Page 7 of The Last Person (Baker Girls #5)

CHAPTER SIX

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Poetry is the start of my day.

Every morning before I get dressed or even leave my bedroom, I sit down in my oversized chair and either read or write poetry.

Any professional athlete will tell you that routine is essential to their lives, but for me, this part of my routine is essential for my soul.

My life is often rushed, hyper-scheduled, and loud.

This is my time for peace. To slow down and reconnect with where I am today—or where I’d like to be. What I’m writing or reading is usually an extension of that, and as I read through some classic Robert Frost poetry, my heart longs for the woods, meadows, and greenery.

The urge to grab my phone and research properties upstate—somewhere around Ida—hits me, but I stop myself from reaching for it. The second the phone is in my hand I’ll forget what I’m doing and end up doomscrolling.

This is about grounding myself.

I read a few more poems, then set the book aside, stand, and stretch. Moving on to the second part of my morning routine, checking in with my plant babies.

All of my plants fit in the window in my bedroom, so that’s where I’m keeping them. I’m planning to get some bigger ones for the living room. I just haven’t had time to get any yet, and it’s not something I’ll allow someone else to do for me.

“Rocky, you’re looking sharp today.” My lips twitch in amusement as I look at my silver ball cactus.

“And Deidre, look at these beautiful blooms. This is your brightest year ever,” I say to my Christmas cactus.

“How’s Greta doing?”

I turn to look at Hardy, standing in my doorway, a cup of something in one hand, and wax strips covering his chest.

“She’s thrilled now. Acting like she was never mad about moving in the first place.”

“So fickle,” Hardy chastises, walking into the room.

“She’s always been that way.” I check a couple more plants, then turn to Hardy, nodding at the cup in his hand. “What’s that?”

“Power drink to start your day.”

I walk over and take it from him, eyes going wide when I see what it is. “A green drink?”

“It’s good for you.”

“Debatable, but either way, how could you bring it in here?” I nod toward the windowsill. “In front of the kids?”

He tilts his head. “Is this why you never ate salads at home before? Because they were on the edge of the dining room?”

“Yes. I don’t need them thinking I’m going to eat them.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “This is practically made out of their cousins.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a touch dramatic?”

“I’m the dramatic one? Who yelled at me when I didn’t want to stay up and watch a third episode of Dawson’s Creek last night?”

“I didn’t yell. I was just a little hyped. It’s your fault for getting me hooked on the show.”

I shake my head and aim for the door. “Whatever you say.” As I walk by him, I rip one of the wax strips off his chest.

“Ow! You asshole!”

His footsteps thunder behind me, and I laugh, running down the hall and holding my cup out in front of me. “Careful, you’ll spill the puréed plant sludge.”

He’s faster than me, so I know I’ve only got a few seconds before he catches me. I skitter around the corner and shove the cup onto the counter, right as Hardy’s arm wraps around me.

“Really? You’re tackling the linebacker?” In midair, I spin, wrap an arm around him, and adjust the position so we don’t hit the floor too hard.

It’s not until we’re both on the floor that I realize the mistake I’ve made.

Hardy is pinned beneath me, our faces less than a foot apart, and our crotches touching.

Don’t think about his crotch.

Hardy’s eyes are wide as he stares up at me, and my heart is pounding.

Our eyes lock, and for one stupid, fragile second, I almost drop my lips to his.

Until I remember that would destroy everything.

But the thought is there. The image of it. And then the noise of surprise he’d make as my lips hit his.

Oh, shit. My cock takes an interest in that thought, and as all my blood rushes in that direction, I can’t breathe. I shift so I’m on all fours, giving my crotch some breathing room.

“Tackling the linebacker,” Hardy says, his wide eyes gone and smirk now playing on his lips. “Sounds like the title of a romance book.”

Thankfully, the playful tone in his voice settles my body down a little.

“And the guy on the cover would have hair blowing in the breeze, overly dramatic sex eyes, and…” I run my hand up his chest. It’s probably toeing the line of flirtation, but since I put myself in this ridiculous position, I let myself have fun for half a second.

Intensity grows in his eyes, and I immediately regret the decision to say something even mildly flirtatious. It makes my brain see things that aren’t there.

“And what?” he asks, voice… husky?

Nope. I’m imagining that too.

I need to break whatever this weird moment is before it breaks me.

Moving my hand over, I say, “And… a smooth chest.” Then I rip another wax strip off his chest as I stand up.

“Why?” he groans.

“That’s what you get for wanting to live with me.”

“Regretting all my life choices.”

“Took you long enough,” I say as I walk back to my room, leaving the green juice to fester on the counter.

Hardy shifts in his seat next to me on the airplane as we head down south for our game tomorrow.

“What’s the matter?” I ask. “Are you still annoyed at me? You were going to pull the wax strips off anyway. I just helped you along. I’m sure your chest is smooth as a baby’s butt now.”

He scrunches his face. “Why is that a saying?”

“Why do you shave your chest? Why do we exist? The great questions of life remain unanswered.”

“Wow. And I thought you were supposed to be the wise, prophetic one.”

I shrug. “What can I say? You bring out my immaturity.”

He pouts at that.

“You should’ve had more than green muck for breakfast. I told you, you get hangry.”

He glares at me. “I don’t get hangry.”

“Wow, could you two sound more like an old married couple?” TJ, our cornerback, says from across the aisle.

I snort at that, but Hardy folds his arms over his chest as he looks at me. “You’d be lucky to be with someone as awesome as me.”

“You two have really gotten worse since you moved in together,” Beckett, one of our running backs, says.

“That literally just happened.”

“My point exactly,” Beckett says. “You’ve taken bromance to a whole new level.”

TJ smacks him on the arm, laughing. “The bromance part two: bro harder.”

“All I’m hearing is that you’re jealous,” Hardy says, that cocky shit-eating smirk on his lips.

“So jealous of staying home all the time instead of going out and getting my dick wet. I live the worst life,” Beckett says.

From the row in front of them, Wendell Pierce, one of our team captains and all-around good guy, says, “That’s enough. You’re starting to sound like assholes now.”

“Starting to?” I mutter under my breath.

I move to put my headphones back over my ears, but Hardy’s hand splaying over my thigh stops me.

That little touch shouldn’t put me on edge, but it does.

I’m good at playing things off and leaning into our friendship, but the touch is always what gets me. Hardy’s love language is physical touch, but that might be how I need to be shown love.

I don’t like being around people unless they’re my people. And when I find my person, I want to curl up next to them, bury myself inside them, never let them go. Hardy’s my person. If only I could convince my brain it’s not a romantic thing.

Lifting my gaze to his, I lean into our playfulness. “Yes, I know I’d be lucky to marry someone as awesome as you.”

He stares at me for a beat, then his fingers almost imperceptibly tighten on my thigh before he moves his hand.

“Nah. I think I’d be the lucky one.”

Then he pops his earbuds in and pulls out his e-reader, leaving me to muddle over his words.

We’re just friends.

He said it because he wanted to be clear he was teasing me earlier.

But somewhere in the back of my mind, thoughts rumble. What if he didn’t mean it that way? What if he meant it exactly how he said it?

With reckless abandon, I kill those thoughts because all they’ll do is bring me heartache.