“Are you going to tell me what you did with that goat?” he asks me.
It’s almost one in the morning, and Sabine has gone upstairs. I’m not sure why he didn’t just drop us off, but he said he wanted to talk. I replied that talking is better after a cup of coffee in the morning, but I didn’t resist much.
I plop down next to him on our blue couch.
The den is shadowy, just the lights from the kitchen illuminating us. His gaze skates over me; then he looks away and glances around at our den—a small room but cozy in grays and blues and lime greens. A portrait of Mama, me, and Sabine is over the fireplace, taken the year I graduated NYU. Sabine is a little girl, her face serene, looking somewhere off camera. Mama is dressed in a pink pantsuit, her dark hair coiffed up, makeup on point.
“If I don’t tell you, then you’re covered under deniability,” I say.
“Hello. I was driving the getaway vehicle. I’m expecting state troopers to pull up at my house at any moment.”
I smile. “You let us off at the corner, so you’re fine. We walked to the stadium and stayed in the shadows on the sidewalk with Lambert. If they had cameras, it was just two girls returning a goat who escaped. Totally believable.”
“Fucking Lambert.”
I laugh. We spent about ten minutes after we got here cleaning out the “gift” Lambert left us.
“How did you get him inside?” he asks.
“I climbed over one of the low fences outside the stadium—see, I banged my knee.” I point to my bruise. “Then Sabine handed over Lambert. Thank God for small goats. We snuck inside an open door and found where they keep him. It’s a small pen now, so not a cage, so at least there’s that. Maybe people just say he’s in a cage because we hate Huddersfield so much.”
“I’m picturing you in boots climbing over a fence.” He rubs his hand over my knee, his fingers lightly brushing the bruise. I bite back the tingles it sends over my skin. “You’re okay, though? I can get you some ice for it.”
“I’m fine.”
“I never want you to get hurt over something that’s my responsibility. You should have let me do it.” There’s a serious tone in his voice.
“Honestly? I had fun. I haven’t been bad in a while.” I smirk.
He leans back on the couch. “So this fake-dating thing. You pretty much announced it tonight, but we can always tell everyone it was a joke or that you said it to help us out.”
“True.” I nod. Lois heard me, though, and I saw that gleam in her eye. She believed it—especially after seeing us in his office—and she’s probably already told the booster club via a mass text or email, which means everyone will be telling everyone by tomorrow morning. They’ll be toasting each other with coffee at the Waffle House. Throw in the bookstore kiss, which several people saw, and the foundation has already been laid for a fake relationship, so it wouldn’t be hard. Show up to a few games, smile and flirt at school with Ronan in front of Andrew and Melinda. It seems easy, but a tingle of unease rises. I haven’t admitted it to myself since seeing him again, but I can’t deny that my heart is vulnerable to him. I’ll have to guard it. Carefully.
“Let’s do it,” I say.
He gives me a surprised look and smiles. “Really? All right, all right. Thank you. Again. Is this the album you mentioned?” He leans over and picks up the photo book on the coffee table and flips it open.
I nod.
“This is you?” He points to a picture someone snapped of our family in front of my rosebush.
Smiling, I lean over. “My fifth birthday. I remember that red gingham dress. Mom always wore pink, of course, and the small wiry man is my dad,” I say, pointing to him. “Mama was taller than him. Bull riders are usually around five-five to five-ten, and it’s all about strength. He used to tell me he was the strongest man in the world, and I’d brag to all my friends.” I laugh. “He wasn’t a man to dress up—jeans and flannel were all he ever wore—but I picked out this white button-up at the store and begged him to wear it for my birthday pic. He took it off as soon as the camera clicked.”
“When is your birthday?” He chuckles. “We need to know these things, I guess.”
“June eleventh. I’m a Gemini, the social butterfly of the zodiac. Take me to a party, and I will shine. They’re also flighty.”
“I’d never describe you as flighty. You’re here for your sister unconditionally; you say unexpected things.”
“Like what?”
His lashes lower. “Like about what beauty really is . . . and what you said about my face.”
I feel a blush rising. Yes, I said that. And I meant it. “It’s the artist in me. You should know that about me in case anyone asks. I draw and paint, mostly flowers, cows and horses, cowboy hats, barns, and churches. I lived in New York, but the things I love to draw are from where I grew up. Maybe I missed home more than I realized. I should have come home sooner and spent more time with Mama.” I sigh. “When’s your birthday?”
“September seventeenth. Virgo. They’re logical, hardworking, and systematic. The bad trait is stubbornness.” He pops an eyebrow at me, and I laugh and bump my shoulder into him.
“That is so you.”
“I know. Lois said your dad passed years ago . . .”
“Heart attack.” I chew on my lips, my head circling back to the afternoon I heard Mama scream, then run outside. She started CPR on my dad while I called the ambulance. I tell Ronan about it. “Every time I hear a lawn mower, I recall that day. He was gone before they got to the hospital.”
A darkness shadows his eyes. “For me, it’s storms. Lightning scares me, like something bad is going to happen to someone. Tell me something else about you.”
“Hmm, I like to cook. My favorite color is yellow.”
“That’s boring as shit.”
I gasp and put a hand over my heart. Dramatically. “Fine. You want juicy? I broke a toilet in Ryan Reynolds’s penthouse, and he doesn’t know it was me.”
He bursts out laughing. “Oh, you have to explain.”
“He was having his party, and Harry Beauchamp and I went—”
“You dated a New York hockey player too? Damn.”
I raise my hands. “Athletes are my weakness.”
“Is that right?” he says dryly. “Let’s see. There’s Andrew, Harry, Zane—who is a dick—then me—”
“Whoa. You and I, we never ‘dated.’”
He dips his head, grimacing. “Yeah, I guess not. Who else?”
I tick them off on my hands. “A baseball guy, another footballer, a basketball star . . . hmm . . . I’m sure there’s a few more in there . . . they kind of run together.”
“You have a type.”
My eyes drift over him, lingering on the sharp line of his jaw, on his blade of a nose, on his sculpted body, toned by years of exercise . . .
I clear my throat. “Back to this Ryan Reynolds party. Celebrities were everywhere. Blake Lively is the sweetest ever, America Ferrera, Jake Gyllenhaal. I tried not to gawk. Then Harry decided to dance with this actress.” I roll my eyes. “One dance. Two. Three. I was pissed and slung back several glasses of champagne, which then led to what I like to call the Bathroom Crisis.”
“Did you pee your pants?”
“No! The first floor had a line—that’s where I met Anna Kendrick, but I was doing the pee dance and couldn’t talk to her. We weren’t supposed to go upstairs, but in my defense, there wasn’t a person there to tell me I couldn’t go past the velvet rope that blocked it off. If they were serious, they’d have had a guard, right? So I huddle crawled up the stairs, and voilà, there in the hallway was this beautiful megabathroom. I’m talking glossy black subway walls, gold faucets, and a glittery chandelier.”
“Lavish.”
I laugh, recalling me describing his home that way. “I finish my business, flush, then the toilet starts to overflow—like there’s a waterfall gushing out on this fancy marble floor. I jiggle the handle, gold, and it falls off in my hands. I take the lid off the toilet to see if I could adjust the inside of the tank. Nope, the toilet is so high tech it’s beyond my mechanical experience. I drop the lid—it made an awful noise. It cracked just a little. I dragged towels out and cleaned up the water, dumped them in the tub, then set the broken lid back on top of the toilet. Then I fixed my hair like everything was okay, slipped back downstairs, grabbed a glass of champagne, told my date to fuck off, and called a cab. I kept the toilet handle. By accident!”
He gets a funny expression on his face. “When was this party?”
“Five or six years ago? It was springtime—”
“Did Anna Kendrick trip over someone’s leg and sprain her ankle?”
“She did! She had an ice pack wrapped around her . . .” I stop, my eyes widening. “No way . . .”
“I was at that party.”
“But . . . how did I miss you?”
“How did I miss you?” he says softly.
Oh. I look down at my lap and chew on my lip. “Huh.”
“I was with Tuck.”
“You weren’t with Whitney?”
He shakes his head. “I hadn’t met her yet.”
My heart dips, my mind racing. What if . . . what if I had seen him that night? Would he have noticed me? I stop that train of thought. He met Whitney later and loved her.
“Why do you keep Leia in a closet?” I ask.
He stills, frowning. “I bought her last year, and when I got her in the house . . . she didn’t look right. Something . . .” He shrugs. “Anyway, I figured she might be too sexy looking if the players came over to swim on the weekends.”
“Is it because she reminds you of a night you’d rather forget?”
He gazes at me searchingly. “I don’t want to forget that night. It opened my eyes.”
Oh.
His forehead puckers in a frown. “Nova . . .” Emotion flits over his face, and his hands tighten as they rest on his thighs. “Earlier . . . in my office. You’re beautiful and incredible, and we have this past between us, but we should keep things light.”
I stiffen, a curl of anger rising. Got it. Don’t develop feelings for the baller. Which is totally fine! I’d already decided that myself.
He looks up at me. “After Whitney, I swore I’d just chill—you know, not catch any feelings for a while—and . . .”
“You don’t have to worry about me getting the wrong idea.” Rode that roller coaster in New York. It crashed and burned.
“Are you okay with what I said?”
He’s afraid I’m going to just roll over and fall in love? Pfft. I frown. “I’m not Jenny, Ronan. I’m not the kind of girl who chases you down and demands we ‘determine the relationship.’ We don’t have a relationship—and hello, I like the guy to chase me, so there.”
“Wait . . . you’re nothing like her, okay. It’s just I want this—”
“To be light! Message received.” Jeez.
“I’m sorry about earlier—”
“It’s forgotten! Let it go, okay?”
That furrow on his forehead grows, as if he wants to say more.
“We can pretend in public and be done with it. Check.” I stand up and stretch and yawn, needing some distance from him. “It’s late, and I’m ready for bed.”
He studies my face for several moments, then stands, thanks me again for helping with the sheriff and the goat, and walks out my door.
I drape myself back down on the couch, and Sparky curls up in my lap, a soft meow coming from him. I give his ears a scratch, my throat tightening, part hurt, part I should’ve known better than to kiss him!
Ronan doesn’t want to get involved with anyone. He’s emotionally unavailable. I get it. It’s an understandable feeling after losing someone like he did.
We’ll keep things easy and fun with no attachments.
I swear.
