Page 11

Grant

I still smell like Klaus, the drooling German shepherd I took on my run this morning, when I stroll into the kitchen. But it’s not the dog’s stench on my shirt that makes me stop in my tracks. It’s the view at my kitchen island.

Zoe and Kenna are sitting on stools facing each other, contorting their faces into the wildest versions of themselves, while Denise pretends not to watch from in front of the sink.

“Happy,” Zoe suddenly calls, and they both shift into the biggest, beaming smiles that fill every corner of their faces.

“Sleepy!” They both show off big yawns.

“Petrified!” Zoe freezes, and Kenna bursts out laughing. Zoe quickly follows, doubling over in a fit of giggles. They have to lean on each other to keep from falling off their stools.

Remnants of their yogurt-and-berry parfaits sit on the counter before them, but Kenna’s laughter distracts me from worrying that they’ve eaten my breakfast too. She sounds so much like her mom.

Four years older than me, Eden and I spent so many sunny Saturdays in Florida playing in the sprinklers. One day my dad put a tarp on the lawn and sprayed it until it was so slick we flew down it. Eden’s joy was uncontainable that day.

And without knowing it, I’ve been waiting to hear that from Kenna now, too.

Thanks to Zoe, here it is. Kenna’s joy filling my house. I want to wrap Kenna in a bear hug.

But transferring Klaus’s unique odor to her school uniform probably wouldn’t be appreciated. Instead, I blurt out the obvious. “Practicing for the audition?”

Kenna looks in my direction—clearly surprised to see me there. Zoe, on the other hand, offers me a warm smile. Her hair is a bit rumpled, her makeup a little more smoky around her eyes. But the glow of her genuine grin makes my heart thud a little harder than usual.

“It’s at the end of the week, so we have to take every opportunity,” Zoe says.

“You already look like a pro,” I say to my niece. She ducks her chin while shaking her head. But I catch the tiny movement as she glances my way to confirm she heard me right. With a silent nod, I try to tell her I fully believe in her.

“Do you want to climb the Incline with me on Saturday?”

I nearly clap a hand over my mouth. I did not mean to invite Kenna. Not that I don’t want to spend time with her. It’s just that the Incline is my alone time. It’s part of my standard rest-and-refreshment time of the bye week. It’s quiet time. Just me and God’s creation. Just me and my Creator.

All the other hikers climbing the wooden railroad ties going straight up the mountain near Pikes Peak disappear. Most of them won’t recognize me. None will bother me. They’ll all be too focused on making it up the trail that gains two thousand feet of elevation in less than a mile.

The Incline is my time to clear my head. Time to ask God for direction. Time to pray for wisdom—in all areas of my life.

Having my niece along for the trip won’t exactly be conducive to that.

But maybe it could be the answer to my prayer for a way to connect with her.

“The Incline?” Kenna sounds uncertain. Then suddenly her head swivels toward Zoe. “Do you want to go?”

I almost swallow my tongue, followed by nearly hacking up a lung.

Kenna ignores my distress, but Zoe deigns to raise an eyebrow in my direction, clearly asking if I’m going to survive. Thumping a fist against my chest, I nod a tentative affirmation.

“That sounds like fun. I’ve never been.”

No. No. No. This isn’t the plan. I don’t need to be seen in public with Zoe.

And forget appearances. I shouldn’t spend another minute with her for my own mental health.

Instead I say, “Sure. You should come with us. If you can keep up.”

I should just bite my own tongue off. That would be smarter than letting it loose.

Zoe arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow in my direction. “Really? You think I can’t keep up with you?”

I want to remind her that she was the one dressed like a tie-dyed superhero and out of breath after chasing me down in front of her grandma’s house—on a perfectly flat sidewalk. But that would reveal our morning meet-ups. And somehow those belong in the dark. Just between the two of us.

Kenna is tugging on her arm and practically hopping up and down. “And then we’ll get pancakes?” Count on the kid to think about the food. She is my family after all.

I try to hold a frown, but it refuses to stay in place. “Fine. There will be pancakes.”

Denise wipes her hands on a dish towel and picks up her purse. “Get your bag, sweetie. It’s time to go.”

Kenna jumps up and hugs Zoe quickly, her smile bright enough to light the morning sky. “I can’t wait!” Then she darts out of the room, the sound of her jostling backpack in the entryway quickly following. Denise trails behind her with a quick wave, and I whisper, “ Thanks .”

When the door slams, I’m left in silence with Zoe. Alone with Zoe.

And like a creep, I can’t stop staring at her. Which I’m sure is making her feel super comfortable with a stinky football player.

But she’s staring at me too, her lips sliding side to side.

Raking a hand through my hair, I mumble the first thing I can think of. “How’d you sleep?”

Her eyebrow gets another workout. “Fine. How was your run?”

“Fine.”

I’ve never been accused of being a great conversationalist, but even I can do better than this. I know I can.

It’s just that I haven’t had a woman in my house in the morning—ever. Unless you count Denise. Or my sister. Which I do not.

Breakfast conversation feels different. More familiar. More intimate. More like I should be confessing that I tossed and turned half the night away because I couldn’t stop thinking about her sleeping on my couch. Because I couldn’t stop wishing I’d kissed her. Because then I had to give myself a stern talking-to and a swift kick in the pants to remember why I should be giving her a wide berth.

“So, do you want to . . .?” Her head ticks to the side, and for a rollercoaster second I panic that she’s reading my mind.

“Huh?” Again with those conversation skills.

“We could get in some practice this morning.”

Right. Smart. Totally professional. Not involving her lips and mine at all. “Sure.”

As soon as we step into the backyard, her whole body shivers. She quickly wraps her arms around her middle, but the tension in her shoulders and neck is still evident. “I’ll be right back.” It takes me only a moment to jog inside and grab a purple sweatshirt from the chair in the corner of my room. When I return to the backyard, I toss it her way. “Put this on.”

Holding it out by the shoulders, she frowns. “How big do you think I am?”

“It’s that or one of Kenna’s coats from the kid’s section.” My back is to her as I pick up a couple balls from the bin on the sideline. And when I turn around, I take a gut punch. She’s drowning in my double-XL sweatshirt, the sleeves completely covering her hands. But somehow, she pinches the collar and presses it to her nose. Eyes closed and features peaceful, she inhales.

I should have let her freeze.

Because now I can’t think about anything but wondering if she likes that scent. My scent.

Honestly, that’s not something I’ve ever thought about before. Of course I want to be clean. I want to feel and smell fresh after practice or a game. But that’s the end of it. Until this very second.

Until Zoe Peebles smelled my sweatshirt.

Rolling my eyes at myself, I underhand a ball in her direction. I need a new hobby.

The ball bounces off Zoe’s arms, and she scowls up at me. “Give a girl some warning.”

“Would it have helped if I had?”

She fights a smile, but it breaks through the cracks as she shoves up her sleeves and picks up the ball. “Probably not.”

Pretty soon we settle into a rhythm of her throwing and me handing her a fresh ball with a few pointers. “You’re getting better,” I say.

Flashing that million-dollar smile at me, she tosses another. It has a wobbly spiral but goes a solid fifteen yards.

“Of course, you didn’t have anywhere to go but up.”

“Hey!” She shoves my shoulder, and I exaggerate the sway from her impact. “I wasn’t that bad.”

My snort nearly drowns out her self-deprecating chuckle. As I stoop to pick up her last attempt, the wind grabs the hem of my T-shirt, blasting cold around my ribs. I haven’t stood all the way back up before I hear a sharp gasp. Suddenly Zoe is at my side, tugging my shirt, her fingers splaying across my side and around to my back. Her smile has vanished, replaced by a tight line and intense eyebrows.

“Who did this?”

“What?” Part of me wants to shake off the icicles she calls fingers. But a stronger part of me wants to never not feel her touch again.

Chicken on a biscuit.

The press of her hands against me is lightning, slicing through me like I’m nothing more than air and sky.

I twist to meet her eyes, but her unblinking gaze is locked on the swath of rapidly cooling skin above my waistband.

“ Who did this to you?“ She shoves up the hem of my T-shirt, revealing most of my side. I lift my arm to give her a better view—erm—so I can get a peek at what has her looking like a ghost.

Ham got creative with a magic marker during pre-season team workouts, which ended up with a few rookies getting unplanned—and temporary—tattoos. No way he’d have the guts to do something like that to me.

But no matter how I stretch, I can’t see whatever has Zoe in a trance.

Slowly her finger traces an uneven line from the middle of my ribs toward the center of my back. Then she dips south, and I suck in a sharp gasp. She stops at my waist, dragging her nail gently along my sweats and back up my side. My heart slams against my sternum, my lungs suddenly forgetting their job. And my body reacts like I’ve never been touched by a woman before.

But chicken. On. A. Biscuit .

Every inch of skin her fingernail traces goes up in flames. And it’s the best torture I’ve ever known. I hold myself still, afraid any movement might scare her away. Praying she’ll never stop.

Her touch shifts. Now softer than satin sheets, more soothing than the hot tub after a long game. My eyes drift closed as I focus on the feel of her and the catch in her panted breaths. Her fingers walk over my ribs, and a feeling I’ve almost forgotten clenches low in my gut.

“Grant?” she asks because I still haven’t answered her question. Though I have a better idea what’s caught her attention now. I spotted it in the mirror this morning, and the bruise from Sunday’s game is pretty gnarly. “It looks like someone took a baseball bat to you. Who did this?”

I fight the smile that wants to come, keeping my eyes closed and enjoying her undivided attention.

Just for a second.

But I know a second is all it takes. Less, actually. Losing my focus for just a moment cost me months of recovery and rehab. And it almost cost me my entire career. I’m closer to retirement now, but I’m not ready to call it quits yet. I’ve still got a few more years—a few more chances to take my team to the big game.

My eyes fly open, and I step away from her, forcing a smirk to my lips. “There were eleven of them. Big guys. Kept coming at me. Over and over again. Mean sons of . . .” I bite off the word. The guys in the locker room tease me about my language—or lack thereof. But my mom never abided cursing in her house. And I’ve been especially careful since Kenna moved into mine. I don’t need my sister coming home to a teenager who’s picked up some bad language. No matter how much I hear at the facility.

Realization dawns across Zoe’s face. Slowly at first, then all at once. “You jerk,” she says, swinging her elbow at the bruise on my side. “This is from the game, isn’t it?”

“Hey! Hey! I’m injured.”

“I’ll show you an injury,” she growls, pushing at my shoulder. At some point, the sleeves of my sweatshirt sagged, and her hands have disappeared again.

“Come on, now,” I cajole in my sweetest voice. “What would your dad say if you injured his QB1?”

Her cute features and pert little nose wrinkle with all the force of her scowl. “You seem to be under the impression that I care what my dad thinks.”

Something deep inside wants to unpack that with her—to know what caused such a rift between them. But the smell of her shampoo wafting on the breeze pulls me in for another reason altogether as she takes a playful swing at my shoulder. The empty cuff of the sweatshirt sleeve slaps me impotently, and I grab it, tugging her toward me.

“Hey!” I’m pretty sure she’s going for indignant as she stumbles a step or two toward my chest, but the giggle that bubbles underneath steals the show.

Snatching the other sleeve, I hold her captive barely a step in front of me, even as she tries to wiggle to freedom.

“I was legitimately worried about you. And this is the thanks I get?” With an eye roll that would rival Kenna’s, she stills.

I want to tell her that this is the thanks she gets for looking so adorable in my sweatshirt. This is the thanks she gets for accepting an invite on my Incline hike. This is the thanks she gets for invading my life.

Instead, I give her sleeves a sharp but gentle tug, just enough to pull her off balance and straight against me. Her hands—still enshrined in the sweatshirt—fly up and land on my chest, her chin lifted all the way up. And suddenly I’m frozen, caught in the force of her gaze.

Her eyes, green this morning, stare up into mine. Unblinking. They’re pools deeper than the sea and twice as dangerous. Suddenly I’m falling in. Falling fast. Falling deep. Gone are the practice field and the wind and the house and the whole of the Springs. Only Zoe remains.

I scrape my thumb across her cheek, brushing away an invisible lock of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. Her half-smile grows with the movement, a secret hidden in her shallow dimple.

And I want to know what that secret is. I want to tell her plenty of my own too. But that’s a stupid idea.

Cradling her face in my hands, I close the distance between us by half.

I’m not going to kiss her or anything.

I just want another moment where we’re the only two people on earth.

Lying to myself is a dangerous business.

Too late.

Zoe’s tongue darts out to wet the corner of her mouth, and all I can focus on is the pink of her lips and their gentle curve. They can’t possibly be as soft as they look, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to find out for sure.

There’s a small tremor in her lower lip, one it would be easy to miss. But I don’t. Not when I’m studying her like she’s the key to winning every game for the rest of the season.

“Zo?” I’ve never called her by that nickname before, and I can’t explain why I do now. It just feels as natural as the two of us together.

“Yeah?” Her gaze doesn’t make it north of my mouth, but inside the sleeves of my sweatshirt, her fingers curl into my chest.

It’s not exactly an invitation, but it definitely isn’t a rejection, so I sweep my thumb across her cheek, under her eye. She looks up for a second, and our eyes lock.

It’s lightning and thunder at once, a summer storm over the Rockies. More than altitude ever could, this connection steals my oxygen, pulls me closer until there’s only a breath between us. The tug in my stomach urges me on, reminding me that we’ve been leading up to this for more than a week.

Every early morning sidewalk meeting. Every unexpected visit. Every flirtatious smile.

They were all so that we could make it here.

Slipping an arm around her tiny waist, I tug her a little closer until our bodies are flush, save her hands still on my chest. Her responding gasp makes me smirk, and I expect a playful smack that never comes. Instead, she snuggles deeper as I lean down.

Then I close my eyes.

And Tawna’s face flashes across my mind’s eye.

Chicken on a biscuit.

Stupid. Stupid. I never should have let it get this far. There’s never been any doubt that I’m attracted to Zoe. I have a pulse and a few brain cells, after all.

But just because I feel it doesn’t mean I have to act on it.

It’s called self-control, Red. Practice some of it.

I force myself to take a step back. “I don’t want to do this.”