Page 121 of Kiss Me Tonight

Unfortunately, I have so much momentum, stopping isn’t an option.

I plow into him, driving us both to the turf with a resoundingthud.

“Oh, c’mon, Coach!” Matthew shouts at me as I see stars. “You said we couldn’t hit him!”

Dominic grunts beneath me, and then I feel his hand around my pelvic bone. “Don’t move,” he warns, “or everyone is gonna get a real good glimpse of little DaSilva.”

I freeze, muscles locking.Do. Not. Laugh.It seems a futile cause, especially when I choke out, “I wouldn’t call himlittle, per se.”

“You’re trouble, Coach. You know that?” He hikes his shorts up, lifting me off the ground as he pulls the waistband around his hips. “Big. Fat. Trouble—”

“Dad?”

Topher.

Planting a hand on Dominic’s chest, I shove myself up.

“Dad!” I hear Topher shout.

I land on my butt, but there’s no mistaking the way my son rushes across the field to the oh-so-familiar figure strolling toward us like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

No.

Rick “the Prick” Clarke has descended on London all over again.

35

Aspen

Blood roars in my head.

Why is he here?

Why is he here?

For years, I played the good-cop card. Every time Rick failed to show up to one of Topher’s football games, I promised him that Dad had a big surprise coming in the mail for him. I bought Topher video games. Football gear. A basketball hoop for the driveway. Each present that arrived at our house was signed by Rick, courtesy of his personal assistant, Patty.

In our house, we have only one rule: never lie.

And I broke it time and time again, all to ensure Topher never saw beneath the slick veneer Rick wears oh too well.

One day, I figured Topher would learn the truth. One day, which I always hoped would never actually come, and if it did, I prayed for it to be sometime in my baby boy’s twenties or thirties—later, when he was older, so he would be more emotionally equipped to handle the devastation.

I never expected it to happen now, on a high school football field surrounded by his peers.

My heart shatters when Topher throws his lanky arms around Rick’s shoulders and Rick doesn’t return the gesture. Like a statue, he stands there, accepting the affection as though it’s his right, before gingerly removing Topher’s arms and stepping to the side.

Altogether, the hug lasts less than five seconds.

For a teenage boy who’s always craved his father’s attention, five seconds is all it takes for devastation to settle in.

Topher’s expression crumbles at Rick’s casual ambivalence.

Fuck you, Rick. Fuck. You.

“Aspen.”

A hand grasps my bicep, but I shake it off. “Dominic, not right now. Please—”

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