I hate sounding so insecure, but I haven’t hung out with these two in an entire year, and I’m not about to go spilling all my well-guarded secrets, no matter how well they have me pegged.
I make a mental note to spend more time with them during the week instead of just hitting parties on the weekends, really get to know them again. I want to be a better friend, not just their third wheel.
“Friends to lovers?”
If I blush any deeper, I’ll spontaneously combust and burn myself right out of this thick jacket.
“No, Tessa, not friends to lovers. Rowdy Wade is way out of my league.”
Cameron snorts. “No, he’s not. You’re fucking adorable.”
Adorable.
Great! I’m sure cute and adorable are exactly his type.
Cameron says it with such conviction I believe her—I believe she actually thinks Rowdy Wade could like me.
The butterflies in my stomach awaken as the baseball house comes into view. First, they roll, stretching. Then, on delicate wings of hope, they begin fluttering. Dancing.
Baby steps.
Little by little, one at a time.
And then suddenly, there he is.
Rowdy watches as we approach, removing his hands from the pockets of his thick, black jacket and placing them on the railing of the porch. He leans over, braced himself on his elbows, green eyes wrinkled at the corner, amused, watching us.
Watching me.
Damn him and his insane level of attractiveness, charisma, and charm.
My knees protest, giving a tiny wobble when he smiles.
“Ladies,” he greets us. “Scarlett.”
Tessa and Cameron do their best to hoof it up the stairs in their heels, toward the beat of the music, loud noise, and the smell of flowing alcohol.
“Come here often?” Rowdy teases when my first foot hits the bottom of the staircase leading up to the house.
“Har har.”
My feet gingerly take each step one by one until I reach the top. Tessa and Cam are understandably fascinated with our easy exchange; they hesitate by the front door, waiting for me, though their hungry eyes are locked on Rowdy.
Aggravated by their obviousness, I wave them off, shooing them inside. “You go on ahead. Give me a second.”
“Make it a few hours.” Rowdy coughs into his fist, masking his words like boys did in middle school, juvenile and immature.
My friends hesitate.
“Are you sure you don’t want us to wait with you?”
This is the first time they ask, and I’m unexpectedly heartened. “No, you go ahead. Have fun—I’ll text you if…you know.” If he won’t let me in.
“All right. Let us know this time, okay? It’s so cold out here.” Tessa chatters her teeth dramatically, cueing the need for them to hustle inside, both of their gorgeous blonde heads
disappearing from sight with the slamming of a screen door.
Rowdy and I stand wordlessly, listening to the noises from within at the same time my butterflies flap their pesky wings.
I inhale an anxious breath, wondering what he’s going to say when he finally speaks. Exhale, watching the small puff of steam float away.
His mouth opens. “Three weeks in a row, eh?” Rowdy clasps his hands. “I can’t decide which one of us is a bigger glutton for punishment, can you?”
“It’s definitely you.” I laugh. “We both know you could easily assign someone to babysit me—it doesn’t have to be you.”
But I’m glad it is him. I wouldn’t have shown up if I thought it was anyone else, and I certainly wouldn’t have stayed—not in this weather. I’m not a total sadist.
I’ve looked forward to seeing him every Friday since we met.
Rowdy is goofy and entertaining and witty, not to mention his handsome face and ridiculous body.
It’s no hardship being sequestered on the porch with him, and if he took me inside right now, I’d be indisputably
disappointed.
He’s wearing a hat tonight, too—black knit, in a style similar to mine—pulled down over his ears and short, shorn hair.
Rowdy is masculine, even with that winter hat on his head. He gives me a gentle bump with his shoulder when I reach the top of the porch.
“Where did you find that hat?” I ask, setting my tote bag on the ground, same as I did last Friday, and same as I’ll probably do next Friday.
“Bought it.”
“When?”
He’s still for a few heartbeats. “Yesterday.”
“We kind of match,” I point out, poking the air with my mitten, tilting my head to study him.
He shifts on his heels. “I’m surprised you showed up again. You’re like a puppy dog that keeps getting kicked but comes back for more.”
“That is an appalling analogy.”
“But accurate,” he counters.
“Be honest—you’re not one bit surprised to see me here.” You bought a hat so you’d be warm, too.
My heart skips a few rhythms, hands go to my hips, sinking into my puffy coat. I wave my mitten around. “You should know by now I can’t resist a challenge.”
He leans against the house, a cocky lift to his lips. “You consider me a challenge?”
“No, I consider getting inside the house a challenge.”
“Is that the only reason you keep coming back?”
It’s cold, and we’re both breathing hard, our breaths mingling in gray swirls, shoulders knocking every few footsteps.
“What other reason would I have?”
I hold my breath, waiting for him to reply.
When he doesn’t, I make a little humming sound, aware that each beat of my traitorous heart is pounding in my chest, my throat.
“I’m not a mind reader, Scarlett—if there’s another reason you come here every Friday night, you’ll have to spell it out for me.”
We size each other up, like two gunslingers reaching for their six-shooters, neither willing to bend. I don’t know what he wants me to say, and I refuse to be the first one to admit to…whatever this is I’m feeling.
It’s way too soon.
It’s strangely silent then, the stereo momentarily cutting off inside the house. Voices die down. The indelicate sound of Rowdy’s snarling stomach breaks the spell of our stare-down.
Seriously, does this guy not eat enough during dinner?
“You know what I have for you?”
“There are about five different ways I could answer that.” He eyes my bag. “But please tell me you brought food.”
If I was a peacock, I’d be fluffing my brilliant feathers about now with what I’m about to present to him.
“Not only did I bring food, I brought the good stuff.” I unzip my tote, glancing up at him coyly. “Any guesses?”
“Spaghetti and meatballs?”
I glare at him. “Are you trying to make me gag?”
“I get delirious when I’m hungry—you already know this.”
“When aren’t you hungry?”
“Never not hungry, but I’m not always hungry for food.”
Startled, my mouth falls open and I gape at him like a fool;
it’s the first innuendo he’s made toward me, and I hardly know what to do with it.
“O-Out of curiosity,” I stammer, “are you planning on waiting outside for me every Friday?”
“Only until you can come inside that house.”
“And when will that be?”
He shrugs. “Don’t know.”
“Hmm.” I finger the plastic utensils inside my bag. “What if I decide not to come? How long would you be willing to wait for me to show up?”
“Five minutes.”
“Liar. Try again or I’m not showing you what’s in here.”
“I don’t know, Scarlett—eight minutes.”
My brows rise doubtfully at how specific the time is, and he rolls those big, beautiful green eyes at me.
“Fine. I’d wait an hour.” Pause. “Maybe a little longer if I knew for sure you were going to show up.”
He’d wait an hour for me? That’s an eternity in college guy years.
Satisfied, I dig out two white cardboard containers of Chinese takeout, still piping hot, fresh from the joint down the road. I had it delivered right before leaving the house, the rice and chicken and noodles heating my hip on the walk over.