Page 58 of Tight End

“Wow. I remember when you first started and he was a baby. What about his dad?”

And the next bite turns to ash in my mouth, but I force it down. Wow. This took a turn. I clear my throat, letting the spoon drop back down into the bowl.

“His dad ... he’s, uh ...” I pull my dress away from my chest and fan myself. Is it hot in here? Why is it so dang hot?

“It’s Ryan Devlin.”

“I ... well—what? How did you know?”

Michael points behind me toward the front of the restaurant. “It’s Ryan Devlin. He’s the tight end for the Nashville Aces and one of my favorite players. The guy is a legend. I wonder what he’s doing here.”

No, this can’t be happening. I’m daydreaming, night dreaming. I’ve fallen and hit my head. I don’t know what’s happening, but there is no way Ryan is here. None. He’s at home watching our son, far away from here.

I don’t turn around. I refuse. If I don’t see him, he won’t see me. Or at least he wouldn’t if he were here, which he is definitely not.

“You were saying?” I smile, I bat my eyes, I even contemplate grabbing his hand, anything to get his attention off whoever looks like Ryan Devlin.

“He’s still up by the front. He must be looking for someone. Oh God, he’s coming over here. Do I look okay?”

With each word I sink lower and lower in my chair, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. Does he look okay?Him?Who cares what he looks like? Meanwhile, I’m trying to be one with the chair. Any chance I resemble mahogany wood? Maybe if I angle my body like this, it’ll help.

I twist myself slightly sideways, and dang it, Michael doesn’t even notice. He’s completely smitten, staring at this Ryan wannabe. This is the worst date ever.

“June.”

That’s all it takes. One single freaking word.

His voice is like a bucket of cold water, waking up every nerve ending, every cell in my body. My skin buzzes with awareness. My mouth dries up. My downstairs ... well, let’s say that’s not exactly dry, and my dang nipples harden into painful points. It’s like my entire body belongs to him, like it’s against me.

Michael’s eyes widen so much it’d be comical, you know, if I wasn’t dying inside. They shift between him and me, his jaw hanging open for several beats before he recovers, sitting up straight and holding out his hand. “I’m Michael Fitzpatrick. I’m a huge fan.”

Ryan’s now standing beside our table, and there’s no doubt it’s him. Dang it. He glances toward Michael for a split second, completely ignoring his outstretched hand before his heated gaze lands on me.

He’s changed his clothes, no longer in a T-shirt and basketball shorts, but a pair of dark washed jeans and a long-sleeved Henley. They’re tight, highlighting every musclestraining against the fabric. He’s tense, his jaw tight, his fingers flexing at his sides.

The longer I stare at him, the more his eyes narrow on me. He’s pissed—that much I’m sure about, but why?

Okay, I didn’t exactly tell him I was going on a date, but I didn’t think he’d care. If anything he should be grateful. If I were truly enamored by Michael—yes, I know that’s far-fetched—I wouldn’t be rubbing on him during our yoga sessions like some horny teenager. Like a desperate woman who hasn’t been touched in four years. Like a ... well, you get the idea.

But yes, he should be grateful. Those rumors about us floating around on the internet would die down. Bulge watch would disappear. His life could go back to normal.

He should be thanking me.

Except he looks anything but pleased.

“Do you two ...?” Michael clears his throat. “Do you know each other?”

Ryan stays quiet, his eyes boring through me, and I’m sure he’s trying to be intimidating, but my body only heats under his attention.

“Yes.” My voice is quiet as I glance down at the table, toying with the end of my spoon. “He’s my ... he’s ...”

Ryan scoffs, springing into action, pulling out the chair next to me and sitting down. What is he doing? What is he thinking? Obviously he’s not, because people are staring. Not everyone, but some of the nearby tables are watching, whispering.

“I’m surprised our little June bug didn’t mention me. I’m Oliver’s father.” He takes a big bite of my gumbo, patting his belly and making a humming noise. “Oh, this is good.”

Oliver. Shit. I mean shoot. He’s supposed to be with Oliver. I’m the worst mother ever. I should be worried about my son, not how he looks in those jeans.

I angle toward him, lowering my voice to a harsh whisper. “What are you doing here? Where’s Oliver?”

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