Page 27

Lyla

I should’ve gone home an hour ago, but instead, I’m knee-deep in what looks like the aftermath of a craft store explosion.

I calculated that I need to crank out five nameplates a day to finish in time—easier said than done when I keep ruining them in increasingly creative ways.

Right now, I’m splayed across the floor of our supply-slash-printer closet, fingers cramping from foam board surgery while the Cricut machine whirs in the background, spitting out names like it’s judging me.

Mini LED light strips are scattered everywhere, like confetti at a party I wasn’t invited to.

“There you are,” Drake says. His bearded face appears around the door frame, startling me out of my Cricut-induced haze. “I’ve been loitering near your desk long enough that HR probably has me on a watchlist.”

Despite everything, I laugh. And I find that it feels really good to laugh—to let go, if only for a moment.

Drake shuffles into the closet space, moving things around so he can sit with his back against the massive copier that never works the first time you try. “How can I help?”

“I’m beyond help,” I groan. “I need resuscitation.”

Drake’s lips twist suggestively. “I can think of a few ways to do that.”

I fumble with the glue gun, dropping it on the nameplate I’m working on.

My face heats as I realize his implication—and the innuendo I just backed myself into.

Before I can respond, Drake lifts up one of the ruined nameplates—the name has a typo, which I didn’t realize until I’d finished it—only to discover it’s stuck to my pant leg.

He tugs harder—and accidentally drags my leg along with it.

“You, uh, really do need help here don’t you? ”

“More than you know.” I wave a hand at my reject pile—name plates with too much glitter, names printed on the wrong side of the sticker sheet, malfunctioning lights.

“Hmm.” It’s all Drake can say as he surveys the craft carnage. “You know, in all my years as a professional athlete—”

“You mean your one full year in the NFL?”

He smirks. “Admit it. You Googled me.”

I scoff. I won’t admit anything.

“With one full year of being a professional athlete under my belt, I’ve learned a very, very important lesson when faced with challenges and difficulties such as this.” He spreads his hands to encompass the room.

“What’s that, wise guy?”

“Food fixes everything.”

“Everything?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Well, almost everything. Most things. At least, if you’re a two hundred pound athlete who burns ten thousand calories a day, it usually puts things into perspective.”

“Hm, yeah, well, I don’t exactly fall into that category—but I could use some food.”

“Well, it’s just your luck I’m practically a professional chef.”

At this, both of my eyebrows raise. “ Really ?” Disbelief edges my voice.

He chuckles. “Nah, but I’m a pro at ordering really good food.”

I throw a handful of Cricut scraps at him and laugh.

Drake orders food while I attempt to finish Leandre’s name plate.

I give up around the time I glue my sleeve to the foam board.

We eat our dinner in the lounge, the scent of cumin and garlic hanging in the air, while Drake recounts his math session with LJ and I laugh so hard, it’s like an ab workout.

An hour later, with Cuban food filling our stomachs, I have to admit that Drake was on to something.

He insists on helping me, so I give him the task of cutting the foam board into the correct size for the name plates.

With arroz con pollo fueling my brain, I triple check the names on the list before sending them to the Cricut printer.

“You sure there isn’t some clause in your contract about playing with X-acto knives?” I raise an eyebrow as he pushes the blade up and down. “Wouldn’t want to injure your precious fingers.”

“These are the most important fingers in Miami,” he says with a wink.

“Pretty sure there are a few neurosurgeons who might disagree.”

“Neurosurgeons. They’re a real self-important bunch.”

I laugh freely, a good, deep belly-laugh that takes over my whole body. I’ve lost track of the times I’ve laughed tonight with Drake. It feels . . . right.

Over the next hour, we fall into an easy rhythm, and I find that I can relax around Drake for the first time since I met him a year ago.

“What do you think?” I hold up the first completed name plate.

“Nice,” he says, dragging the word out. “The kids are going to go crazy over these.”

I smile, looking down at the finished name plate. “I think so too.” I click off the LED lights to conserve the battery and set it carefully to the side. “It’s a mess of a project, and I definitely should’ve said no. But I kind of love it. It’ll mean something to the kids.”

“I have no doubt that whatever you do will turn out great. You’re really good at your job, Blue.” I glance up at Drake, and he smiles at me. A genuine, non-smirky smile. And I feel it in the depths of my stomach, swirling up some unnamed emotion that I quickly tamp down.

“Thanks,” I whisper, and then, because I need to change the subject STAT, I say, “Can you grab my phone out of my purse over there?” I point to my purse, which is a couple feet from Drake, propping open the closet door. “I want to get a picture of it to show Hazel.”

Drake reaches over and tugs my purse from between the door and frame. “No—wait—” I lunge, but it’s too late. The door clicks. Locked.

Of course the universe would trap me in a closet with Drake Blythe.

Drake fishes in my purse and hands me my phone, completely unaware that we’re now stuck inside this room—with no one at Play It Forward to let us out.