Page 6

Chapter 5

Lily

L ooking down at my phone, a text message from Dean stares up at me.

Dean: Where are you?

It’s a strange feeling to see a question like this from him after all this time. Months have gone by, and yes, I had those weak moments where I hoped he’d see the light and come find me while crawling on his knees, but he never did.

We’re over. I know we’re over. He knows we’re over. So why now? And just this one question from him pisses me off. I shouldn’t let it, but it somehow does, but at the same time, this is so hard.

For years, he was my best friend, and I miss that. I’m not mad at him anymore. I just feel like for me to move on, I need to set boundaries. And I have. I haven’t texted him, called him, nothing, and in return, he did the same. I’m certain our reasons for this are different, and deep down, that does hurt, but I have moved on. Mentally and emotionally, I’m in a place where I’m at peace with this decision, and by the time I left North Carolina, I was feeling optimistic about my future.

So why is he texting now?

I let out an annoyed sigh and finally decide on:

Staying with a friend.

His response is immediate.

Dean: What friend? I know all of your friends, and no one has seen you.

And isn’t that the truth? He knows my life and all of my friends, and unfortunately I’ve realized I didn’t have much of one. He was my life, and I let his schedule, his needs, his fame, and work-life balance of anonymity when it came to our personal life take over. I really did isolate myself, and the result of that is I have no friends other than Morgan and Lance. And well, do Lance and Casey even count if they’re family?

The garage door swings open, startling me, and my heart rate picks up a little. Tyler saunters into the kitchen, and my system is hit with a jolt at just the sight of him. He’s wearing a Tarpons T-shirt, a pair of black joggers, and gray ankle socks. He must have kicked off his shoes outside. His hair looks disheveled, like he just woke up, and he looks so casual it feels almost intimate. Like this is just an everyday thing for us, and if I’m not careful, I could very easily develop another crush on my brother’s best friend.

That’s right, another, as my mind sweeps back to my teenage self, the first time I met him and the subsequent years that followed. Tyler has always been gorgeous, older, kind, and back then, he was that pie-in-the-sky dream. Did that crush fade? Of course. But that was more due to time than anything else. Time passed, life happened for both of us, and even though he remained a presence in all of our lives, that enamored feeling faded into an admiration for how good of a friend he’s been to Lance.

“Hey,” he says, as he drops a white box onto the island, and a blush heats my cheeks.

Tyler wasn’t here last night, so I had the place to myself. He said he was staying at Jonah’s house to babysit his niece, Vivi, but who knows. We haven’t really talked much this week. I’d like to, but I’m not sure what to say. I know having me here has thrown him off, but I’d like for us to be friends too.

“Are those what I think they are?” I ask him, my stomach instantly growling.

“If you’re thinking they’re donuts, then you’re right. Lance mentioned they were your favorite,” he says, placing his hands on the counter, bracketing the box, and then settling his gaze on me from across the room.

It’s so strange to be the full focus of his attention. Over the years, sure, he’s looked at me, but it’s never felt like this. Maybe it’s because we’re alone, perhaps it’s the stupid teenager in me reveling in his dark-eyed spotlight, or maybe I’m overthinking it because that seems most likely.

“So you just decided to go out and get me some?” I love that he was thinking about me. Then again, he was probably thinking about how he can get rid of me. Let me tell you, pal, showering me with donuts won’t be it. I’m more likely to stay longer if you keep bringing things like this home.

He shrugs and then turns to the cabinet to grab us a couple of plates. In my lap, my phone buzzes again. I look down at it, and it’s still him.

Dean: Hello?

I stare at the question and the blatant haughtiness, which I can hear in his tone after knowing him for so long, and decide this is it. I’ve had enough. My delight over the donuts is overruled by the anger sweeping back through me. Who is he to demand I talk to him right this second? No one. That’s who he is to me after all these years. I hit Info on his contact, scroll to the bottom, and tap probably a little too roughly on Block Caller.

“What are you doing over there?” Tyler asks. I had been so wrapped up in my own head that I forgot he was there.

My eyes find his, which are dark with his brows pulled down, and if I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing, anger.

“I don’t know,” I tell him while standing so I can join him. “Freeing myself. Eighty-sixing unwanted noise. Taking out the garbage. Finally blocking. Looking at the cost and supplies of owning my own chickens. Watching baby goat videos. Take your pick.”

He stares at me for a moment, and then one dark eyebrow pops up. “Watching baby goat videos?”

I appreciate that out of everything I just word vomited on him, this is what he chose.

“Well, yeah. They’re so cute. I love baby goats. They make me happy.”

“Have you ever been around baby goats?” he asks suspiciously, placing a plate in front of me as I slide into a seat at the island with his beautiful fish underneath me. I’ve stared at these fish endlessly while working these past couple of days, and a large blue-and-yellow fish has become my favorite.

“No, but the videos sure make me happy. Did you know that if you scare a goat, they fall right over and faint? Legs straight out and everything like they’ve died and developed rigor mortis.”

He flips the lid of the box open and my mouth waters at the dozen fat, delicious-looking donuts in front of me and the instant smell of sugar.

“No, and that’s weird, and from what I know, they shit all over everywhere,” he says, taking out one of the plain glazed. The glazed are my favorite too. I don’t tell him this, after all, I’ve never met a donut I didn’t like, but there’s something about a regular glazed donut that just makes them better than all the rest, especially if they’re a little bit warm.

“How would you know?” I ask, pulling out a maple, my second favorite.

He takes a bite of his and, while chewing, answers the question. “Bryan, our quarterback, just got two for his wife. She’s decided that she needs farm animals. He got her goats and chickens. We’ve had to hear about it in our group chat, in the locker room, while practicing, and at dinner. Needless to say, except for the eggs, he’s not a fan.”

“Really?” I ask, excitement eliminating any of the lingering anger from Dean. “That’s so exciting. There’s no way he’s not a fan, and farm fresh eggs are so good.”

He takes another large bite and looks at me skeptically. “Exciting isn’t the word I would be using. He’s the one who’ll end up cleaning it.”

“You don’t know that, and from what I know of Lexi Brennen, she’s a force to be reckoned with.” I sink my teeth into the donut, and my eyes drift shut in pure bliss. Sugary sweetness invades my senses, and I’m so happy. This man has no idea how he just pulled me from the funk mood I was in.

“How do you know Lexi?” he asks, watching me as I savor another bite.

I give him a blank stare, then raise my brows. “Really?”

“Oh. WAGS. I guess that makes sense.” He eats more of his donut.

“Yeah, I’ve met her a few times at industry events over the years. She’s always been very nice to me.” I take another bite and appreciate how flavorful the maple icing is. I can taste caramel, toffee, and nutmeg. It’s so delicious I’m thinking he can keep the plain glazed and these have moved into the number-one spot.

“She makes some damn good pie, too,” he says.

“I did order a few of her pies in a jar once from her business, Firefly Kitchen. Dean refused to eat any of it. Something about his body being a temple and all that, but that didn’t stop me. They were delicious.”

He frowns. “I’m offended for her and her pies. Have I told you yet how much I hate that guy?”

“Lance told me pretty much every day of the eight years that we were together. I’m not surprised you share his sentiments.” I take another bite.

“Trust me, it’s not just me. Eventually, he’ll lose that shiny reputation. He’s slipping, and too many people have seen his true colors lately.” He shoves more of the donut into his mouth.

“And what colors are those?”

“Not good ones. He’s a narcissist and like an illness that spreads to everyone and everything around him, where he tries to infect them with his condescending negativity.” His gaze travels over me like he’s looking for these germs, and I’m not sure how I feel about his answer. Does he think I’m the same?

“Did it spread to me?” I ask, needing to know his answer.

He finishes off the last of his donut and looks at me. Hard. I don't know what he’s looking for, and it makes me want to squirm.

“Not sure yet. I guess we’ll find out,” he says, moving to the sink to wash his fingers. I guess he’s only eating one. He then moves to the counter where he grabs two cups and then pours us each a cup of coffee.

My heart sinks a little that he might consider me to be someone just like Dean, but I guess I’ve never really given him a reason to think differently. We don’t really know each other outside of a few interactions regarding Lance, and I did stay with Dean for a long time.

“I guess we will,” I say, taking another bite, determined to somehow prove to him that I am not like Dean. I glance down at the box and can’t help but think these are some of the best donuts I’ve ever had. So far in my new life, I’m two for two in new donut places. I’ll take this small win.

Clearing his throat, Tyler slides a cup to me, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “So I’ve put together my list. The list of house rules that you asked for.”

“I expected nothing less,” I tell him, shoving the last of my donut in my mouth and wiping my hands together over my plate to shake off the crumbs. I lean back in my chair. “Give it to me.”

He steps backward away from me and leans against the counter behind him. He’s putting space between us, and it’s easy to see this topic makes him uncomfortable. He looks down at the small piece of folded paper and hesitates before speaking. “There’s not a lot on here because I really don’t know what to add. Lance was my only roommate, so while I’m sure there are some obvious things, I don’t know what they are. Maybe we’ll add to this as we go, but I have a few for now.” His head lifts, and his dark eyes find mine. “Lily, I can’t express to you enough, I’m a very private person. This shouldn’t be a surprise to you. You’ve known me long enough for at least this.”

“It’s not, and I know you are. Again, I’m very appreciative that you’re letting me stay here, and I can’t say thank you enough. I love your home. I feel very good here.”

I glance around the homey, inviting space, and my eyes fall on the dining room table. It’s a chunky wooden table that looks solid and sturdy. The chairs would definitely hold his large frame, as well as his teammates, but the more I learn about him, I’m wondering if it’s ever even been used. He also only has one table instead of two. There’s no kitchen table as the island is large and the seats here are all he needs.

His chest expands once, twice, and then he takes in a deep breath and exhales. “Great. So no guests, unless it’s Lance. He’s my one exception.”

“Done. I don’t know anyone anyway.” And honestly, I don’t feel like making any new friends either. I’m happy here. I want to write this next book, make some new goals for myself, and just figure out what’s next. I know I can’t stay here forever, but if I’m out of his way and quiet, maybe he’ll let me stay for a few weeks.

“Two. No pictures of me or anything that belongs to me. That includes the inside and outside of my house, the boat, the truck, my clothes, the fish . . . nothing.”

This seems kind of odd, but okay. While I have personal social media accounts, I haven’t posted on them in a while. Dean was weird about this, too, as I have thousands of followers just because of who I was dating. And as for my author account, I do post book teasers and some life teasers, but my face is never in them. I posted a couple at the lake, hinting about the small-town mountain vibe and trope for this Lake Loon series, but I haven’t posted anything since I’ve been here. I know I need to soon, but it’ll be a graphic or aesthetic that Morgan has probably made for me.

“Got it, no photographing Nemo.”

He gives me a pointed look that says he doesn’t think I’m funny, but I smile at him anyway.

He clears his throat. “Season is about to start, and my schedule is already shifting to those working hours. I go to bed early and get up early, so I’d like the lights to be out in the living room and kitchen by eight. There’s no door to my room, so any noise and light down here filters its way up.”

There’s no door? At all?

Last night, I stood at the bottom of the stairs wanting to climb them to explore the rest of his house, but knowing him, he probably has cameras inside his house as well as outside and I didn’t want to risk it. And if there’s no door, that means the entire upstairs is his bedroom.

He goes on, grimacing. “I hate the smell of raw ground beef cooking. Please don’t cook that if you know I’m going to be here. Cook it some other time and then maybe add some seasoning to cover it up.”

How odd. Who doesn’t like ground beef? I think the smell of it cooking is delicious, and I’ve never heard someone say they didn’t. Well, until now that is.

“Curfew and no ground beef,” I nod, letting him know I understand even though I don’t. “What about Italian food? Do you like spaghetti if I make it?”

“I do like spaghetti, and I’ll never complain about anything you cook, but if it’s ground beef, warn a guy.”

“How would I do that?” I ask him. Leave a note on the counter? Email him?

“Just text me,” he says, like that’s a no-brainer, and it is to most.

“I don’t have your number.”

“Really? I’ve had yours for years. I think Lance gave it to me around the time he was getting married in case we needed to communicate about anything.” He slides his phone out of his pocket and looks down at it. Tyler Quinn has my phone number. Has had my phone number for a long time. This makes my insides feel strange, and that hidden teenager in me dances with delight.

“There, I just text you so now you have mine.” He looks back up at me. “Don’t give it to anyone.”

“Who would I give it to?”

“I don’t know. This just falls to rule number two about privacy.”

“Tyler, I get it. You don’t need to worry about that. Privacy isn’t new for me. At this point, I feel like most of my life I’ve spent being strict and private.”

He sucks in his bottom lip as he thinks about what I’ve just said. He really has nothing to worry about. I’m used to being with someone in the public eye, so I understand how the game is played.

His lip pops free. “Number four. Don’t be messy. I know some people in the world can’t help it. But try. I don’t like clutter. As you can see, I keep my house pretty simple, organized, and clean. I firmly agree with all those articles out there that talk about more productivity, less anxiety, success, et cetera when it comes to a clean, uncluttered space. It makes me feel calm and good.”

So basically, he’s saying not to leave any of his stuff lying around. The less it feels like I’m here, the better. I can do that. I have been doing that. Other than my room, if I used anything in the kitchen, I washed it and put it back immediately.

“I get it. Feng shui and all that. Don’t worry, I don’t like clutter either,” I tell him, and he nods. The type A in me can’t handle chaos. I need order.

Looking back at the list, he runs his thumb over the paper before he refolds it, shoves it in his pocket, and then looks at me.

“And last, no flowers.”

What?

“No flowers?” I’m so confused. Who doesn’t like flowers?

“Allergies. I know it’s dumb. Grass allergies too, but it is what it is.” He runs his hand over his head like him making this statement somehow makes him uncomfortable or vulnerable. Who am I kidding, this whole conversation is probably making him uncomfortable.

“Grass? You literally play all day, every day on grass.”

“I know, but turf grass doesn’t seem to bother me, and most professional fields these days are made of a grass alternative. But things are always blooming in Florida, lawns are mowed weekly, and being outside is a little rough for me. That’s part of the reason I like being on the water so much.”

“What happens if you’re around flowers? Aren’t they in every hotel you stay at? Restaurants?”

“As long as they aren’t super fragrant, I do okay. It’s not like I’m wandering around sticking my face in every arrangement or bouquet I pass and sniffing them. But typical allergy things like itchy eyes, red eyes, sneezing, and runny nose. A grown man dealing with a sneezing fit around my teammates? No, thanks. Can you imagine the shit they would give me?” He crosses his arms over his chest. Clearly, he doesn’t like the thought of his teammates giving him a hard time, as he’s closing up right in front of me.

But I smile because I do know.

“Okay, so no guests, no pictures, no staying up past eight, no ground beef, no clutter, and no flowers.”

He nods.

“Deal. For the record, I would agree to any of your rules, no matter what. I’m just grateful you’re letting me stay.”

His gaze wanders over my face, and then travels down to my shoulders and the rest of me that is visible. He’s thinking something, and I suddenly wish more than anything I were a mind reader. Eventually, his eyes return to mine.

“I think we’ll be all right, then. As long as this arrangement works for both of us, you can stay for as long as you want. But if it’s not, then I’ll help you with something else. You finding everything you need so far?”

I send out a silent commitment into the universe. I promise to be the perfect houseguest.

“Yes. Thanks for asking.”

“Have you left the house yet?”

I look down at my plate. “No.”

“Why not?” he asks, moving his hands and placing them on the counter next to his hips. This pulls his shirt tight across his chest and shoulders, and I remind myself to breathe.

“I’m not ready to.”

“What does that mean?” he asks, confused.

“I told you, you’re not the only one who likes a private life.”

There are already comments circling around on the internet about Dean and me. He’s been photographed out and about, like he always is, and questions are emerging because I’m not in any of them. I swear these superfans and obsessed girls who have podcasts, all they care about are other people's lives and disrupting them. All of it is clickbait for attention. Like why are you thinking about us? Why are you talking about me? They don’t know me, it’s weird, and I’d rather just stay home and be me without worrying about any of it.

Tyler’s watching me, and although I didn’t turn into a mind reader, his expression that borders on pity is giving him away, and I hate it. With this, I decide we need a subject change.

I sit up straight. “So should we shake on it?”

“Shake on what?”

“The agreement to the house rules.”

He frowns, but doesn’t move.

“Fine, how about a pinky promise?” I hold up my pinky, and he stares at it like it might bite. “Come on, you can do it.”

His dark eyes shoot to mine and narrow. Slowly, he steps toward the island, lifts his hand, leans forward like we’re going to arm wrestle, and wraps his pinky around mine. A snap of static electricity zaps us both, and sparks fly down my spine. His eyes lock on to mine for just a moment, and we stare at each other. His finger is warm, much larger than mine, and I have to tell my inner teenager to calm down. Otherwise, I might have liked this one simple touch way too much.

The teenager squeals at the confirmation. He’s touching me.

And then he’s not. He’s released my finger and stepped back to the other side of the kitchen.

Oh, boy. This is going to be interesting.