Page 24 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)
Trace eventually lets go of me so he can hug his mom, and we follow her into the house to find Emmett, Trace’s dad, busy in the kitchen with a simple, late dinner.
The four of us gather around the old kitchen table and enjoy a meal together, so similar to all the times I came here with Trace during college instead of going back home to Colorado.
Conversation flows as easily as it ever did, meandering to nearly every topic imaginable.
Except, oddly, the topic of me and Trace.
I had expected them to ask some basic questions: When did you officially start dating? Who made the first move? Maybe even some comments like, “We always knew you two would end up together.” But all they have for us are smiles. Gentle hand squeezes. Laughter.
It’s like they saw Trace and me hand in hand, and that was enough for them.
It’s almost baffling compared to the “work” we’ve been doing in Texas, putting in the effort to make this relationship seem real to my coworkers and everybody online. Not having to explain anything to convince someone that Trace and I are dating is almost a relief.
Not that we’re actually dating. It’s fake. A ploy. A media thing.
But the longer I spend with Trace’s parents, the easier it is to put all of that behind me and just…be. And be in the moment instead of worrying about likes on our pictures and comments from my teammates. Being able to get away from it all is peaceful.
After dinner and plenty of stories reminiscing about all the time I spent here with Trace, Emmett and Marilyn send the two of us off to bed.
But not before reminding Trace that he’ll be up early to help them with the yard and asking me to help with the food prep for their annual Fourth of July block party.
I find my own way to their guest room—the same room I spent more than one summer in during my years at the University of Alabama.
The decor has changed slightly over the years—cream bedding swapped out for a dusty blue and new abstract art adorning the wall above the bed—but the simple cherry furniture is the same, sporting the same nicks and dings I left there as a young adult.
It’s almost second nature to unpack the bag Trace brought for me into the three-drawer dresser against the far wall, to store my toiletries and makeup in the adjoining bathroom, to tuck my empty duffle bag into the closet.
Trace swings by on his way to his old bedroom upstairs, poking his head into my room but never fully crossing the threshold. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he says, leaning his upper body into the room.
“Don’t you dare wake me up early,” I warn as I cross the space from the bed to the door.
“Just because your mom roped you into helping with the chores doesn’t mean you get to interrupt my beauty sleep.
” I poke him in the chest playfully, and he catches my hand with quick reflexes, pinning it against him .
“Nothing could make you more beautiful, let alone a little sleep.” Trace’s smile sparks with heat as he leans imperceptibly closer.
I feel the blush rising from my chest to my face, but Trace leans away as quickly as he leaned in, pulling my hand to his mouth and brushing his lips across my knuckles before releasing my hand.
“But I’m sure Mama will find something for you to help with tomorrow. ”
Even though my brain wants to sleep in and enjoy some slow days off, the sound of a lawnmower pulls me from sleep. I open my window on the second floor and lean out to see Trace pushing a lawnmower around his parents’ backyard.
Shirtless.
It’s still early, but it’s already heating up outside, and the humidity isn’t helping.
Is it a bad thing that I sit and watch him for a few minutes? His back and chest are already coated in a sheen of sweat, shifting and shimmering with every step. He cuts even lines into the too-green grass, and the subtle pattern reminds me of the outfield back at our home stadium.
In the middle of a line, he stops the lawnmower and removes the bag.
I watch as he empties it into the green bin near the house before returning and reassembling the mower.
Standing up, he runs his fingers through his hair, leaving strands scattered in haphazard directions, and stretches his arms over his head, tipping his head back to the morning sun.
I watch a bead of sweat take its own sweet time sliding down Trace’s chest, slipping into the defined valley in the center of his abs, which look borderline obscene glinting in the soft morning sunlight.
I know I’m caught when he opens his eyes, meeting mine almost instantly.
He gives me a little wave, which I return, before he drops his arms and shows off with an over-the-top flex.
I shake my head then mime vomiting, which makes him laugh, clear and deep.
He drowns me out by starting the lawn mower again, continuing on his way.
I turn back to my room and grab my phone from where it’s charging before heading downstairs to the kitchen.
Marilyn is already there with a pot of coffee on, and she grabs an extra mug out of the cupboard when she sees me. A thin lavender robe is tied around her waist over a pair of dark purple pajamas. She pours a second cup and splashes it with creamer as I sidle up to the counter on a barstool.
“Is that Trace’s shirt?” she asks, passing me the mug across the counter.
I look down at the faded Crimson Tide Football tee.
“Yeah. I think I borrowed it from him our sophomore year? And then never gave it back.” The tee hangs wide on my shoulders but barely covers half of my butt.
Most girls would be able to wear this shirt as a dress, but I guess that’s one of the downsides to being nearly as tall as the guy who owned it.
Marilyn nods, her lips pursed in a knowing smile, and takes a sip of her own coffee.
Through the sliding glass back door, I can see Trace walking back and forth across the yard.
The view from down here is just as spectacular as the one from my room, but this one comes with the added benefit of the scent of freshly cut grass wafting in through the open kitchen window.
His calves and quads flex with each step, and I can certainly understand why some rando on the internet called them “biteable.”
“I thought you could help me with the sides today,” Marilyn says, breaking me out of my staring.
“Hmm?” I turn to her and try to hide my pinking face behind my mug.
“The sides for the neighborhood party. Potato and macaroni salads. Will you help me with them today?”
If she was smiling before, the look on her face is now downright wicked. I know she caught me ogling Trace, and she knows I know it. But Marilyn is a proper Southern woman, and, bless her heart , she would never call me out on it.
Especially since she thinks I’m actually dating Trace. In her eyes, I’m practically her daughter-in-law, and making eyes at her son is totally on the table.
“Oh, of course I’ll help!” I sound a little too chipper, and I clear away the awkward feeling in my chest with a cough and move to stand.
Marilyn huffs a little laugh at how flustered I am and starts walking toward the hall to her bedroom. “Come find me after you get ready for the day, and we can get cracking on those potatoes.” With another smile, she slips down the hallway and closes her bedroom door behind her.
I sag with relief, my eyes going back to Trace through the back window.
He stops again, and the absence of the sound of the lawn mower motor is my cue.
I pick up my mug and step out onto the concrete patio, and Trace looks up at the sound of the back door sliding shut behind me.
He pulls one side of his headphones off and pushes it up onto his sweat-mussed hair as I drop into one of the patio chairs, tucking a foot underneath me .
Trace strides toward me with a wide smile and a bag full of clippings in one hand, and it would be an absolute shame if I didn’t admire his work-of-art body as he approaches.
After drinking in my fill of his torso, I look up and find him staring at me, the elusive fire I’ve caught a few times before burning in his eyes as he takes me in from the top of my unruly bun to my bare feet.
The heat in his gaze makes it hard to remind myself that this is my best friend and not my boyfriend .
“Good morning, Sugar,” he says with a smile as he lifts the bag of clippings to dump them into the green bin to my left. “Did you sleep well?”
I force my eyes away from Trace’s arms and to his face, trying to keep my voice as unaffected as possible, even though there’s something in this Alabama air that’s making me lose all sense around my friend.
“Like a baby,” I admit, thinking about my night in the soft, familiar bed.
While the hotels we stay at for our road games aren’t the worst, it’s still not the same as a bed that’s not shared by the world at large.
“I’m glad to hear it.” The final clippings fall from the bag, and he sets it down, propping it against the green bin. Trace turns toward me and closes the gap between us. He plucks the mug from my hands and takes a drink, passing it back as he pulls his headphones off with his free hand.
“Are you almost done?”
He shakes his head, scrubbing a hand through his sweaty hair. “I’ve still got the front to do, plus the trimming. Has Mom roped you into cooking with her today?”
“Is it even a trip here if she doesn’t?” I smile around my mug and take another sip, each mouthful waking me up a little more.
“No, I guess it’s not.” Trace’s smile is full of fondness for his mom, and honestly, I feel the same way. Marilyn Davenport is the woman who took a lost young woman into her home with no expectations and became the best mother figure a girl could ask for.
“It didn’t sound like she was planning on doing a lot, though. Just some side dishes.”
Trace laughs and shakes his head. “You know my mom better than that, Sugar. If you let her, she’ll add on a few different desserts as well.”
Trace reaches out and brushes a wayward hair off my forehead, tucking it back into my top knot. The slight brush of his fingers on my skin sends shivers down my spine, but I hold in the urge to shift under his scrutiny.
Does he know how much has changed for me since we started this? Surely not, or else he would have said something—reminded me to stay focused on what we’re accomplishing here.
“I’ll join you when I’m finished with the yard. Maybe I can steal you away from my mama for a few hours and we can hit some of our old stomping grounds.” Trace’s smile as his hand lands on my shoulder sends a wave of heat outward from my chest.
“Don’t forget to shower,” I tease, standing from my chair, putting my body close to his…
closer than it should be for someone who just had to remind herself that he is not a real boyfriend.
I wrinkle my nose as I lean in close. “You might like the way I smell when I sweat, but I don’t have to share the sentiment. ”
Trace sways forward almost imperceptibly, putting his lips dangerously close to mine, but I pull away and turn toward the back door. I throw one last glance over my shoulder as I pull the door open and find Trace watching me, a smile on his face but sadness in his eyes.