Page 18 of Bright Lights and Summer Nights

I take a breath, trying to wipe the smile from my face. “I’m sorry,” I apologize, my hand wiping over my mouth. “I just realized how ridiculous a garden party sounded once you asked what it was.”

Emma leans against the door, a hint of a smile still on her full lips. I focus on keeping my eyes on hers so I’m not tempted to sneak a glimpse at the bare skin of the tops of her thighs. “What is one supposed to wear to a garden party?”

My resolve breaks for a fraction of a second as my eyes roam her body. “Something with pants.”

Emma gasps, looking down. The fabric bunches in her hand as she lifts it up, showing off a pair of small boxer shorts. “I am wearing pants, thank you very much,” she informs me, rolling her eyes as if the fact I thought she wasn’t wearing pants was the most ridiculous idea ever.

I lift my hands in surrender. “Excuse me for thinking otherwise.”

She keeps her eyes trained on me for a minute. I want to ask what’s running through her head as she watches me closely, but I don’t. It doesn’t really matter what she thinks of me—at least, I tell myself that.

“Is that what you’re wearing to a nice, ritzy garden party?” She lifts an eyebrow as her eyes travel over my collared T-shirt and khaki shorts.

“No,” I answer, looking at the outfit I’d quickly thrown on early this morning before breakfast with my family. “I’m going to change at my place into something a bit nicer.”

She nods, straightening her spine and taking a step back. “Then I’ll get back inside and get ready for our day, and you can go back to your place and change. Meet me back here in two hours?”

“I’ll see you in one hour,” I correct, sliding my sunglasses from my forehead and over my eyes. “And I am at my place.” I point in the direction of the guesthouse. “Or at least close to it.”

“Shut up,” Emma hurriedly says, her jaw hanging open. “You’re the NFL player?”

CHAPTER 10

EMMA

I wish Preston wasn’t wearing sunglasses so I could see more of his expression. Instead, he stands on the front doorstep with his lips pressed into a thin line.

“I do play for the NFL,” he answers coolly, as if it’s a totally normal job.

“That’s football, right?” I question, knowing little to nothing about the sport. My aunt raised me, and since it was just me and her, and because she wasn’t a fan of sports, I couldn’t tell you anything about it. “Are you any good?” I push, suddenly even more intrigued by the man standing in front of me.

A small laugh rumbles deep inside his chest. It’s different from the full laugh he let out just a few minutes ago after my comment about the garden party, but it’s still one I cherish. He seems to be serious so much of the time that getting any kind of reaction from him seems like a small win.

“Yes, I play professional football. I guess you could say I’m good.”

“Would Google tell me the same thing?” If he wasn’t standing in front of me, I’d already have my phone out and be looking up his name to find out just how good he is.

“Does my answer matter? I bet the moment I go back to the guesthouse, you’re going to do an extensive search of my name.”

I nod, it just now occurring to me that along with the news that he plays professional football and doesn’t run a hedge fund or something like that, he’ll be staying here at Winnie and Archer’s. “Wait a second,” I say, my arms crossing over my chest. “I had a momentary lapse in judgment. You’re the friend Winnie called about? You’ll be staying in the guesthouse?”

His lips twitch. “Yes, for privacy reasons. Is that a problem?”

Yes. It absolutely is a problem. “No,” I lie. For some reason, my heart rate increases with the lie—or what I think is a lie. It shouldn’t bother me that we’re going to be so close, but it does. I’ve already told him I’ll spend every day with him this week doing wedding events; I don’t know why I’m nervous having him so close even when wedding events aren’t taking place.

Preston cocks his head to the side. He watches me closely, his blue eyes trailing over my face. I wonder if he can see right through my lie. I don’t ask him if he can. My body heats with the intense stare, but I lie and tell myself it’s because of the sun beating down on us.

“I’m going to get ready now,” I declare, shifting on the balls of my feet.

“One hour, Emma,” he says, holding up one thick finger. “I’ll meet you back here then.”

Before I can argue with him, he’s turning around and walking down the long sidewalk that leads to the driveway. I watch him for a minute, wondering what I’ve signed myself up for this week.

I’m slipping into what seems like the twentieth dress I’ve tried on when the smell of coffee wafts into the room I’m staying in. I pause, holding the straps of the halter dress as I try to figure out where that delicious smell could be coming from.

I’d opened some windows when I woke up to let in the ocean breeze throughout the house. Maybe the smell is coming from a nearby house—or even Preston’s guesthouse. I close my eyes for a minute, relishing in how good it smells, even if I won’t have any.

Ignoring the delicious aroma surrounding me, I look at myself in the mirror. My fingers hurriedly work at tying the two straps of the halter dress into a neat bow at the nape of my neck. If Winnie were here, she’d help me pick out an outfit that would probably be more appropriate for a garden party, but I’m working with the options I brought.

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