Page 13 of Kiss Me Tonight

“With how much money you’ve got, it’s more of a tax write-off than a forever home, man. Don’t get it twisted.”

He’s not wrong about that.

I bought a two-bedroom cottage on a cul-de-sac that needs some serious Chip and Joanna Gaines sorta love. Floral wallpaper. Pink, Pepto-Bismol carpets in the bedrooms and bathrooms. Laminate tile throughout the rest of the house. A garage that can’t even fit a lawn mower, never mind my truck. Wood-paneled walls.

The house is a complete train wreck, and the only reason I bought the place is because it has one of the few exclusive accesses to a private beach here in London that won’t run me over a million bucks. Had I wanted to, I could have easily purchased one of the mansions up on Madison Drive. Moved into it with absolutely no work necessary. Lived the same damn life I’ve been living in Los Angeles for the better part of four years.

And I’d be just as bored too.

So, yeah, I passed on the mansions for a thirteen-hundred-square-foot home that’ll prove to be a sound investment once I do some major renovating.

Private beach. Larger profit margins. Cheap mortgage.

It was a no-brainer.

Faced with my silence, Brien drops his head back with a sigh. He’s wearing a London High polo shirt with the Wildcat mascot stitched into the fabric. Swap out the red-and-white colors, erase the gray hairs coming in at his temples, and I can almost believe we’re shooting the shit just like we did back in college.

Almost.

“Levi came back, man.”

It’s all he says, but it’s enough for me to sit up a little taller and narrow my eyes. “What sort of secret local code is that? Give me the translation.”

Looking a little on edge, Brien’s hand comes off the desk to pinch the bridge of his nose. “The Levi family is football royalty around here. Grandpapa Levi played for the Buffalo Bills, then came home to coach the Wildcats once he retired. Papa Levi did the same, about twenty years later, once he was out of the NFL.”

I look to the contract, a sinking sensation swirling in my gut like spoiled milk. “So, what? Levi Junior is back home and ready to claim the throne?”

“Something like that.”

Jesus.

Nothing like small-town politics to remind you that you’re an outsider.

Unfortunately for London—but fortunately for me—the first half of my life was spent outside the proverbial glass walls, my hand raised and waving, hoping someone would take pity on the poor-as-shit kid with a chip on his shoulder the size of California and the perpetual hope in his gaze that just wouldn’t quit.

The hope is long gone, but the chip’s still got permanent residence.

Thing is, the only person who has the power to make you feel like a forgotten soul is you—and I don’t give a damn what Londoners think of me.

“The school board doesn’t care about your Super Bowl wins, DaSilva,” Brien goes on, finally dropping his chin as he cuts his gaze away from the ceiling. “They don’t care that you were MVP multiple seasons in a row. They don’t care that you won the Heisman trophy back in college or that, until someone comes around and demolishes your stats, you’re the best tight end the league has ever seen.”

Hearing my accolades dished back to me has me shifting uncomfortably in my seat. I’ve won a lot of trophies over the years. I’ve beaten a shit ton of records. I’ve earned more money than I know what to do with.

But none of it really matters at the end of the day—

The Bucs let me go after an injury kept me hospital-bound for weeks.

Sports 24/7 cut me loose when I made the ultimate mistake in thinking, for just one second, that maybe it was fate that led me ontoPut A Ring On Itand right into the arms of Savannah Rose.

My gut clenches at the memory of her. Not because I’m in love but because spending time with her, even with a dozen other guys milling around on set, proved to be more illuminating to my own psyche than anything else I’ve experienced so far in life.

Savannah Rose was kind. Open. America’s adored sweetheart.

Good as I am at flirting like my life depends on it, I can say with complete honesty that there’s not a soul on this planet who truly knows me. Not even Nick Stamos, my best friend and fellowPut A Ring On Itcontestant, or Adam Brien, who I’ve known for years, or Savannah Rose, who should have been so easy to trust.

Welcome to the life of Dominic DaSilva, party of one.

“Levi’s a Londoner,” Brien tells me, hands clasped together on the desk, a no-BS expression on his face. “You could dance naked in front of the board, and they’d still pass you over.”

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