Saturday rolls around with another win in the books for us last night. Only a few games left until the end of the season.
I step out of my Suburban and scan the parking lot the Tylers have set up across the street from their mansion in an open field.
I find Nova’s Caddy. She’s a few rows over, leaning against the car. Tucking my hands in my gray slacks, I walk toward her, unease in my gut. It’s been a cold week with us, even in the staff lounge.
My eyes take in her clingy black dress, above-the-knee length with a mandarin-style collar. Yellow roses splash over the fabric, snug against her curves. My groin tightens.
“You should have let me pick you up,” I say when I reach her, smoothing down my jacket. I sent her a text this morning, but she replied she wanted to drive.
She smiles tightly with red lips.
“I like your hair,” I say, reaching for normal. It does look pretty, swirled up in a complicated twist that frames her face.
“Thanks. Sabine did it.” She straightens up from the car. “As long as we walk in together, then that’s all we need. I’m ready for a drink.”
I exhale. “Nova . . . about the other day. I never want to hurt you—”
She stops me with a narrowed look. “We had sex. It’s done.”
Tension fills up the warm night as we stare at each other.
I don’t want it to be done . . .
Someone in the parking lot calls my name, breaking our connection.
“Fine,” I say, then crook her arm in mine as we walk toward the French-country-style mansion across the street. She stares straight ahead, a pinched look on her face.
“At least try to enjoy it,” I mutter.
“I will, darling,” she says, her accent thick.
Some of the players see us and jog to us, ending any other conversation. They’re dressed in khakis and button-downs, and I give them a nod of approval. We do fist bumps all around. Toby gives me a hug, and I squeeze his arm and tell him he looks great in his slacks and shirt.
Melinda and her dad are in the foyer when we enter. Melinda rushes to us, gives me a blinding smile, and then puts her hand on my other arm. “Ronan! I’ve been waiting for you. You remember my dad, of course.”
Before he can step forward, Nova leans in. “I’m going to get us drinks.”
My hand clings to hers longer than it should. I’m not ready to let her go, and I have a feeling she isn’t coming back . . . “Sure,” I finally say, my gaze searching her face.
Melinda eases her arm through mine as her dad shakes my hand. They lead me through the spacious house and to the grounds outside with acres of rolling hills in the distance. A huge white tent is set up with a DJ in the back. White-covered tables, champagne fountains, an elaborate buffet, and caterers dot the area. We end up at a table with other men who played football back in the day with Mr. Tyler. I get introduced around and say the usual things: Glad you came. Thank you for the support. Yes, the team looks incredible this season.
A few minutes later, I head to the podium and give a welcome speech to the guests. My eyes search for Nova and find her in the back with Sonia and Andrew and a few other faculty members. I pause midspeech, my gaze locking with hers.
I was already half in love with you . . .
What a crazy thing to say. Incredible, seemingly impossible, yet—
She sends me a fake adoring smile, then tips her glass of champagne up at me. I clear my throat, find my place, and finish. The partiers erupt in applause. Then Lois joins me and presents a slideshow of the games this season.
After the speeches are over, someone grabs me a water and a plate of food as I survey the crowd. The DJ plays a fast song, and I see several of my players dancing, along with Sonia and Nova.
Lois appears next to me wearing a floor-length maroon dress and her Stetson. “Nova’s having fun.”
“I see that,” I grunt.
She munches on a quiche. “You two look good together. You think it might be serious?”
I give her a pointed look. “Stay out of my love life.”
“You’re the one who asked for her to be your PA. I wasn’t going to meddle any longer after the party, but you insisted we give it to her.” She takes a drink of her champagne.
“She doesn’t know I got her the job.” My head tumbles with thorny thoughts, deciphering the reasons why I wanted her. She needed a job, and she loved football. Plus, I owed her something after that night in New York. The analytical side of me thought it would be a great idea after that kiss in the bookstore to ask her to fake date me. I even covered it with HR beforehand, although if the answer had been no, I still would have given the nod for her to have the job.
Skeeter slides in next to me, watching the crowd on the dance floor. He nudges me with his elbow. “I don’t see Sonia’s date.”
I shake my head at him. “Skeeter, she broke up with that accountant months ago.”
He starts. “She did?”
“She mentioned it at lunch when it happened. You might have been on your phone.”
“I never liked him. He didn’t like football. I tried to talk to him at the last party, but it was like talking to a calculator.”
“Ask her to dance.”
“Why does she talk British? Is that weird?”
I chuckle. “She’s quirky. Embrace it.”
He squints, lasering in on Sonia. “I’m just a country boy. I like fried chicken and mashed potatoes on Sunday, shooting guns, and fishing. She likes science and lice.” He tosses back his glass, draining it. “I need to be drunk to dance.”
I grab another stem of champagne from a tray passing by. “Have another, then.”
He takes it, his forehead furrowed as he munches on a shrimp. “I’m a jock, and she’s smart. I live with my mama. My last girlfriend broke up with me and got married a month later. I didn’t even know she’d been seeing that cowboy and me!”
“Stop talking yourself out of it. Win the heart, win everything,” I tell him.
Midbite of his next shrimp, he shoots me a surprised look. “That’s only for football, Coach.”
“Is it?”
Before he can reply, Melinda’s father juts in, nodding at me and Melinda. “You two are young and spry. Get out there and dance.”
“Yes,” Melinda coos and leans in, her perfume heavy and thick.
“Go on; enjoy the party,” her dad insists as he slaps me on the back. “Does that leg injury keep you from dancing?”
“No.”
His buddies smile at me, nodding.
I exhale noisily. To refuse now would be rude to the Texans. And Nova’s avoiding me, so . . .
“All right.” I set down my plate, then lead her out to the floor, a few feet away from Nova and Sonia.
Nova looks at me, then does a spin in her dress, the fabric billowing around her long tanned legs. She grabs Sonia’s hand, and they move to the other side of the floor.
My gut churns as my eyes follow her. Oh, she sat next to me in the lounge this week, pretending, but there was a difference. My chest panged for her unreserved smiles, the way she’d brushed her lips over my scars.
“Electric Boogie,” by Marcia Griffiths, blares from the speakers, and several people rush out to do the Electric Slide. My jaw clenches when I see Andrew joining Nova for the line dance.
I tear my gaze off her. Once I leave Blue Belle, I want to do it with a clear heart, and that means no serious relationships.
Another girl joins us on the floor, sliding in next to Melinda, then another, then another, until I’m encircled by young women. Another song comes on. I should leave and go back to the table, but I also want to see what Nova is doing. In other words, I’m losing my mind.
The guitar-focused song “Say You Won’t Let Go” hits the speakers, and I jerk to a stop, remembering the Pythons party.
“Dance with me,” Melinda says, her hands sliding up my jacket.
“Melinda, catch a clue. I danced to be polite. You and I are never going to happen. It’s Nova, and this song belongs to her.”
She gapes at me as I turn around, maneuvering through the crowd.
Andrew’s hand rests on Nova’s shoulder as he grabs her another glass of champagne off a tray. He leans down to whisper something in her ear. With their backs to me, I acknowledge the crazy mix of emotions boiling in my chest—part possessiveness, the other side something I can’t put my finger on. Maybe rage. She spent years with him. She fucking loved him. Maybe she still does.
“Excuse me; it’s our song, babe,” I say gruffly, then turn her around.
She smiles up at me, her eyes unusually bright. “Darling! Andrew was just telling me about his vacation home at the beach in Galveston. He wants to know if we’d like to visit—”
“I prefer the Pacific Ocean. Bye, Andrew.” Using my shoulders, I push him away with a slight bump, then lead her out to the dance floor.
She exhales. “Rude.”
“Don’t care.” My hands encircle her waist. “You seem to be having a good time.”
She twines her arms around my neck as her throat bobs. She looks away. “Right back at you.”
“You left me, Princess,” I grind out.
She shrugs, then leans her head on my chest. A long exhale comes from me as our bodies connect, some of that earlier tension ebbing away.
“I thought our song was ‘Jolene,’” she murmurs. “Of course it’s a song about a woman begging another woman to leave her man alone.”
“I like this one.”
She sighs, her fingers playing with my hair. “Have you ever listened to this one the whole way through?”
“Yes.”
She looks up at me. “Oh?”
“It’s about a man who falls for a girl the night they meet. He wants to spend his life with her.”
“Then it doesn’t fit us at all,” she says. “Does it?”
Her face tilts up as her gaze searches mine, and something about the shadows in her eyes . . . I inhale a sharp breath as clarity dawns. I see her face that night in New York, clear as day, the impish smile when we met, the way her eyes burned for me. Subconsciously, that morning after I awoke, my brain erased her face. Sure, I had a rationale for it, that I was drunk, but the truth is . . . I felt a visceral connection to Nova, my loss clinging to her joy—and my head couldn’t handle the guilt that it was so close to Whitney’s anniversary.
She drops her gaze and swallows thickly. “Ronan . . .”
“Yeah?”
She presses her face into my chest. “I don’t feel so good . . .”
I stop our dancing and tilt her face up. “What’s wrong?”
Her lashes flutter as sweat beads her face. She licks her lips. “It’s so hot in here. Please—”
My chest seizes as the blood leaves her face. “Nova?” My voice carries across the crowd, and I feel eyes darting to us.
“Air.” She tries to get out of my arms, then stumbles, and I reach for her, straightening her before she falls. I sweep her up and shove us through the dancers, bumping them out of the way. As soon as we clear the floor, she pulls away from me and runs through the yard into a garden with statues and manicured landscaping.
“Nova!” I catch up with her as she stands behind a cypress tree, gulping in air. Even for late October, it’s hot and sticky. She holds her stomach, then bends over and throws up.
I rub her back. “Let’s get you out of here.”
“I just ruined an azalea,” she breathes out, wiping her mouth with her hands. Her body weaves.
“Fuck the plants.” I take her up into my arms again and stride through the lawn, bypassing the tent and walking around the house. My eyes dart from her tense face to the dark path. Her hair has fallen and lies over my arm as I dart across the street, holding her close to my chest so I don’t jostle her.
“I can drive,” she gasps out when we reach my car. “You’re supposed to stay at the party. Take me to my—” She stiffens, her eyes widening, and I ease her down. Her hand hangs on to me as she vomits again, her shoulders heaving.
When she stands, I open my passenger door, pick her up, and strap her in. Grabbing napkins from the side pocket, I wipe her face gently, then clean her dress. “What’s wrong? Was it the champagne or—”
“If you’re thinking I’m pregnant, I’m not.” She sucks in a breath. “Turn on the air, please.”
I get in and crank the car, blasting the air conditioner, pointing the vents in her direction. “Do we need to go to a hospital?”
She leans back on the headrest, shaking her head. “No. Roll my window down. In case.”
“Tell me when to pull over, okay? Just don’t take off your seat belt.”
She winces. “Vomit is on your jacket. I’m sorry.”
“Shh, it’s fine. Hang on.” Whipping out of the parking lot, I drive past the big houses, pointing the car toward her place. My heart pounds. It’s just vomit, so why am I so worried? It’s not the pregnant thing; I believe her when she says she isn’t, but . . .
I ease my hand over, find hers, and hold it tight.
