Page 31 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

“How have you been?” He tilts his head as his features melt into a sympathetic expression. What the hell? Is he actually feeling sorry for me?

I clear my throat and sit up straight.

“Great.” I mock his head tilt with one that matches, but my expression is far from considerate. No, I’m well aware of my features right now—tight-lipped smile, lifted brows, gnashing molars. I’m wearing the annoyed mask.

“That’s . . . good. That’s good,” he repeats himself. His brow pinches, and I think he’s surprised I’m not more torn up.

I’m surprised I’m not more torn up.

I breathe out a short laugh at my thought, and Dalton’s eyes narrow a tad.

“Hmm?” he questions.

I shake my head.

“Oh, nothing. Literally—” I draw a line in the air with my index finger. “Nothing.”

“O—kay?” He’s playing naive but he’s smart. I bet he gets it on some level. And I hope it burns that I’m so over him.

“How’s Stella?” I probably should have stopped while I was ahead, because now I’m venturing into spiteful territory. Truly, though? I have been curious. Not about how she’s doing, but about how they’re doing.

“She’s well,” he says with a tight-lipped smile and slight nod.

“Great.” Oooh, that came out passive aggressive. I’m not portraying the I-got-my-shit-together persona I was a second or two ago.

“I mean it, Dalton,” I add, relaxing my shoulders and flattening my palms on the tabletop. I slide a few inches in his direction as a gesture of caring. “I’m glad. And I hope you’re doing well too.”

My mouth waters with that statement, and I swallow slowly in an attempt to hide it. I don’t think he notices because his body seems to relax as well. There I go, making it easy for him.

“Sorry I’m late.” Logan’s voice drifts from behind me. His bag plunks down on the table a second before I feel his arm swoop around my neck and his lips land on my head. My heart picks up immediately.

I glance up and Logan’s hand cups my chin, tilting my face just enough for him to plant an upside down kiss on my lips. Dalton clears his throat, and while the jealousy bit wasn’t really ever my plan, the grin on my face is worth it.

“I’ll let you get to it. Rachel?”

I drop my chin to find Dalton’s pinched face colored with unmistakable jealousy. Yeah, you don’t get to keep me in a cage, buddy.

“Yeah, nice to see you. Take care,” I say, lifting a palm in goodbye.

Dalton does the same before cinching his backpack straps tighter on his shoulders and pivoting to leave the library.

Logan gives the back of my neck a gentle squeeze then pulls the chair next to me closer and takes a seat.

“You all right?” His hand finds its way back to my neck, and the soft kneading is delightful. My eyes blink slowly, much the way they do when I’m drunk.

“I’m honestly amazing,” I say, taking him in.

I reach my hand over to his thigh, his muscles filling out his black Tiff U joggers. He’s dressed in his practice gear, a black long-sleeved compression shirt under a dark blue and gold football shirt. He looks incredible in black and blue, the dark colors making his auburn hair and green eyes stand out. His hair is always so neat, combed into waves that I’m dying to mess up.

“You’re looking at me like you want to jump my bones,” he says.

I spit out a laugh and my face heats up. I reach for his bag and pull his folders out while nervous tittering quakes my lips.

“No. That’s not the case,” I correct. I lie.

“Good, because, I mean . . . we’re in a library.” His mouth is suddenly close to my ear. My shoulder hikes up as shivers run down my spine. Sweet Jesus.

“Who even says that? Jumping bones,” I laugh out. “Pfft.”

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