Page 9

Zoe

D espite Grant’s ribbing about my lack of skills, I drive over to his neighborhood on Monday afternoon. Through the gatehouse window, Chester smiles at me.

“Hey there, Miss Peebles. Mr. Reddington expecting you?”

I wink at my co-conspirator as he smooths his mostly white mustache. “I like to keep him on his toes.”

He chuckles and hits a button, setting off the slow and creaky opening of the community’s enormous wrought iron gate. The intricate scroll work that mimics the outline of Pikes Peak is hidden against tall hedges when it’s fully open, and I pull through with a wave at my friend.

As I park in Grant’s driveway, I can’t help but feel at home. It has to be the farmhouse and the way it sits on the land. I’ve only been here a few times, and it’s not like Grant has made me feel particularly welcome. But he did invite me over.

I bounce up the paving stones to his front door and raise my fist to knock just as it swings open. I drop my hand to my side and blink silently at the middle-aged woman standing there.

“Ah, Miss Peebles.”

That’s twice now in the span of five minutes that I’ve been called by that name, and I blurt out my go-to response. “Zoe is fine.”

The woman smiles, her face transforming from ordinary to inviting. Deep dimples appear in both of her cheeks while her eyes crinkle at the corners. Even her simple brown hair suddenly catches the sunlight, giving her a halo.

Reaching out, she shakes my hand with a firm grip. “Good to meet you. I’m Denise.”

A memory suddenly sends my salivary glands into overdrive. “Of the blueberry muffins?”

“One and the same.” Her grin somehow manages to grow wider as she steps to the side and waves me in. “Grant is out back.”

“Probably preparing for our scrimmage.”

Denise chuckles, low and throaty, the sound like a warm hug. “I see why Kenna and Grant like you so much.”

That’s all it takes to make me forget whatever I was going to say. I’m not convinced that Grant likes me at all. Except that he reliably shows up at Nan’s house every morning and stops his run just to chat.

And if I’m honest, I’ve started looking forward to those few minutes. I would never admit that to Bronco. But I did sneak him an extra treat yesterday for making sure I’m awake and outdoors in time for those meet-ups. Nan’s fence in the backyard will be fixed soon, but Bronco doesn’t need to know that.

Grant either.

“Are you going to stay for dinner?” Denise asks.

I open my mouth to thank her for the offer and politely decline, but Grant’s deep voice fills the silence. “She’ll stay.” He sweeps in from the back door, along with a gust of cool wind. He’s back to his usual morning uniform: a T-shirt pulled taut across his shoulders and black shorts. But I’m the one shivering, despite my zip-up jacket and matching joggers.

“I’d hate to—”

“Kenna will never forgive me if we don’t keep you around as long as we can.”

With a clap of her hands, Denise says, “Good, good. I’ll set another place.”

Grant gives her a soft “thank you” before swinging the back door open again. “All right, QB1. Let’s get to it.”

I jog through the kitchen and onto the patio. Despite the bright sun, the wind nips at the exposed skin of my neck and ankles, unleashing another shiver. Grant looks like he’s on a beach somewhere. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Nope. And you won’t be either once we get to work.”

I’m not sure I believe him, but I follow him onto his mini practice field anyway. Half a dozen footballs are spread at the near end. He scoops one up and tosses it to me. I throw up my hands to block my face, and the ball bounces off my forearms.

“All right.” He stoops again, his movements slower, less sharp than before. “Let’s try that one more time. I’m going to toss you a ball. Try to catch it this time.”

“Maybe I tried to catch it last time.”

He snorts. “Just hold out your hands. I’ll put it right in there.”

Confident much?

But when he tosses another in my direction, it spins in an easy rotation and lands in my outstretched fingers. I stare at the ball sitting there, cradled in my palms. I can’t help the grin that breaks across my face as I hold up my achievement. Well, maybe it’s more his. “How’d you do that?”

“Same way you’re going to,” he says as he strolls in my direction. “Practice.”

His body is like a heater, and I gravitate toward his side as he shows me how he’s holding the ball. He smells clean—like pine trees and sunshine. I don’t know if he grew up in the Rockies or if he’s simply adapted to living here, but he belongs in these mountains.

Even his jawline looks like it’s cut from the same stone as the peaks that span the state. It’s sharply angled and strong, his stubble somehow inviting. I’m not saying that I want to run my hands over it. But I want to run my hands over it. And explore every hidden texture.

Or maybe tiptoe my fingers down the straight slope of his nose. Or across his subtle lips.

I’m so busy staring at his face that I almost miss the motion of his hand waving a ball in front of me. “Hold it like this.”

“Huh?” Brilliant, Zoe. “Right. Like this.” I adjust the one in my hands so that my grip is around the white ring at one end.

“No.” His lips twitch, and he reaches for me. His hands are hotter than the rest of him, firing sparks up my arms at the brush of his fingertips. They’re rough and calloused from years in the gym and on the field, but his touch is gentle as he moves my fingers until my ring and pinky are on the laces, my pointer is reaching toward the tip, my thumb on the underside. “How does that feel?”

“Good.” My reply is a little too breathy, and immediately my cheeks burn. Grant’s eyebrows do that dip I’ve grown accustomed to. The one that says he’s wondering if I’m really all right.

“No. Great. The grip feels good.” I squeeze it again, then readjust slightly. “Yeah.”

He nods. “Want to give it a throw?”

“No.”

A laugh bursts out of him. “I thought you were here to learn how to throw a spiral.”

“I am.”

He chuckles again, scratching at the blunt of his chin. “Well, I’m afraid to tell you that this is one of those things that requires doing. You can read all the steps in a book, but if you can’t make your body do those motions, you can’t throw a spiral.”

With a huff, I flip my hair behind my ear. “Fine. But . . . how?”

“How what?”

“How do I throw it?”

His features somehow become more angular, his lips pinching, confusion written in his gaze. “I don’t understand. You just throw it.”

“But, how ?“ I must sound like the biggest idiot, and I’m suddenly regretting asking him to teach me anything. It’s the same thing with acting. You can be taught all of the skills but putting them into play requires practice. I’ve heard script writers say the same thing. It’s one thing to know where plot points should go in your movie. It’s something else to show someone a draft of your script.

It requires a whole level of vulnerability. And as my heart thuds against my ribs, I know I don’t want to show that side of myself to Grant. I’d much rather look like I have all of my stuff together.

Better yet, I’d rather actually have all of my stuff together.

And I’d prefer to avoid another embarrassment like our last training session.

Grant drops his ball. “Your dad really never played catch with you?”

“Nope. He said girls don’t play the game.”

His nostrils flare once as he steps behind me. “Do you mind?” But he doesn’t wait for an answer to his question as he reaches around me, wrapping his hand over mine on the ball. His chest cradles my back, his arm supporting my form. “Bring it up like this. Turn your hips like . . .”

His free hand brushes my waist, then his fingers nudge me until I’m almost perpendicular to the end zone. “You’re going to bring your arm up here and turn here with the throw.” He squeezes my waist to show me where.

“Uh-huh.” That breathy response is back. But I can’t help it.

I haven’t responded to a man this way in a very long time—not even Joe . He never once made my insides turn to jelly or my skin light on fire the way that Grant has with one innocent brush of his hand. And his arm. And his chest.

His very presence interrupts the cool fall air, warming me. From the inside out. Unleashing goosebumps along my neck and down my legs. Knees going soft, I swayback into the man in question, and the pressure of his fingers into my hip sets off more fireworks. He’s solid. Not an ounce of give in our contact, but I want to sink into him.

Physics would probably say that’s not possible.

Doesn’t mean I couldn’t try.

But I won’t. Of course.

Because this is all totally innocent.

Except no one gave my nerves that memo, and the tug low in my belly suggests that I’d enjoy kissing Grant a whole lot more than I ever did Joe.

Joe was fine at first. Slim and a few inches shy of six feet. And his face had been plastered on posters for three blockbusters in one year. By all accounts he was a nice guy. Until he wasn’t. More than anything he was . . . persistent.

Three weeks into the shoot, I gave in. Told him I’d go to dinner with him.

My skin crawls as I remember the way he ran his hands over my arms and back, tugging at my clothes, pressing his lips to my ear, pushing me against the outside of my trailer.

God help me, I liked the attention. I’d told myself for years that I didn’t need it. That I was doing just fine on my own. Busy with my career. With friends. Finding a church to attend near my latest shoot.

But the minute Joe showed me even a snippet of real interest, I caved.

I’d like to blame it on years of singleness. Or being on location in South Africa. Maybe I hadn’t realized how lonely my life had become.

I am sure that if Joe had deigned to mention his marital status—his recently changed status thanks to a secret backyard wedding that his publicist had miraculously been able to keep out of the press—I would never have agreed to that first date.

One thing I’m certain of right now—Joe Kellyn has nothing on the Teeners’ QB1.

Which is problematic to keeping my oath never to fall for someone in the limelight.

“You ready to give this a shot?” Grant’s voice is in my ear, running over me like honey.

“Sure.” And with that, he helps me throw it.

It doesn’t go fifty yards. Or even fifteen. But it’s a solid ten-yard toss. The spiral isn’t exactly centered, but a wobbly ball still flies.

“I did it!”

He chuckles. “Indeed, you did. Now do it again.”