Page 48 of Kiss Me Tonight

His long legs cross the distance over to me, his hand already reaching for the door above my head. Before he leaves, though, he pauses at my side. Lingers for a second too long to make me think he’s wanting a casual hug goodnight, especially when we still have to go back and mingle with the parents who have come out to talk to us tonight.

Still, I wait him out.

Force him to open up and saysomething. Anything.

Then, “Don’t ever offer me up again like I’m some sort of bargaining chip, Levi. And I’m not talking about the calendar—I’m a coach, just like you. I want what’s best for the boys, just like you. Don’t use me as a way to get the results you want, even if it’s only parents showing up for a meeting. If you do . . .” He lets the warning dangle like a ticking time bomb between us.

“I’m sorry for that,” I say with full sincerity.

He nods shortly.

Before he can make his exit, I give him a piece of his own medicine: “Don’t ever touch me like you did tonight unless you plan to do something about it.” At the sharp twist of his head in my direction, I angle my chin defiantly and give voice to the words that have lain dormant within me for far too long. “I’m not a toy. Not anyone else’s and definitely not yours.”

I stick my hand out.

He hesitates for only a moment before agreeing to the verbal deal by shaking my hand.

Later that night, back at home, I scrub my hands in hot water. It’s either get rid of the brand of his touch or savor it all night like an idiot with a new crush. And after falling for Rick so swiftly—before watching my life implode in front of my eyes—I refuse to make the same mistake again.

Fool me once, shame on you.

Fool me twice . . . yeah, well, we all know how the saying goes.

Shame on me.

14

Dominic

Iwake to the sound of fists pounding on my front door.

It’s early. Too goddamn early for visitors.

Wait.

Since when do I have visitors in London?

Squeezing my lids shut against the light seeping in through the blinds, I reach blindly for my phone off the coffee table. My palm hits the TV remote, then accidentally tips over the plastic container that was topped off with chocolate chip cookies just last night—bingingCake Warsis not conducive to healthy eating—and, finally, lands on my phone.

More eager knocking pops off like rounds of gunfire as I bring the phone close to my nose and peer at the screen with only one eye open.

Eight in the morning.

Whoever’s at my door has a death wish.

I roll onto my side, feet landing on the floor with a heavy thud, and take my sorry ass to the entryway. Knuckling aside the blinds, I spot Topher standing on my front stoop. His fingers are looped around the padded straps of his backpack, and he’s bouncing from foot to foot like he can’t be bothered to tamp down his excess energy.

Sunday. Mini-golf.

Shit.

Fully prepared to do whatever I can to keep that smile plastered on the kid’s face, I yank open the door and drop my shoulder to the frame. Cover my mouth to shield the yawn threatening to make an appearance.

“Teenagers are supposed to sleep in,” I tell him, softening my tone and hoping I don’t sound like a gruff bastard. Mornings have never been my thing, not when I was in the NFL or when I worked for Sports 24/7. Not even a week of morning practices with the Wildcats has managed to do away with my bad habits yet. “Thought your mom told me we were going for one today?”

Topher only tightens his grip on the backpack straps. “I may have been a little excited.”

“To play me in mini-golf?”

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