Page 57 of Home Game

“Probably not.”

She reaches up and places her palm along my jaw, then runs her thumb along the fresh scar on my upper lip. It’s smaller than I thought it would be.

“I really think your dad is trying to protect you,” I say, my mind immediately going to the two guys I had a run-in with at Jack’s while she was working.

She exhales, her eyelashes flickering as she stares out into the center of my room. It’s dim in here, the LED lava lamp I got for Christmas two years ago casting a purple glow. Lately, the low light helps me sleep.

“I know you’re right. But still . . .”

I run my hand through her hair once, then tip her chin back up so I can look her in the eyes.

“You wish he asked you.”

She nods at my response. I know that’s the part that hurts the most.

She shifts against me, reaching across my body to her phone that I fetched from her Jeep an hour ago. She still hasn’t turned it back on, so I hold my breath as she does now. It buzzes to lifewith dozens of notifications, but she ignores them all. Instead, she opens her music app and starts a playlist.

The first song is Whiskey’s anthem, and we both laugh as she fumbles to pick her phone up again and skip ahead.

“Whiskey is not the mood I’m going for,” she says, the next song still a bit country, but softer and maybe a little bluesy.

“I like this,” I say, hugging her tighter and looking over her shoulder at the list of songs.

“Chris Stapleton. He’s one of my favorites,” she says, reaching back across me to set her phone on my nightstand.

“Ah, yeah. My dad listened to him a lot.” My heart soothes with the sudden memory.

Peyton slides back into place but pivots to her hip, resting her hand on my chest so she can better look me in the eyes.

“Tell me about him.”

I’m flooded with so many feelings all at once, and I’m not sure where to start. But the mere thought of bragging about him to a girl I’m falling for feels really good.

“He taught me, basically, everything I know. How to fry an egg. How to throw a spiral. How to change the oil on that truck.” I lean my head in the direction of the garage.

“He teach you how to talk to girls?” she asks with a soft laugh.

My smile goes crooked as I recall the times he tried.

“He did his best. But I wasn’t exactly a good student. I’m kind of shy.”

Peyton laughs out, pushing against my chest and shifting so she’s on her knees, sitting in front of me.

“What?” I hold on to her wrists, her palms flat against my chest.

“I wouldn’t classify you as shy, Wyatt Stone.” She drops her chin and dims her eyes, her stare suspicious.

“Really? Because those first few times I talked to you scared the shit out of me,” I laugh out.

Her head tilts and her eyes widen.

“No way! You didn’t seem nervous.”

“Well, I was. You’re clearly the hottest girl in town, and here I am this nobody from the city coming in all broken and full of dreams and shit.”

She bats her lashes and bites her bottom lip, then leans in, resting her forearms on my chest.

“Hottest girl in town?”

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