Page 30 of Kiss Me Tonight

If she weren’t holding the pizza, I have no doubt she would have gone oh-for-three and flipped me the bird.

Instead, she leads me past a contemporary-styled dining room and a half-bath that’s on the smaller side. Unlike the godawful layout at my place, though, Levi’s home is magazine praiseworthy. Spacious. Crisp-white walls with nautical-blue accent pieces. Sandy hardwood floors that are so glossy and freshly varnished I half expect to see my own reflection staring back at me.

Framed pictures decorating the walls catch my eye as I pause before them. Two are of her and Topher, both taken when the top of the kid’s head was level with his mom’s chin. In another, a young Topher sits on a front porch with his arm slung around the neck of a ginormous Bull Mastiff. The dog and Topher are rocking the same cheesed expression. Yeah, Topher’s tongue isn’t lolling out of his mouth but his smile is massive and his blue eyes are nearly closed he’s laughing so hard at whatever is behind the camera. In the corner of the frame, the date is marked in pencil:04/27/2014.

I don’t think I’ve ever smiled the way Topher is on that front stoop.

As I check out the last frame, a beach-themed oil painting that reminds me a lot of the wharf off Main Street, I almost expect to hear theclip-clip-clipof dog toenails.

There’s nothing but the sound of my breathing and the soft whir of ceiling fans.

A college professor of mine once spent an entire lecture arguing against the theory of eyes being the windows to the soul.Eyes deceive,he’d said, camera strap slung over one shoulder,but pictures . . . pictures reveal to us a person’s truth and what they value the most.

Based on the limited number of subjects within Levi’s pictures, it’s safe to say her life revolves around her son and this tiny town she left behind so many years ago. And a dog that’s nowhere to be seen.

Tearing my gaze away from a younger-looking Levi, rocking a cute pixie cut, I look to the kitchen. It opens into the living room, the latter of which leads directly to a set of wall-to-wall French doors.

The view of Frenchman Bay is what ultimately sold me on the 70s abomination next door, but here in Levi’s house, it’s a view like nothing else. No trees obstruct the sight of glistening, sapphire water. A brick-paved patio greets the eye, as does a hot tub and matching white outdoor furniture.

Either Levi knows someone who knows someone, who, in turn, clued her in about this property, or she got absurdly lucky and reappeared in town at just the right time.

Something tells me it’s the latter.

She seems like the sort of person blessed with good fortune at every corner.

Without a glance in my direction, Levi drops off the pizza on the marble-topped island. Humming beneath her breath—or cursing my very existence, more likely—she folds the damp towel over the back of a bar stool and spares me a quick, searching glance when she reaches for one of the top cabinets. The hem of her Tweety shirt inches high on the curve of her belly, her bare nipples poking the fabric mercilessly.

Stop noticing her nipples.

Easier said than done.

Uncomfortably aware of the same heat flooding my body as when she took a nosedive into my crotch, I check out the rest of the kitchen.

Force myself to think of something else—anything else—besides the fullness of her tits.

Plates. Plates are safe.

I snag the two she’s pulled out from the cabinet and set them down on the island, side by side. “When’d you move in?”

“You don’t seem like the type to actually enjoy small talk.”

Surprised by her astuteness, I watch as she shuts a drawer with her hip, utensils in hand. “You read minds, too, when you’re not coaching ball?”

“I wish. If I did, then I wouldn’t have to ask why you’re here.” It’s not exactly a question but I wasn’t born yesterday. She’s using her coach voice on me. It’s a completely different pitch than the bubbly enthusiasm that kept my ass glued to that bar stool at the Golden Fleece. I may not have thought it a good idea to go home and fuck her, but her good humor and quick wit had made it hard to walk away.

She’d . . . Well, not captivated me. She’dsomething’edme. Something. Jesus fuck. Even in my own head, I sound like a verbally incompetent jock.

Oblivious to my inner word conundrum, Levi tacks on, “There’s no reason for you to be here right now. We both know you could have easily brought up our . . . neighborly living arrangements at practice tomorrow instead of swinging by today.”

Is that what being neighbors is called nowadays? Neighborly living arrangements—uttered in such distaste?

When she hops up on the far bar stool, taking her plate with her, I read the boundary she’s drawn loud and clear. Two stools down from her it is then. I flick open the pizza box to reveal America’s most valued treasure. Greasy, cheesy deliciousness. Without waiting to see if Levi will make a move first, I rip out two slices and plop them down on her plate.

Then do the same with mine, except I opt for three.

You don’t get to be six-six and almost three-hundred pounds of solid muscle by eating rabbit food all day.

Aware that she’s waiting for a reply, I snag napkins for each of us from the glass dispenser to my right. “Let’s put it this way,” I murmur, handing her two napkins, “small talk serves its purpose.”

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