Page 42 of Kiss Me Tonight

Mission accomplished.

Only, Willow failed on obstacle number one because of sex. There are about a gazillion things wrong with this picture—the first being the fact that she forgot my son at his buddy’s house—but I’m woman enough to admit that I’m also a little jealous too.

I miss sex.

Not necessarily sex with Rick because, well, he was something of a one-pump master—two for special occasions—but I do miss the intimacy of it all. The intimacy and the orgasms. Although it’s been a heck of a long time (read: years) since I had one of the latter that didn’t come from a little solo-play action.

Ugh.

I drop my phone in my purse and focus on the fifty or so people who have come out tonight to talk football, their kids, and their hopes for a successful season ahead of us. Not that every kid attending camp will make JV or varsity. Morale needs encouragement, though, and I’ve always been of the mindset that confidence begins in the home.

Get the parents excited and involved in their children’s dreams—step one. Foster unity and a sense of belonging—step two. Run drills and scrimmages until either your feet fall off or you become the next Tom Brady—step three.

I sidestep a couple heading back into the pub. Crane my neck and bounce up onto my toes to look for my assistant coach.

There. Standing beneath the pergola and looking like Lucifer himself. Dressed in all black—from his slacks to his leather shoes to the dress shirt molded to his bulky torso—Dominic casually reclines against the wooden railing while holding a beer bottle down by his hip. I wouldn’t be surprised if his dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the sign of a . . . pentagram? Hexagram?

Doesn’t matter.

The point is, he’s rocking a nonchalant vibe like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Over the last week, I’ve realized that it’s his M.O. How much would it take to crack his concrete resolve? It’s a question I’ve wondered every night as I toss and turn in bed. Other than that moment outside his truck when he was blatantly messing with me, along with those tense few minutes in my kitchen, he’s always kept his emotions in check.

Does he ever justrelax?

God forbid he smiles for real or kicks that cynical twist of his lips to the curb. The world would probably end immediately if he did. And if not the world, then at the very least London would crumble right into Frenchman Bay like a modern-day Atlantis.

“You think Coach Levi was trying to save face up there? Belinda told me Coach is totally willing to let DaSilva strip naked for a high school calendar,” says someone over to my right.

No.

The answer is definitely no, something I reiterated to the group at large, once I finally caught my breath, after Dominic swept me up in a tight, not-so-welcoming hug. Friendly it wasn’t, but that didn’t stop my breath from hitching as he closed the distance between us. Even now, my heart gives an extra thud, and I silence it with a palm to my chest. No extra beats are allowed for a man like Dominic DaSilva.

Wishing I had a cool glass of water to press to my heated cheeks, I move toward the pergola. I need to talk to Dominic. Smooth the turbulent waters before we’re forced to swim through the murkiness all next week during camp. There’s also a good possibility I’ll need to give a closing statement tonight, just to make sure we’re all on the same page here:there is no calendar, PG-13 or not,starring Dominic as the centerfold model.

I’m maybe five feet away from ground zero when I’m pulled to a stop with a hand around my arm and an enthusiastic, “Levi!” ringing in my ear.

Dammit. So, so close.

Swinging one last glance at the pergola, and at Dominic, I paste a smile on my face and turn to greet whoever stopped me. “How can I help—oh, Meredith!”

Her grin hitches wide at my greeting, and she doesn’t miss a beat before leaning in for a quick kiss-kiss to my cheeks. “Listen, I don’t want to take up too much of your time or anything,” she says, one hand clutching the thick strap of her purse, “so I promise to be quick.”

I wave her off. “No time limit.” I’ll find Dominic at some point tonight . . . or at home.Bad,badneighborly thoughts. Immediately, I lead my brain in a safer direction, one that doesn’t include ex-NFL players living conveniently next door to me. “We’re here to answer any questions you might have. It’s the point of tonight’s meeting.”

“I thought the point was to talk about Coach DaSilva’s sacred parts in a calendar?”

Wouldn’t Dominic just love to know his dick has been likened to something sacred. In his book, it probably is.

Struggling to hold back an unprofessional groan, I knead my temples. “For the record, that calendar is seriously never going to happen. Please tell me no one is still thinking about it.”

“Depends on who you’re talking to, I think. Belinda—Matthew’s mom—is hopeful.”

No high school in the history of high schools would ever allow a grown-ass man to strip naked for a calendar. It’s called instantly landing oneself in jail, and I don’t know about Dominic, but I’m just not a good fit for prison.

There’s no good food, for one, and I rather like my nightly mug of hot tea to polish off the day’s efforts and successes.

That’s a luxury that jail will never afford me. Same with bath bombs, regularly scheduled appointments with a hairstylist to cover up my graying roots, and BBQs every Sunday in the fall to celebrate my favorite kind of ball. Football. I know my place, and it’s existing without shackles on my limbs.

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