the broom from my hand and sashays to her doorway with Samson leaping after her. He’s shooting down her hallway while she laughs at his occasional clumsy skid.

“See you in thirty, Masterchef.”

“I’ll be here, Princess.”

TWENTY-FOUR

COURTNEY

The roof is downand the sun is beaming along the coast. Auguste has a soft soulsy playlist that's perfect for the chill mood. I’ve never been a fan of this kind of music, it reminds me of all the Sunday services Mom dragged me to because Martin wanted to portray some kind of image to climb the career ladder.

Right now, I’m falling a little bit for the bluesy swagger that Auguste is bopping his head to. I like it. Seeing him like this—light and open. The sunshine suits him. The rays bring out the golden tones of his light brown skin, and with his baseball cap on backwards, his hair is a dark, goofy disarray of curls sticking out of the loop.

It’s comical and mesmerizing all at once.

We come to a stop outside a blue and yellow painted store with a large black trident sign along the side.

Auguste pulls his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, leveling me with a lazy smile. The sun is giving his eyes a bottle green, glass-like quality that I can’t pull my stare from.

So perfect.

Entirely too beautiful.

“Come on, Princess,” he says, nodding for me to follow him out of the car. “Let’s get you the best strawberries in California.”

Okay…

I’m unbuckling my seatbelt when Auguste reaches my side and opens my door. He’s been a gentleman the whole time we’ve been running errands. Keeping me hydrated and feeding me random snacks hepicks up at every store we go to. Simply because he heard my stomach rumble in between tracks.

I take the hand he offers, pausing when I get out of the car to fix my dress. I keep waiting for him to touch me. Like actually touch me—wrap his arm around my shoulders or my waist… or maybe put his hand on the small of my back or between my shoulder blades.

He’s done all of those things before. I’m waiting for him to do it again. The longer I wait, the deeper the desperation sets in. Exactly the same way the need to see him ate at me earlier.

Of course, once I’m steady on my feet he starts for the store. Walking backwards with that stupidly gorgeous grin on his face.

“What’s your grocery list saying?” he asks, backing up into the store door and opening it for me to go through.

“Strawberries, coconut cream, and…” I check the list I scrawled before we left. “That’s it.”

Auguste’s eyes cut down my body with an absent-minded lick of his lips when he pauses on the hem of my skirt. My thighs press together while tugging at the hem of my white summer dress—I’m a typical pear shape, and what I lack up top, I make up for on my hips and thighs. It’s always been something I’m self-conscious about. If it wasn’t for Delilah nagging me all the time about showing off my curves, I would probably be living my best skater girl life in baggy jeans and tank tops.

However, the way Auguste fixates on my thighs, is doing wonders for my confidence. If only he’d actually touch me now…

Instead, he watches me walk past him and follows at a distance behind me. His stare on me is palpable. Raking the length of my back to my ass. I watch him gnaw on his lip in the fisheye mirror overhead and put a little extra sway in my walk.

His stare flashes to mine in the mirror and a tight-lipped grin divots his cheeks when he slowly lowers his gaze back to my ass and intentionally slows.

Oh my God, I squeal in my head, my entire body squeezing tight.

“Auguste!” A deep voice calls from the cash desk when I get to the end of the tightly packed shelves.